Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

Maybe Nate Santana was right.

Maybe she should do what she damned well pleased and let her kids just deal with it.

Then again, maybe not.

Knowing nothing good would come of this, Trace pulled into the lot of Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment building and parked his truck in one of the few vacant visitors’ spaces.

He’d called her twice on the way from the house, but there had been no answer. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror and noticed how haggard he looked. He didn’t like being here; this was a mistake. He knew it deep in his gut. Just as he’d known he should never have gotten involved with her, not in the least. Not only had it been a bad idea for him, but getting hooked up with Jocelyn had been a disaster for Eli, who, though he’d never said it, had to have noticed Jocelyn Wallis’s slight resemblance to his mother…. What was that called? Transference? Close enough.

He glanced around the snow-covered grounds as his windows began to fog with the chill. Lamplight glowed from Jocelyn’s apartment, one in the living area, another in her bedroom, but the shades were drawn.

He walked to the front door and knocked, then waited.

Nothing.

No sound of a television or music coming from her unit. He probably should just call the manager, or Jocelyn’s sister, but decided that since he was here, he’d check her place out himself. She kept a spare key hidden in the beam that supported the roof of her porch, so he used the bench near the front door and hoisted himself upward to a spot where he could see the key hanging on a small nail.

Without a second’s thought Trace snagged the key, hopped down, and after one more try at knocking, let himself in.

A blast of heat hit him full force, but he knew the minute he stepped through the door that he was alone in the apartment. It was just that still.

“Jocelyn!” he called loudly. “Hello?” But he sensed it was useless as he slowly walked from room to room, noting that her purse was on the kitchen counter, her schoolbag, filled with papers and books, on the seat of one of the two bar stools.

The bed was unmade; a half-drunk glass of water and some crumpled wrapper of over-the-counter flu medication were on the night table, next to a paperback novel and her cell phone charger. Clothes were tumbling out of a laundry basket on the open bedroom floor, and the remote control for a small television had been left on the mussed coverlet.

Suddenly music erupted.

He nearly jumped out of his skin, turning quickly. For a second he thought someone was inside; then he realized it was probably her cell phone’s ringtone. He followed the sound to the living room and a small recliner. The music stopped abruptly, but he dug through the cushions and finally found the phone under the chair.

He checked the list of incoming call numbers on the display and saw that the most recent was unknown; prior to that, his name was listed twice, then Evergreen Elementary, interspersed with names, some of which he recognized, others that he didn’t. He checked the texts and saw that all the messages asked her to text or call back.

“Where the hell are you?” he wondered aloud, the small apartment almost echoing his voice. There was no sign of a breakin; nothing seemed out of place. Her laptop, television, and even some change left on the kitchen counter hadn’t been disturbed. Wet cat food was turning dry in one of the small bowls on the floor near the garbage can.

He walked back to the living room hall, where he saw that her car and house keys had been left in a small dish by the front door.

Odd.

She left and locked herself out?

Unlikely as the dead bolt had been latched.

Nothing more to do than call her friend back and tell her what he’d found: nothing. From there, he supposed, the next step was to alert her family or maybe the police.

Locking the front door behind him, he replaced the key where he’d found it, then returned to his car and hoped to high heaven that Jocelyn was all right.

He had a very bad feeling she wasn’t.

It was after seven when Kacey turned her Ford Edge off the main road to her house. She’d been fighting a bit of a headache for the last couple of hours, and her stomach was rumbling.

She checked her rearview mirror, and the car that had been following her sped past, a minivan with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof, as it turned out. Nothing sinister. Unless you thought cutting a Christmas tree before Thanksgiving was a sin, and Kacey was on the fence about that.

The minivan was followed by a dark pickup, the primary mode of transportation in these parts, and a light-colored sedan, none of which appeared malevolent as they all continued on the county road leading into the hills. Most of the time she was fine, but she wondered if she would ever feel completely safe. Whenever she was alone, old memories and doubts crept in.

All your imagination. Again. Get over it! The attack was nearly seven years ago. Are you planning to live your life by always looking over your shoulder? You’re here. In Grizzly Falls, not Seattle. You’re safe.

Kacey clenched her teeth and counted to ten. Her headlights cast warm beams over the two inches of snow that covered the ground and reflected in the millions of swirling flakes that fell from the dark sky.

The old farmhouse where she lived came into view, and she almost smiled at how, under the blue bath of the security lamp, the little cottage appeared quaint and welcoming. Built of clapboard nearly a hundred years earlier, the house had a steeply pitched roof, two dormers, and a wide porch that skirted the entire first floor. Two lights were burning, one in the living room, the other in the den, both on timers so that she wouldn’t have to walk into a dark house.

She hit the garage door opener, then, as the door yawned wide, drove inside. She made certain to close the garage door before climbing out of her SUV. She was cautious, much more careful than she’d been growing up here as a child, or as a student who had let nothing get in her way in her quest for success. With stellar grades and an athletic scholarship to a small junior college, she’d been fearless.

Which had proven to be her downfall.

Now, grabbing her laptop case, she let herself out of the garage. After locking the door quickly, she hurried along a short walkway to the back porch, where a welcoming light burned by the door. Her boots broke a path in the snow, then were muffled a bit as she climbed the few steps. Unlocking the door as she stamped off the snow, she then slipped inside and twisted the dead bolt.

She thought about getting another dog but couldn’t face the thought of leaving it for the length of time she would have to be at work every weekday. Sometimes she left the house before six in the morning and didn’t return until nearly eight in the evening. Since she lived alone, it just didn’t seem fair or right to leave a dog alone that long, and though she could adjust her schedule, and she could hire people to walk the dog, or she could bring it to the office or to the doggy day care in town, so far she’d resisted the idea. But maybe it was time to rethink that?

She glanced around this kitchen that had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she’d visited here often, this little house on the farm her grandparents had owned. And with the house had come a succession of strays and herding dogs, sometimes three at a time, which she remembered from her long summers and winter vacations when she’d visited. The dogs had been a part of the landscape and the house.

Later, while she was married, working opposite shifts as her husband, they’d owned an aging Boston terrier he’d inherited from his mother when she’d moved into a condo that prohibited pets. The black and white dog had lasted another two years, but when Black-Jack had finally died, their marriage had been eroding and they’d never made the effort or commitment to find another dog.