any relief he’d felt melted away as he saw the grim frown on the captain’s face. “Airman Chase McLear. We have a warrant to search your premises. We have reason to believe you’re harboring Boyd Sullivan.”
* * *
Faint hues of crimson and burnt orange sky brushed along the edges of the horizon as Maisy Lockwood jogged down the sidewalk and through the residential neighborhoods of Canyon Air Force Base. Water sloshed back and forth in her metal water bottle as it knocked around inside the backpack that sat heavy on her slender shoulders. The sun had just started its climb into the morning sky, but already she could smell the humidity in the air. Today was going to be another scorcher.
The whole base is on high alert and you’re out jogging alone? The voice of her close friend and newlywed Staff Sergeant Felicity James filled her mind.
At least I’m not wearing headphones, she mentally argued back. As much as she missed pounding her sneakers down the pavement in time to the music, running without it was one of the many changes she’d made since Boyd Sullivan had escaped prison and broken onto the base to kill those his twisted mind thought had somehow wronged him. But giving up jogging around the base before heading into work at Sunny Seeds Preschool each morning, just like she had with her father every day for years before he was murdered, had been one thing she’d refused to let that demented killer take from her.
Something inside her needed that time to pray, and sometimes even cry, before opening the classroom doors each morning and welcoming the shining, hopeful little faces who counted on her to be the caring one who doled out hugs, wiped away tears and blew air kisses over bumped foreheads and scraped knees. They needed her to be at her best. So she mourned for the father whose approval she’d never quite managed to earn, knowing with each step that maybe if she’d gotten there just a few minutes earlier on the morning he was murdered by Boyd, he’d still be alive.
She blinked back a tear and tightened the pink bandanna that held back her hair. Her father’s basic training officer voice thundered through her ears. I’m not here to baby anybody’s feelings or hold anybody’s hand. There are two types of people in the world, the weak and the strong. Which one are you?
Weak. That was his implication. Just like her beautiful and delicate mother who’d died from a drug overdose when Maisy was thirteen, leaving her in the care of a man who didn’t do hugs and definitely wasn’t about to blow an air kiss over any of life’s wounds. At barely five feet tall, with two left feet, Clint Lockwood’s only child hadn’t even tried to take the air force’s physical test, much to his disappointment. A sudden lump formed in her throat. Their relationship hadn’t been perfect, true, but when Boyd had murdered him, he’d taken not only his life but Maisy’s hope that their relationship could ever be better. She swallowed hard. Her father had considered Boyd weak too. And the angry and disturbed young man had returned the day he’d escaped prison to get his revenge.
Red-and-blue lights flashed ahead. The sound of sirens mingled with the fierce sound of fearless K-9 dogs barking. Security Forces cops in combat gear swarmed a small bungalow. Her breath caught. Had police finally caught Boyd or the accomplice who’d been sneaking him on and off the base?
Please, Lord, may the nightmare finally be over. Help them catch Boyd before anybody else gets hurt!
As she approached the police operation, her footsteps faltered. There was someone ahead of her, crouched low in the bushes, watching the police operation.
They had their back to her and their features were obscured by an oversize hoodie and a black baseball cap. The figure seemed too slender to be Boyd. Could it be Boyd’s accomplice? Was it the anonymous blogger who’d been making people’s lives miserable with a steady stream of salacious gossip? Or even some paranoid Canyon resident who thought they needed to skulk in the shadows and disguise themselves to avoid the Red Rose Killer?
Maisy’s pulse quickened. She reached into her pocket, feeling for her cell phone.
The figure turned. A bandanna covered the lower half of their face. A knife flashed in their gloved hand.
Save me, Lord!
Instantly, she whipped her backpack off her shoulders and spun it around in front of her like a defensive shield. A heavy metal water bottle wasn’t much against a knife, but one way or another she’d go down fighting. Her eyes searched in vain for a glimpse of the figure’s eyes or anything solid to identify who they were.
“Stop right there!” she yelled, wincing at the way her own voice quaked. “Drop the knife! Right now! I mean it!”
The figure hesitated. Maisy’s limbs shook.
Help me, Lord! What do I do?
She wasn’t authorized to carry a weapon on base and the backpack wouldn’t do much. But there were large rocks encircling a nearby garden and she had a whistle on her key chain. Whatever it took, no daughter of Clint Lockwood was going down without a fight. The barking of Canyon’s K-9 dogs seemed to be growing louder, followed by the sound of even more sirens.
The figure lurched forward a step. Hot tears rushed to Maisy’s eyes as she steadied herself to fight. Then the figure turned and sprinted away through the base.
Relief washed over Maisy’s body and tension fled her limbs so suddenly she felt her knees go weak, nearly pitching her to the ground. Who was that? Had that knife been for protection or violence? She propelled her wobbly legs toward the cops, as her heart beat so hard in her slender frame. In the three and a half months since the Red Rose Killer had broken out of prison, it was like a deep fog of uncertainty and fear had descended over the base. Neighbors suspected neighbors. Colleagues viewed each other with suspicion. Stamping out gossip among her students was a daily task, and when parents arrived at the school, they hugged their children closer and were slower to let them go. Two of her friends, Felicity and Zoe, had quickly married the men of their dreams, rather than waiting a moment longer to start their happily-ever-afters. It was like everyone was a little more aware of how precious life could be.
Something crunched under her feet. She bent down. Her fingers reached for the glittering shapes, cupping them into her palms. They were seashells. No. Wait. They were dried pasta. Bright pink with gold paint splotches and coated in purple glitter, they were the same kind of pasta she used for craft time at Sunny Seeds, and unless she was very wrong, she’d helped one of her own students paint these very shells herself before painstakingly placing them on a cardboard picture frame—Allie McLear.
What would remnants of little Allie’s treasured frame be doing out here on the ground? Confusion gripped her heart again as the bright-eyed toddler’s face swam unbidden into her mind, along with that of her handsome, broad-shouldered father, Chase McLear. The students had made the frames and taken them home as a Valentine’s Day present for their parents and caregivers. She could still remember the sweet and chagrined look on Chase’s face the next day as he’d stood with his lanky form half leaning against the door frame to the entrance of Sunny Seeds and explained that Allie would like a picture of herself and Maisy to put in it, if she’d be okay with him taking one. She hadn’t been about to say no.
She’d always tried her best not to have favorites, but she had to admit that Allie had burrowed a meaningful place in Maisy’s heart. There was something special about the tiny blonde, motherless bundle of sunshine with vulnerable eyes and an eager smile. And if she was honest, she suspected Allie’s father was something special too.
While he’d told her that he was one of thousands of airmen who’d been trained by her father, she hadn’t actually met Chase before he’d been deployed to Afghanistan many years ago or spoken to him until he moved back to Texas and enrolled his daughter in Sunny Seeds. She’d vowed long ago that she’d never fall for a man in uniform. It was a promise she’d stuck to for all twenty-five years of her life. But she couldn’t deny that over the past few months she’d developed a bit of a crush on Allie’s father. Probably ever since the day the single father had first dropped Allie off in her care.
Her steps quickened as she recognized the house number and street