The Stray Who Stood Between Us

The gravel outside exploded beneath broad tires, the harsh grinding noise traveling through every wall of the house.

A vehicle had come up the drive.

“Clara, down,” I breathed, folding into a crouch as I hurried toward the front window.

I flattened myself beside the frame, then eased apart the plastic blind slats enough to see the bright driveway.

A spotless white Ford Explorer sat angled across the gravel, positioned so my truck could not leave. Its emergency lights stayed dark. Its siren was silent. The green-and-gold markings along the doors needed no explanation.

COUNTY SHERIFF.

For one stupid heartbeat, relief moved through me. Maybe Eleanor had been mistaken. Maybe Miller had actually summoned someone honest.

Then Officer Miller appeared from beside the blackberry thicket, jogging with both arms raised over his head.

He seemed grateful to see the cruiser. He pointed toward the woods, apparently eager to turn that nightmare of a scene over to somebody with more authority.

The driver's door swung outward.

A tall deputy climbed into the humid afternoon, wearing aviator glasses, a broad Stetson, and a sharply pressed khaki county uniform.

His gun remained holstered. He gave Miller a brief nod and let the animal control officer start explaining.

I watched from behind the blinds, my pulse slamming hard enough to hurt. Something in the deputy's posture snagged my attention.

He held himself too stiffly, like every movement cost him something.

Without looking away, I reached toward the small table beside the door. My hand found the rubber handle of my bird-watching binoculars.

I brought them up and turned the focus wheel until the man standing in my driveway became clear.

His face told me nothing behind those dark lenses.

The silver badge on his shirt flashed in the sunlight.

Then I saw the arm he kept pressed close against his body.

He was trying to shield his left forearm with the open cruiser door, but the binoculars made hiding it impossible.

The sleeve below his elbow had been ripped apart. White bandages circled the injury in thick, hurried layers, and blood had soaked through them and spread across the khaki cloth.

Fresh blood. Too much of it.

My stomach dropped through the floor.

That was the arm the mastiff had bitten.

The deputy answering Miller's call was the same man who had come for Clara. The same man who had attacked Eleanor.

He had not run far or disappeared into the woods. He had treated his wound, gotten into his vehicle, and arrived here pretending to be the official response.

And Miller had no idea. He stood with his back to the man, gesturing toward the tree line and unknowingly delivering the scene to Clara's attacker.

The binoculars slipped downward in my shaking hands. I caught them before they hit the floor.

There was no safe choice left. No number I could call. The people meant to protect us were the people closing in on us.

I faced Clara. My seven-year-old girl stood in the doorway, frightened and waiting for me to make sense of the world.

“Put your shoes on,” I told her. My voice sounded empty, scraped raw. “Now.”

She did not move quickly enough for the terror racing through me. I dropped to my knees, snatched up her pink sneakers, and forced them onto her feet myself.

My fingers would barely obey as I tugged the Velcro straps closed.

“Daddy?” she whispered, wrapping the afghan tighter around herself. “Is that bad man out there?”

“It’s a game,” I said. “The quiet game. We go through the back, and we do not make a sound.”

I took the heavy steel flashlight and tucked it into my belt. Then I grabbed the old garden shears I had brought in from the porch.

They were pathetic protection against a deputy with a gun and whatever evil sat behind that badge. Still, I would use them before I let him take her.

Gravel crunched near the front of the house. More than one set of boots crossed it.

“He's somewhere inside this area, Miller,” the deputy called, his deep voice carrying clearly through the walls. “Search by the tree line. If that wild dog is still around, I need to know. I’ll deal with the homeowner.”

“Yes, sir,” Miller answered, blind to the danger in the command.

They were splitting up. The deputy was heading for us.

I lifted Clara against my chest and pressed her face into my neck. Then I rushed her through the hall and into the kitchen as a hard knock cracked against the front door.

“Mr. Vance,” the deputy called. “Sheriff’s Department. Miller requested assistance. Please open up.”

I said nothing. I unlocked the back door, eased it outward, and slipped into the backyard with Clara as the deputy began forcing his way into the house.