Jack Murray, Sheriff. Janice Kay Johnson

her sagging resolve. She was not interested in a man who scared anybody—even teenage boys who probably deserved it.

      “Thank you for your suggestion, Tiffany,” she said, in a tone that she hoped was both pleasant and dismissive. “I’ll watch until you get home.”

      “Thanks, Mrs. Sommers.” Her feelings apparently not hurt, Tiffany bounded down the porch steps with all the grace of a puppy, and cut across the lawn. In the middle of the street she turned and cheerfully waved.

      Beth waved back, waiting until the girl disappeared inside the brick house kitty-corner to her own. Only then did Beth close and lock the front door, her hand still fumbling on the unfamiliar brass dead bolt.

      Every time she touched the shiny new locks, Beth was reminded of Ray. As she made her way up to bed, she acknowledged the sharp feeling of dread lodged in the pit of her stomach. This was Thursday night; tomorrow evening Steph and Lauren’s weekend with their dad began.

      She lay in bed, sleep hours away, and prayed: Please let him be in a good mood. Please please please let him bring them home on time.