Vicki Hinze - Survive the Night

A fat tear rolled down Gracie’s cheek.

Paul smiled and flicked away Gracie’s tear. “Della knows you were trying to help, and she’s sorry she sounds so angry. She’s not, you know.”

“She sounds plenty mad.” Gracie’s chin quivered.

“No, I’m not mad.” Della felt like a slug. A terrified slug, but still a slug. “I was scared.”

“Why?” Gracie and Paul asked simultaneously.

Oh, boy. She was in for it now, but it was past time for the truth. “Gracie, you know what happened to Danny, right?” Just speaking her son’s name hurt, reopened the gaping wounds in her battered heart.

Gracie nodded. Light from the streetlamp had the glittery face paint from the festival sparkling on her cheeks. “His daddy was holding him and he opened the mailbox and it exploded. His daddy got hurt, but Danny went to heaven. Now he lives with your mom and dad and my grandpa.”

“That’s right.” Della said it, and would give her eyeteeth to still believe it. But her beliefs or lack of them were her problem, not Gracie’s. “This is my fault. I didn’t want to frighten you, but I should have told you I’m worried the man who did that to Danny might do it again. That’s why I don’t want you getting my mail and why I sounded so angry. When I saw you on the porch with that box...I was really scared.”

Gracie curled her arms around Della’s neck and hugged her fiercely. Her breath warmed Della’s neck, melted the icy chill steeped in her bones. “I’m not going to heaven yet. It’ll be a long, long time. Gran said.”

Gran was the ultimate authority on all things. “That’s good to know.” Della blew out a steadying breath, then set Gracie down on the sidewalk. “You run on home now. It’s late and your gran is waiting.” What was Miss Addie thinking, letting Gracie come outside this late at night alone?

“She doesn’t know I’m gone. She’s in the shower.”

That explained that. “What made you come out here?” Della should have asked that before now, and probably would have, if seeing the child holding that package hadn’t scared ten years off her life.

“I saw the man put the box on the porch.”

A chill streaked through Della. “Did you know him?”

She shook her head. “It was too dark. I just saw the box moving. He was carrying it.”

“He was wearing dark clothes, then?” Della asked.

“I dunno. I only saw the box until he left. Then when he got to the sidewalk I saw him.”

Because of the streetlight. “Would you know him again?”

“No. Everything was black.” She tilted her head. “Well, except his shoes.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

Paul spoke softly. “Gracie, are you sure it was a man?”

“I dunno. He was bigger than Della, but not as big as you. I couldn’t see.”

“Okay, honey,” Della said. “You go on home now before your gran can’t find you and gets scared.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And no more leaving the house without her knowing it,” Paul said.

“Yes, sir.” Gracie cut across the grass and headed next door. “Night, Della. Bye, Mr. Mason.”

“Good night, Gracie.”

“I wish she’d seen more,” Paul said.

“I hope he didn’t see her.” Della’s gaze collided with Paul’s.

“You’re not thinking it was FedEx, are you?”

“At midnight?” She muffled a grunt. “No.”

“Neither am I,” he said, then waited, clearly expecting her to explain her behavior and her concerns.

Della hesitated, staring back at the porch at the box, but Paul let the silence between them stretch, blatantly waiting for her to look at him. Resigned, she did. At least he wasn’t scowling.

“Spill it.”

“Spill what?” The porch light cast streaks of light across the sidewalk, but it wasn’t so dark she didn’t see the stern look in his eyes. She could try to act as if everything was fine now that Gracie was safely tucked into her own cottage, pretend that her being outside was what really terrified Della and hope he’d go home so she could examine the box on her own, but that required deceit. She hated deceit and she’d never practiced it with Paul. The idea of doing so now grated on her. Just considering it made her feel slimy.

“Don’t minimize this.” He frowned. “Your explanation satisfied Gracie, but I know you, Della Jackson. You’re not suddenly scared of another mailbox bomb. Not with Dawson locked away in a mental hospital. So what’s going on?”

He knew her too well. “Dawson isn’t in the mental hospital anymore. He’s out.”

Surprised lit across Paul’s face. “Since when?”

“Apparently, for about six weeks—”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“There’s no need to shout at me. My hearing is just fine.” She frowned up at him. “I just found out two weeks ago.”

“A month after the fact? But they were supposed to give you advance notice.”

“Yes, they were, but they didn’t. I fell through the crack.”

“So two weeks ago, they notified you and you didn’t think it was significant enough to mention?”

“I was going to tell you. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. My caseload has been a bear, and then there was the open house—it’s just been kind of crazy.”

“You’re still making excuses. Please don’t.” She opened her mouth, but he lifted a finger. “You figure Dawson is out and knows where you are because...?”

She clamped her jaw and stared at the box on the porch. Anything she said would upset Paul more and she didn’t want to do that.

“Della, I know something has happened. Just Dawson’s release wouldn’t put you in the panic you were in when you saw Gracie. Stop making me pull teeth, woman, and tell me what’s going on.”

“The truth is, I’m not sure yet.” She summoned her courage and headed toward the box.

From the edge of the porch, she studied the label and felt the blood drain from her face. “But we need to call the police.”

He walked over to where she stood. “Why?”

“Because—” she spared him a glance “—it says it’s from Tennessee.”

His frown faded and his face brightened. “Maybe Jeff’s finally sent you the pictures of Danny.”

She’d asked her ex for a photo of her son every month for three years and had gotten nothing. No photo, no response whatsoever. “Highly doubtful—no.” She more closely examined the box. “This isn’t from Jeff, and I don’t know anyone else in Tennessee anymore.”

“How do you know it’s not from him? If there’s no one else—”

Having the benefit of insights he did not, she pointed but didn’t touch the package. “See this code on the shipping label?”

Paul read it and then looked over at her, his expression grave. “It’s a Florida zip code.”

“Walton County.” Della nodded. “But someone clearly wanted me to think the box was from Tennessee.” The return address had been written in black marker.

“That’s more than enough for me.” Paul pulled out his cell and dialed.

“Who are you calling?” Della asked.

Paul lifted a wait-a-second finger. “Major Beech, it’s Paul Mason. Fine. Yeah, a good turnout.” He moved to put himself between the box and Della. “I’ve got a suspicious package over at Della Jackson’s cottage.”

Major Harrison Beech. Why was Paul calling the base and not the local police? Della grimaced. “It could be nothing.” She said it, but it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like a huge something.

“Thanks, Beech.” Paul hung up and guided Della away from the package. “He’s coming out with some friends.”

A team of professionals. His hand on her arm was firm, leading her back toward the sidewalk. “Why did you call him?”