Redemption E-Book

Gwen M. Plano

• Herausgeber: Fresh Ink Group
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 274

Beschreibung

Family secrets can be deadly. When Lisa visits her parents one fateful Saturday morning, she hugs her father and takes her suitcase to her childhood bedroom. The doorbell rings, and one minute later her father lies dead on the floor—three bullets to the chest. The death of Eric Holmes sends shockwaves throughout the quiet neighborhood. But for the Holmes family, it is devastating.  

In this fast-paced psychological thriller, Lisa and her brother embark on a quest to solve the mystery of their father’s murder. The journey takes them into a secret world where nothing is as it seems. Once the puzzle pieces begin to coalesce, they realize that their father had multiple lives. As the facts unravel, the siblings discover the true meaning of Redemption.

Leseprobe

Redemption

Copyright © 2023

by Gwen M. Plano

All rights reserved

Fresh Ink Group

An Imprint of:

The Fresh Ink Group, LLC

1021 Blount Avenue #931

Guntersville, AL 35976

Email: [email protected]

FreshInkGroup.com

Edition 1.0  2023

Cover by Stephen Geez / FIG

Cover art by Anik / FIG

Book design by Amit Dey / FIG

Associate publisher Beem Weeks / FIG

Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 and except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, no portion of this book’s content may be stored in any medium, transmitted in any form, used in whole or part, or sourced for derivative works such as videos, television, and motion pictures, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Cataloging-in-Publication Recommendations:

FIC042060 Fiction / Christian / Suspense

FIC042080 Fiction / Christian / Fantasy

FIC030000 Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912565

ISBN-13: 978-1-958922-16-3 Papercover

ISBN-13: 978-1-958922-17-0 Hardcover

ISBN-13: 978-1-958922-18-7 Ebooks

“True redemptionis...when guilt leads to good.”

— Khaled Hosseini

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

REDEMPTION: A Father’s Fatal Decision is a piece of fiction written out of the author’s imagination. New York and Connecticut are real states with real people, but the events described, characters developed, and places visited are purely fictional with no intent to depict reality.

The real folks are those who worked diligently behind the scenes to bring REDEMPTION to readers. From the encouragement and support of my loving husband to the remarkable assistance of my editor, and the expertise and dedication of the team at Fresh Ink Group, for all who were involved, my heartfelt Thank You.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About Gwen M. Plano

CHAPTER 1

For Lisa Holmes, this should have been a short visit. Earlier that day, her mother had called and asked her to come home, as well as reminding Lisa it had been several months since she’d last seen her daughter. Full of guilt, at that moment, she gives in against her better judgment. “I’ll be home in a few hours.”

The drive from upstate New York to New Rochelle is an easy one. Lisa doesn’t mind the hours on the road. It’s the visit itself she dreads—the inevitable interrogation from her father and the neediness of her mother. But today, she’s committed to coming, and there is no turning back.

Reluctantly, Lisa throws a change of clothes into her overnight bag and puts it into her blue Toyota Camry. She plops her laptop on the seat beside her, pulls back her long dark curls, and heads south. Her thoughts comfort her, It’s just for the weekend. I can manage that. Two nights and I’ll return to my apartment.

Lisa drives with the radio blaring and ignores her apprehension. When she reaches the tree-lined street and sees the uneven sidewalk, which leads to her family’s home, she smiles. Memories of her skateboard adventures ease some of her concerns. She chuckles over her many falls and imagines she must have set a record. When she arrives at their driveway, she braces herself and turns in.

The simple ranch-style residence appears odd on the street of two-story colonials. Modest by neighborhood standards, it has proven sufficient for their family needs. Once out of the car, Lisa does a 180-degree glance about and concludes nothing has changed. The yard still appears unkempt, the window shade still broken, and the screen door remains torn—all just as a year ago, two years ago, maybe even five years ago.

Apprehensive, she climbs the three steps to the front door, calls in her “hello,” and waits. Mom greets her first.

“Oh, Lisa dear, I’m so happy you’ve arrived safely. Come on in, come on in. Can I get you something? You must be hungry after the drive.”

Just as she starts to respond, her dad appears.

“Nice of you to visit. Traffic problems?”

Lisa shrugs off his insinuation of dawdling, takes a deep breath, and gives him a cursory hug.

“I’ll be right back. I need to get my clothes.”

Slump-shouldered, Lisa walks to her car, stepping more heavily than usual. After grabbing her suitcase, she slams the door shut. The hell has begun.

She retraces her steps back into the house and goes straight to her childhood bedroom. Just then, the doorbell rings and sends an eerie chill down Lisa’s spine. She drops her suitcase and shouts to her father, “Don’t answer the door, Dad. Something’s not right.”

He doesn’t follow her advice, and instead, goes to the door and pulls it open.

“Joe.” Her dad says, shifting backward slowly. “You’re not supposed to be here. We agreed.”

“You broke that agreement. Where is it?”

“I don’t have it.”

“You were warned.”

One minute.

Three shots.

And Lisa’s dad lies lifeless on the worn planked floor.

Her mother screams and runs to the fallen man. The guy in the doorway shoots her as well.

Before Lisa can reach her parents, the door slams shut. She checks her father but can feel no pulse. Frantic, Lisa drops to her knees at her mother’s side and finds signs of life, though blood pools beneath the frail woman’s shoulder. Short of breath and pulse racing, Lisa runs to the bedroom, grabs her phone, and calls 911. From the bathroom, she grabs a towel and wraps it around her mother’s shoulder wound. With tears pouring down her face, Lisa holds her mom and cries out, “Please God, please God, save my mother.”

An empty house is never truly vacant. Walls whisper and floors moan. It lives, even though others might not.

Lisa experiences this truth when she returns to her family home after being with her mother at the hospital. Her hand trembles as she turns the key in the front-door lock. She hesitates before entering, takes a deep, slow breath, walks inside, and turns on the light. Chills run down her spine, stiffening her limbs, numbing her heart. The ticking of the grandfather clock grows louder and louder in the silence. With her back against the entry door, she recoils when phantoms slip from one room to the other. She’s alone but not really.

With measured steps, Lisa wanders through the house, tackling one memory after another. She locks the doors to the master bedroom and the basement, to silence the imaginary threats, and goes to her bedroom.

Paused in the doorway of her former childhood retreat, she looks around the room as though for the first time. Sparsely decorated with a couple of high school keepsakes and a framed photograph of her brother and her at a beach, it feels abandoned by life. Priscilla, her Cabbage Patch doll, sits tucked into the corner of the room. Lisa picks it up and holds the comforting toy against her chest in a tight grip. Her knees buckle, and she collapses on the bed and weeps.

CHAPTER 2

The following morning, Lisa awakens to the sound of a garbage truck thundering down the street. Confused as to where she is, she sits up. After rubbing her eyes, she glances about the space. My bedroom. No … no … no. It can’t be true. My nightmare wasn’t a dream.

Fully dressed, and still holding the doll she’d grabbed the night before, Lisa checks the time. Half past seven. In less than two hours, she must meet with an appointed psychologist. When she recalls the murder, her lips tighten. I wasn’t myself. They should have understood. I don’t need counseling sessions.

Lisa cringes when she considers her behavior. After the police responded to her emergency call, she lashed out at the officers for not arriving sooner, for not catching the murderer, for not getting immediate help for her mother, and for not making everything better.

As she recalls the horrifying events and her first ride in a patrol car, Lisa’s head falls. Unable to calm her, they put her in the back seat of the cruiser and took her to the station. Once there, the captain talked with her. An intimidating no-nonsense man with dark skin and piercing brown eyes, he listened to her rants, reviewed the police report, and determined that she needed professional help. He sent her home with the signed agreement that she’d attend weekly counseling sessions for two months.

Lisa shakes her head and stares at the worn carpet at her feet. I wasn’t myself. I was in shock. They should have understood. Shouldn’t they? After a deep breath, she checks the time again and moves to ready herself for the meeting with the psychologist.

At ten minutes after nine, Lisa arrives for her first session. Begrudgingly, she knocks on the office door. A simple sign reads Dr. Thomas Schultz, Ph.D.

“You must be Lisa. A little late, but at least you’re here. Come on in.”

She glares at the bespectacled old guy with a notebook in his hand. This will be worse than a prison cell. She says nothing.

“I can see I’ve met your expectations.” A sly smile betrays the psychologist’s amusement. “Please, take a seat on the couch.”

A chair, a couch, tissues. Perfect. What have I gotten myself into? She smirks.

“So, Lisa, I have the police report, but it’s one-sided. A hysterical woman accosting innocent police officers. Sound familiar?”

Lisa responds with defiance, “Maybe.”

“Let’s hear your side.”

Lisa straightens and considers what she wants to say. Her eyes scan the room and return to Dr. Schultz. He cocks his head to the side and waits.

“I heard the doorbell ring and, somehow, I felt danger. I’d just arrived home and was in my bedroom with the door open partially. I called out to my dad to not answer, but he did anyway. A man—tall, white, medium build—pushed his way in and shouted at my father. ‘Where is it?’ Dad said, ‘I told you I don’t have it.’ Then the guy said, ‘Your choice,’ and shot him three times. Mom ran to his aid, and he shot her as well then left. Dad died instantly. There was no chance for goodbyes. My mom was bleeding from her shoulder. I called the police and asked for an ambulance. It seemed like hours before they arrived. I held her and tried to stop the bleeding. She couldn’t move. I felt terrified. Then the police came. I yelled at them and hit them with my fists. That’s when they restrained me. And at the same time, the EMTs arrived and took my mom. So there. That’s my side of the story.”

Dr. Schultz inhales slowly and studies Lisa before responding. “I would have done the same thing.”

Lisa redirects her attention and fights her tears so as not to appear vulnerable. “It was horrifying.”

“I can’t imagine a scene much worse than the one you’ve described.”

“You’ve experienced something similar?”

“That’s a story for another day.” He pauses before continuing, “I know you don’t want to be here, but I promise you, if you work with me, your horror and grief will soften, and you’ll find personal peace.”

Lisa meets his gaze. Instinctively, she doesn’t trust him. A bold promise about which he knows nothing, and yet, he claims expertise.

“We’ll see.”

“Together, we can do it. I promise.”

Another promise. Lisa grows alarmed. She shrugs her agreement, checks her watch, and sinks into the sofa. There, she reaches for a tissue and stares—stony-faced—at the oak floor.

“Thank you. Let’s begin with what you’ve told me about your side of the events. Can we do that?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“I offered you the choice, and I gave you a promise. Shall we begin?”

Lisa squirms, annoyed. “I guess so.”

“You’ve acknowledged that when the doorbell rang, you felt there was danger. Why?”

“Sometimes, I sense things. I can’t explain it. Since I was a kid, I knew things—about people, about places. Sometimes I had dreams.”

“Did you have a dream about this murder?”

“Yes and no. I dreamed of someone murdering Dad. I had the same dream several times, and that’s why I agreed to drive down for a visit. The nightmare didn’t tell me where or when, but I decided to tell my parents of my concerns. I never got to do that. The doorbell rang. I was too late.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

“No. A hoody covered his hair and face. I was in another room and could only make out his nose and hands. Nothing that would help identify him.”

“Your mom?”

“She can’t speak. Can’t move. I don’t know what she saw or if she can remember that day.” Lisa shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, and avoids eye contact.

“I’m deeply sorry, Lisa. This isn’t something you can forget, forgive, or even ignore easily. It will live in you until the mystery gets solved and there’s justice. Because of what you’ve seen and experienced, we might be able to help with that process. Are you ready to begin the work?”

Lisa purses her lips and stares at the psychologist. She doesn’t want to proceed, but given the circumstances, she agrees.

Dr. Schultz picks up his pen and moves forward in his seat. “When you think about your dreams, do you drift into that space?”

“Sort of. I just focus on it as though it were real and don’t pay attention to anything else.”

“Okay. I want you to do that. I want you to drift into your dream world. When you’re ready, tell me what you see.”

Lisa glances out the window for a moment and shifts into a meditative state.

Schultz pushes back into his chair and watches for a change in Lisa’s expression. Her lips have tightened. “Are you looking at someone?”

“Yes. A man with a gun.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s pointing the gun at my dad.”

“What else? Does he say anything?”

“He’s angry with my dad. He wants something. Dad tells him he doesn’t have it. The man says he needs to pay up. Dad gives an excuse, but the man opens fire.”

“What does the attacker look like?”

Lisa stays silent, assessing the dream and the therapist. Finally, she says, “I can’t see him clearly, but he has dark hair and dark eyes. White skin. He looks dirty as if he’s a hands-on worker.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“A hoodie, black. There’s a design on it, or perhaps, smeared grease. His jeans are old and snug on his legs.”

“What about the weapon?”

“I don’t know guns, but this one is black with a short barrel.”

“How does your father appear?”

Lisa’s tone changes when she looks at her dad. “He seems small compared to this man. And weak. He talks fast as though he’s worried. He knows this person—calls him Joe.”

Lisa shudders and straightens against the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s what Dad called the killer. Joe.”

“With your dream in mind, go to the murder scene. Stand behind your father. What do you see?”

“The same man in my dream.” Lisa falls silent and takes another tissue from the box.

“Does he see you?”

“Doubt it. He was in and out. I was in my old bedroom, and the door to the room was only slightly ajar. He never looked in my direction. After he fired, he fled. It was over in less than a minute, maybe two.”

“What could you have done to protect your parents?”

Lisa’s fists tighten and her lips contort. “There was NOTHING I could have done! That’s why I reacted so badly to the police.” Her eyes widen and she looks down at the floor. She glances at Schultz and meets his eyes.

Schultz nods his agreement. “Exactly. There was nothing you could have done to help them.”

Lisa’s hands quiver when she wipes away her copious tears. “I would have. Truly, I would have if I could have.”

Dr. Schultz lays his pen on his notebook and puts a hand to his chin but says nothing. After a few seconds, he speaks, “We’ve accomplished a lot today. This is a good place to stop. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“These sessions are confidential, right?”

“Absolutely. No one is privy to what transpires in my office. No one. My personal and professional contract is with you alone.” He pauses and considers an idea. “I have an assignment for you. On the shelf across from your armrest, there’s a book with a brown cover.”

“I see it.”

“Take it home with you. It has images of eyes, noses, mouths, and ears. I want you to page through the photos and select those that remind you of the shooter in your dreams.”

Lisa opens the book and flips through the pages. She sits back. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“When we meet next week, we’ll review the composite. For now, I want you to keep a notebook with you. Here’s one you can use.” He hands her a blank notebook. “Jot down any image, situation, or memory that comes up. And if you have another dream, write it out in detail. Are you okay with that?”

She looks down at the notebook and back up. “Yes, sir.”

He stands, strides to the door, and opens it. Lisa follows.

“I’ll see you in a week.”

Schultz closes the door behind her.

CHAPTER 3

Time passes quickly for those longing for more, but for others, it can disappear into the night, where it lingers and haunts. Lisa experiences the latter.

She sits on the steps that lead to the backyard and sips her morning brew, her eyes red and raw from another sleepless night. It’s been over a week since a man murdered her father, and today is his funeral. A glance at her watch shows Lisa it’s time for her to leave.

Alone, Lisa drives to the burial ground. Her brother cannot attend because he’s out of the country. Her mother will arrive via hospital transport. Will anyone else be there?

After Lisa turns onto the cemetery drive, she grips the steering wheel and bites her lower lip. She reduces her speed to a crawl and edges over to her father’s plot. When she spots the priest, she parks and walks to his side.

“You don’t need to worry about anything, Ms. Holmes,” he says. “I’ll guide you through the ceremony.”

“Thank you, Father. This is the first funeral I’ve attended, and I’m not familiar with the process.”

“I understand. Just focus on your mom. Katherine needs you now. Don’t worry about the rest.” He turns his head to the side. “I see she’s arrived.”

A medical transport van parks near the site. Lisa excuses herself and goes to help her mother.

Expressionless, Lisa stares at her father’s casket—dark mahogany wood with gold trim. For years, she’s thought about this moment and wondered how he might die. The tears well, but she’s not sure why. Did I love him, after all?

Sniffles sound from among those seated on the grassy knoll, which prompts Lisa to question what’s in her heart. Maybe it’s regret. Maybe it’s for a childhood that never was. Maybe it’s just because. Doesn’t everyone cry at funerals?

She takes her mom’s hand, cold and lifeless as it is, and holds it in a firm clasp. A single bullet to the thoracic area of her spine has stolen her agile life. Her mother neither speaks nor moves, yet counter to her functional deficits, a tear runs down her cheek. Lisa wipes it away and adjusts her mom’s collar. After she wraps her arm around her mother’s shoulders, Lisa focuses on the priest, who stands to the side of the casket and mouths a prayer. She hears nothing except the pounding of her heart. Who shot my father?Does anyone have any answers? Memories of earlier years flash before her—images of the father she both feared and, perhaps, loved.

A pallbearer jars her into the present with two words, “It’s time.”

Lisa remembers the instructions and rises. Like a windup doll, she lifts the arrangement of red chrysanthemums and white daisies, lays it on the casket, and draws a breath. Why can’t I feel anything? With a sigh, Lisa moves next to the priest. Beside him, she looks over at her mother, listless in a wheelchair with an oxygen tube at her throat. Dad didn’t pull the trigger, buthe did this to her, to us. I should at least be able to feel hate.

A few minutes later, the cleric touches her hand and nods. It’s time for her to say a prayer. Dutifully, Lisa eases herself to the casket side and bends to kiss its cold surface. She mouths a silent prayer and turns to gaze at those gathered to offer their respects.

“Thank you for your kindness. My mother and I are grateful for your presence with us today.”

Someone sobs, and Lisa swivels to see an Asian woman about her own age wiping away tears. Who is she? The latest lover? Lisa exhales slowly and returns to her seat.

The priest says a final prayer for Eric W. Holmes and sprinkles holy water on his casket. Lisa’s attention drifts to the raven perched on the limb of an oak tree several yards away. His caw helps her stay focused on the funeral. She checks her watch. It’s been thirty-five minutes but seems like hours.

At the end of the service, several people saunter past Lisa and Katherine and pause to express condolences. Are they sincere or just going through the motions?Does anyone care that my dad’s dead? When she remembers the murder, her lips tighten. I want to go home and forget it ever happened.

Lisa stands and motions to the caregiver, a young man in a white jacket, and says, “Time to leave.” She reaches to help the attendant but, instead, helplessness overwhelms her. The aide moves methodically and slowly while he pushes the wheelchair to the van. When the electronic lift raises Katherine into the vehicle, Lisa again hears the haunting caw of a raven.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, Mom.” Lisa kisses Katherine’s forehead and waits for a response. None comes. She steps back and watches the van pull away. Her shoulders fall, and she wipes away fresh tears. I’ve lost my mother as well.

Once in the car, Lisa heads to Interstate 95 and makes a quick side trip to their family home before going to the hospital. When she approaches the front door, she observes multiple cards positioned behind the screen. Lisa sighs. I can’t deal with this right now. She removes the cards and enters the house.

Lisa stands in the doorway and detects the dry residue of blood, still visible on the planked floor. She tosses the sympathy cards on the side table and drags a runner rug from the living room to cover the lingering evidence. A wave of nausea washes over her, and she runs to the bathroom. At the sink, Lisa splashes water on her swollen face. Her panting breaths make her feel faint. I must stay calm. I can do this. I can. A glance into the mirror shows her mother staring back at her. Will her mom walk or talk again? Lisa grimaces. If Mom needs me, I’ll arrange a leave of absence from work and move to New Rochelle. With a deep breath, Lisa cups her face in her hands and weeps.

Ten minutes later, red-faced but determined, Lisa exits the house and takes the freeway to the hospital. She pounds on the steering wheel with the palms of her hands as she drives and shouts, “Why, Dad? Why? How could you let this happen?”

At the hospital, Lisa comes to a screeching halt, and her anguish builds as the questions mount. She relives the shooting again and again. Still no answers. After climbing out of the car, she shoves the door shut.

Lisa sucks in one deep inhalation and another and turns to face the hospital entrance. She dreads walking through those glass revolving doors and ignores the shiver running through her veins. After signing in at the front desk, she steps into the elevator and travels to the second floor—room 211. At the doorway of her mother’s room, she peeks inside and braces for the encounter.

Katherine lies motionless on the adjustable bed and stares at the ceiling with a blank expression. Upon seeing this, Lisa’s head falls. It’s been nine days since the shooting, and still, nothing has changed. Does she even remember the funeral this morning? Lisa flinches and walks in.

“Hi, Mom. I’m here.” Lisa pushes a chair close to the bed and takes her mother’s hand. So pale, she thinks. Even the veins can’t hide. Gently, she leans to kiss her on the cheek, but her once vibrant mother doesn’t even blink—her big blue eyes devoid of life.

“I thought it was a beautiful funeral this morning, didn’t you? The flowers were perfect, just as you would have wanted.” Lisa pauses, and silence echoes throughout the room. “I recognized a couple of the neighbors. It was kind of them to come. Most people I didn’t know, perhaps you did?” Lisa looks down at the linoleum floor as sadness builds.

She strokes her mother’s slender fingers. “I love you, Mom. I wish I knew that you could hear me.” When she sees no sign of awareness, Lisa continues her one-sided chat, “I fed the hummingbirds this morning. It was the first time I really watched them. It’s amazing how they can fly in all directions, even backward. No wonder you love them so much.” Lisa searches for any sign of consciousness but finds none. “I also watered the daisies. I’ve put a vase of them beside your bed. Did you see them?”

After a short pause, Lisa inhales and changes the subject. “I got an award for the findings on the Smyth audit. My boss said he’d never seen such clever work.” She stops speaking, and her chin trembles. Tears rim her eyes and will soon cascade down her cheeks. Katherine hasn’t moved at all.

Lisa tries one more time and mentions her older brother, “Mom, Trace called today. He’s so sorry he couldn’t be here for you.” At those words, Lisa observes movement around her mother’s eyes. She shifts in her chair to better watch the reactions and continues, “Trace said he’s flying back from Tel Aviv in three days, and after he drops off his bags, he’ll come to the hospital.” Again, Lisa sees a reflex from her mom. “He loves you dearly.” At that comment, Lisa watches a tear form at the side of her mother’s eye. She scoots her chair backward. “I’ll be right back.” Lisa dashes to the hallway to find a nurse.

“Please come,” Lisa says. “My mom can understand. She’s reacting to what I say.”

The nurse follows Lisa inside and speaks in a focused manner to Katherine. The uniformed woman watches intently but sees no reaction and tightens her lips. “I’m sorry, but there’s no indication she’s alert.”

“Wait! Watch her eyes when I speak to her.”

Lisa turns to her mom and says, “Trace is flying in to be with you, Mom. I’ll pick him up at the airport the day after tomorrow.”

This time the nurse notices fluttering around the eyelids. “I’ll get the doctor.”

Within minutes, Dr. Rodriguez arrives. Lisa pulls her aside to explain what she’s witnessed and share some of the family dynamics.

“My mom is protective of Trace because my father treated him poorly. He hasn’t visited home for years. For the last two weeks, he’s been out of the country and missed the funeral. When Mom heard Trace’s name, she moved her eyes.”

Dr. Rodriguez nods her understanding. “Thank you for sharing a little of your family history. This may help with her treatment.” The physician turns and walks over to her patient.

“Mrs. Holmes, may I call you Katherine? My name is Dr. Rodriguez. I’ve heard you’re showing signs of awareness. This is great news. It seems you and I have a lot in common. We both have a son. Because I’m a single mother, I depend on my son for everything. Your daughter mentioned your son will be here soon. Trace, right?”

The doctor and Lisa both see a reaction. “You love him dearly, don’t you?”

Katherine’s eyes widen and flicker.

Dr. Rodriguez says, “You’re like me, Katherine. I tried to protect my son. You did too, didn’t you?”

Tears pool in Katherine’s eyes.

The doctor says, “You saved him from his father.” After a glance at Lisa, she looks back at her patient. “You’re a brave woman, Katherine, and you’re stronger than you imagine. Soon, you’ll be with your children again in your own home. It will take some work, but I know you can do it, and I will help you every step of the way.”

The doctor motions for Lisa to join her outside the room.

“Your mom hears, and she can respond to emotional stimuli. I’ll order a full neuro workup. One of my associates is a leading neurosurgeon at NY Presbyterian in Tarrytown. I’ll give him a call. There’s hope—how much, I don’t know, but there’s hope.”

CHAPTER 4

In the driver’s seat, Lisa slouches and tips her head back, momentarily closing her eyes. She wrings her hands and thinks about her mom’s condition and the thread of hope the doctor offered. After turning the ignition key, she circles out to the freeway and switches on the radio. Loud. Along with the pounding music, Lisa screams her frustration and almost misses her exit. Panicked, she overcorrects and slips to the side of the ramp.

At a standstill, Lisa pants and darts nervous glances out the windows. Once she’s eased back onto the ramp, she pauses longer than usual at the stop sign. She begins again, more slowly this time, down the familiar road, and to her driveway. Lisa pulls in and comes to an abrupt stop. The front door hangs open.

Afraid to get out of the car, she calls 911. “Someone has broken into my house. Yes. I’ll wait.”

The response to her call comes immediately, and within a couple of minutes, a police cruiser pulls in behind her, and two officers get out.

“I arrived just a few minutes ago and saw this.” She points to the front door of her mother’s home.

“Did you go into the house or see anyone leave it?”

“No, sir. I was afraid to get out of my car. Less than two weeks ago, someone killed my father when he opened that door.”

“Stay put. We’ll check it out.”

Each of the officers takes out a Glock sidearm and approaches the door cautiously. Another patrol car arrives. The lead officer signals for the other uniforms to circle to the back of the building.

While keeping her focus on the front door, Lisa hugs her ribs and rocks back and forth.

After several minutes, an officer walks over to Lisa and tells her, “It’s safe to enter. Be prepared, though, as the intruders ransacked the house. He, or they, seems to have been looking for something specific. Do you have security cameras?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t lived here for five years.”

“Not a problem. If your parents had them installed, we’ll find them.”

Lisa exits her car, turns and takes a step toward the front door. A neighbor approaches the police, and Lisa pauses to listen.

“Officer?” The stranger calls out.

“Yes?”

“I live across the street. Dan Sampson. Can I help?”

“Did you see anything?”

“Yes, a dark-blue SUV pulled in about an hour ago. On the side of the van, it read Jameson Movers. Three guys got out. I tried to get the license, but I only saw the last three numbers—eight-three-seven.”

“Which state?”

“New York.” Sampson looks at the ground. “I should have called you guys, but I thought the family was moving.”

“Do you have security cameras?”

“I do.”

“We’ll need the videos from them.”

“I’ll cooperate in any way I can. This is a quiet community, officer. We’ve never had anything like this happen before. Everyone in the cul-de-sac is shocked by the murder and now this.”

“What do you know about the victim, Eric Holmes?”

“Not much. Eric seemed like a good guy but was rarely here. Other than hello, I don’t believe I’ve ever spoken with him. I do know his wife, Katherine. When we’d have neighborhood gatherings, she always participated. She’s a kind woman. I sure hope she’s recovering well.”

“So you know your neighbors?”

“All of them.”