Sara K. Parker - Security Measures

Maybe she should have expected this when she’d signed a twelve-month graduate-student housing contract with the Harmony Senior Living Community in August. But she hadn’t. And she certainly hadn’t expected to forge friendships with the residents. Warm, deep, meaningful friendships. She’d spent years pouring her energy into work and school, too busy and driven to invest in friendship. But the pace was slower at Harmony, where she and four other graduate students had embarked on a pilot program in which they received room and board in exchange for volunteer hours and companionship with the residents. There, friendships had formed as she spent her contracted volunteer hours partaking in chair fitness, bingo and weekly outings with the residents. Soon, she’d found herself taking on extra hours to sit with her new friends at hair appointments, mealtimes and dialysis sessions. She couldn’t help but care about them as she grew to know their personalities and histories, their hobbies and families.

A tear escaped and she swiped it away, hurting. Angry. If she had known she’d get so attached, she never would have signed the agreement.

Her little black Mustang sat alone at the edge of the lot, and she hurried to it, determined to get a handle on her emotions. It had been nearly six years since she’d let herself cry. All other pain had paled in comparison to that cold November day, until now. Forcing away the tears, she unlocked her car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She turned the key in the ignition and glanced in the rearview, her hand on the gearshift. But her gaze caught on her reflection, the pallor of her face, the glaze of tears in her eyes, and an ache rose in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking as her shoulders began to heave, and a keening sound rolled from her throat—raw grief that could not be contained. The memory forced its way into her heart until she finally gave in to the weight of loss, her forehead coming to the steering wheel as she grieved for her four unlikely friends and their loved ones, and also for the life she’d turned her back on years ago.

She stayed like that for long minutes until she’d poured out what felt like a lifetime of guarded emotion. Then she cleared her throat and pulled a couple of napkins from the console, blowing her nose and drying her cheeks. No mascara to worry about since she seldom wore makeup. Glancing at the clock, she put the car in Reverse. She needed to get moving. She’d volunteered to help set up the reception at Harmony, and guests would be arriving soon.

Forcing herself into business mode, she drove away from the cemetery and pulled onto the highway. But even as her tears dried, the ache in her chest tightened, grief giving way to anxiety. Four deaths in three weeks, but she had nothing she could report to police.

No one else even suspected a problem. On the contrary, her fellow grad-student friends and Harmony staff she’d come to know had all gently assured her that it was normal to want to place blame when grieving. They’d pointed out other truths as well: that her security background made her more paranoid than she needed to be, that all four of the residents had had underlying health conditions and that “old people die.” That last gem had been contributed by Riley Jasper, the youngest of the grad students and the most immature. Some kind of genius, she’d started college at fifteen, and now, at nineteen, her social tact was still sorely lacking. Not that Triss was one to judge. She was well aware that her own personality was considered by most to be cold at best, abrasive at worst.

But that was beside the point. Riley Jasper’s comment, genius notwithstanding, was ignorant. The four dead residents had not been that old, and all had passed swiftly, without warning.

Even the Harmony staff agreed that four deaths in such a short period was unusual in the forty-eight-bed community—though not unheard of. But Triss had to admit that her suspicions were a little far-fetched. Could someone in the home really be set on murder? Or was it simply a difficult season of loss?

Whatever the cause, and regardless of the skepticism of her new friends, Triss figured that tightening security at Harmony wouldn’t hurt anyone. She’d worked as a security agent for Shield Protection Services for a little over two years, and the four deaths at Harmony had not only piqued her suspicions but had also alerted her to the lax security around the community. Two days ago, she’d proposed some simple ideas to boost security. No one had taken her seriously, but Triss was never one to go down without a fight, and—

A loud pop sounded behind her and she jolted, glancing in the rearview. Had a rock hit her rear window? She didn’t see a crack, thankfully. The car had already been in the shop a few times this year, and Triss didn’t have extra cash for more repairs. Not seeing anything, she started to return to her thoughts when she picked up an acrid, burning scent.

Again, she checked the rearview. This time, her heart lurched. Smoke! A thick, black cloud plumed from the rear of her vehicle.

She didn’t think, just reacted, checking her mirrors as she swerved toward the shoulder. Smoke billowed above her gas tank in black waves. She didn’t have much time. A driver laid on his horn as Triss nearly plowed into the side of his truck and swerved again, overcompensating with the wheel. Her tires spun, the car flying across the highway and out of her control as she pumped the brakes and tried to get it under control. Tires screeched and horns blared as her Mustang skidded sideways into a speed-limit sign, the impact sending her car into a spin, and then she was sliding over the shoulder and into a shallow embankment.

In a daze, Triss reached for her seat belt, her hands shaking as she jerked it off and grabbed the door handle. The door wouldn’t budge! She jabbed at her window control, but it didn’t respond. Smoke started to fill the car, burning her throat and lungs as she looked in terror at a bright orange flame too close to the gas tank. Desperate, she yanked at the handle again, a painful cough taking hold and stealing her strength even as she frantically scanned her car for something she could use to break a window. She wished she’d brought her gun, but she never carried it off duty.

Dread grew as thick as the smoke inside the car. Her breathing was labored and punctuated by coughs, and her hazy mind drifted back to the cemetery she’d just come from, the red and gold leaves flitting to the ground. Searching through her console, she fought rising panic as the car grew hotter, the smoke thickening. Desperate, she yanked at the door again, knowing it was futile. Cars pulled over ahead, shadowy figures running toward her, but the smoke was thick, stealing her air, and she was sure they were too late.

* * *

Hunter Knox threw his truck into Park and ran to the back, rummaging through his supplies for his window breaker, and then sprinted to Triss’s Mustang. A crowd had gathered, a couple of people using various tools to try to break open windows, while others warned the crowd to stand back. A small flame was licking up the back of the car, an explosion imminent. Black smoke filled the interior.

“Move aside!” Hunter yelled, forcing his way through the crowd to the front of the car. Deciding his best option was the front windshield, he climbed up on the hood and kneeled as he locked eyes with Triss. The fear there pierced his heart as smoke swirled behind her. He’d known Triss for two years and had never seen her scared. “Cover your face!” he yelled, and placed the tool in the center of the passenger side of the windshield. The glass cracked immediately, and he pushed the rest of it in, others joining in to clear the shards as Triss attempted to pull herself up and out of the car.