Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Forty-five minutes, the operator said.

“I’ll be here, waiting,” Ray said. “Thanks a lot.”

After he clicked off, Ray shoved the phone in his jacket pocket. He was too anxious to just sit there at the wheel and wait. So he left the keys in the ignition, opened the door, and stepped out of the car. For a moment, he thought he might be sick, but he took a few deep breaths.

From where he stood, Ray could see that old pathway between some bushes at the edge of the lot — the trail Jenna and he had ventured down so long ago. He couldn’t believe it was twenty years. Where the hell had the time gone? He’d brought his young son, Todd, to this park a few months back, and discovered they’d chopped down that tree with the rope. And the Dog House, where Jenna and he had eaten those delicious pancakes, had closed back in 1994.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray noticed a pinpoint of light in a field south of the parking lot. A chill raced through him as he watched the light get closer — and brighter. He knew this time, it wasn’t a cop.

Ray started shaking again.

At a brisk, businesslike clip, the man approached the edge of the parking lot. He switched off his flashlight. Ray could see him now — about six feet tall and swarthy. He wore a hooded clear rain slicker over dark clothes. Surgical gloves covered his hands. He paused for only a moment at the lot’s edge before he started toward Ray with a determined look on his face.

Ray backed up toward the car. “Hey, listen,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “I–I don’t know what you’re planning exactly, but please. .”

Unresponsive, the man kept coming toward him. He reached for something in the pocket of his slicker.

Shaking his head, Ray backed into his car. “Just — just stop for a second. Please, wait—”

The man pulled out a short piece of metal pipe and slammed it down on Ray’s head.

Ray let out a feeble, garbled cry. He fell against the side of the station wagon and then crumpled to the wet pavement. Dazed, he lay there while the man frisked him. Ray tried to push him away, but he couldn’t lift his hands.

The stranger took Ray’s wallet and iPhone and then pocketed them. He grabbed Ray by the wrists and started pulling him across the lot toward the opening in the bushes. Ray was dragged down the same pathway he’d ventured with Jenna on that warm night twenty years before. He remembered Jenna’s beautiful smile when she said, “No one else is around. . ”

Ray tried to struggle as the man hauled him into the shadowy brush, but he couldn’t move. When he tried to talk, no words came out — just muted moans. It was as if he were having a nightmare, and couldn’t wake himself up. He couldn’t even scream.

His vision was blurred, but he could still see the man, hovering over him with a gun in his hand.

“No. . no. . no. .” Ray managed to whisper.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man grumbled. He pointed the gun down at Ray.

No one else was around.

No one else heard the three gunshots.

“Erin. . sweetie, eat your waffle,” Jeff Dennehy told his six-year-old daughter.

There were four curved-hardback chairs around the circular, pine table with a lazy Susan in the middle of it. On top of the lazy Susan was a hand-painted vase with a bouquet of pipe-cleaner-and-tissue daisies. The creator of that slightly tacky centerpiece was seated beside Jeff. The cute, solemn-faced blond girl gazed over her shoulder at the TV and a commercial for toilet paper — something with cartoon bears. They’d been watching the Today show on the small TV at the end of the kitchen counter.

“C’mon, Erin,” Jeff said over his coffee cup. “Molly made the waffles from scratch, and you haven’t even put a dent in them.”

With a sigh, Erin turned toward her plate, curled her lip at it, and pressed down on the waffle with the underside of her fork. “It’s mushy,” she murmured. “I want waffles from a toaster.”

Dressed in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers, Molly had her strawberry-blond hair swept back in a ponytail. She leaned against the counter and sipped her coffee. She thought maybe if her stepdaughter hadn’t drowned the waffle in a quart of maple syrup, it wouldn’t be so mushy . But Molly bit her lip, set down her coffee cup, and retreated to the refrigerator. She opened the freezer in search of some Eggos, anything to put an end to the father — daughter standoff. She didn’t need the aggravation this morning.

“You know, peanut,” Jeff was saying patiently. “Fresh waffles are better than ones from the toaster. Good waffles aren’t supposed to have the consistency of old drywall.”

Of course, Jeff wouldn’t touch a waffle — fresh, toasted, or otherwise — if his life depended on it. He was having his usual bran flakes to help maintain his lean, muscular build. Molly’s husband was a bit vain — and had good reason to be. Dressed for work in his black Hugo Boss suit, crisp white shirt, and a striped tie, he looked very handsome. He was forty-four, with a light olive complexion, brown eyes, and black hair that was just starting to cede to gray.

“C’mon, just a few bites,” he coaxed his daughter. “Molly cooked this breakfast, special for you and Chris. You don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you?”

Molly couldn’t find any Eggos in the freezer, so she fetched a box of Corn Pops from the kitchen cabinet.

She and Jeff had been married for ten months. Whenever Erin and her seventeen-year-old brother, Chris, returned from a weekend with their mother, Molly felt extra compelled to show them what a great stepmother she was. So she’d cooked bacon and homemade waffles for their breakfast this Monday morning.

Molly had her theories, but still didn’t know exactly why Angela Dennehy had moved out of her own house, surrendered custody of her kids, and settled for visitation rights. One thing for certain, Angela didn’t want her kids warming up to their dad’s new and younger wife.

Molly was thirty-two and still adjusting to stepmother-hood. Obviously, her breakfast strategy wasn’t scoring points with Jeff’s younger child. Molly poured some Corn Pops and milk into a bowl, took away Erin’s plate, and set the cereal in front of her. She patted Erin’s shoulder. “Eat up, honey. You don’t want to miss your bus.”

Jeff gave his daughter a frown, which she ignored while eating her Corn Pops. On TV, Matt Lauer announced that Today would be right back after a local news break.

Molly set Erin’s plate in the sink, and then unplugged the waffle iron. With a fork, she carefully pried a fresh waffle from the hot grid. “Chris!” she called. “Chris! Your breakfast is ready!”

Her stepson hadn’t yet emerged from his bedroom. This elaborate breakfast — at least, elaborate for a weekday — was mostly for him. One of the first breakfasts she’d cooked in Jeff’s house had been waffles, and Chris had proclaimed they were “awesome.” Maybe he was just being polite, or perhaps Jeff had told him to say that. Nevertheless, Molly always unearthed the waffle iron when she wanted to get in her stepson’s good graces.

“Chris, breakfast!” Molly set the plate in front of his empty chair. “I made waffles. . ”

“Okay, in a minute!” he shouted from upstairs.

On TV, Molly glanced at the pretty, thirtysomething Asian anchorwoman with a pageboy hairstyle. “Seattle’s Arboretum became the site of a grisly murder early this morning,” she announced.

Molly reached for the coffeepot and refilled Jeff’s cup.

“Thanks, babe,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “C’mon, Chris, your breakfast is getting cold!” he yelled. “Molly’s gone to a lot of trouble this morning!”