Geri Krotow - Reunion Under Fire

And just like that, Annie remembered why she’d stayed in the city. She ignored the pang that poked her heart at Ginny’s assumption that she was single by proxy and not choice. “Ms. Vanderbruck, high school was a long time ago for me.”

“You’re still so young, dear. Do you have someone special in New York, though, is that it?” The way Ginny said “someone” made Annie wonder if the woman thought a passport was needed to travel to Manhattan.

“Oh, no. I’m enjoying my single life.” Liar. Big-time liar. “Looks like you’re having some luck finding the fiber you wanted. What have you decided on for your cardigan pattern?” Ginny had shown Annie a quite contemporary photo from a recent knitting magazine when she’d entered the shop. A tiny tug of excitement surprised Annie. She hadn’t picked up knitting needles since she’d worked for Grandma Ezzie during college summers. When she’d avoided the high school “flame” Ginny pointedly mentioned.

“Do you like this shade?” Ginny brought her back from the edge of another awful flashback. Annie eyed the pile of purple fiber, trying not to mentally add the sale before it was a done deal. She was here to help, to keep things moving, not to beat any sales records.

“I do. It’s lovely next to your skin.”

“I really shouldn’t spend the money this month.”

“Grandma Ezzie always preaches that if you’re going to hold yarn in your hands for an entire project, make it the best you can afford.”

“You’re right, of course. I’ll take it. And I may be back to get enough for a second one if I like this pattern.” Ginny pulled out her credit card.

“You’ve picked the exact same shade as your hair.” Annie began to ring up the order, wondering for the millionth time how her mother had convinced her to use her sabbatical from NYPD in sleepy Silver Valley, no less: the hometown she’d fled and vowed to never return to, save for family visits, over twelve years ago.

It’s for Grandma Ezzie .

“Isn’t it fab?” Ginny ran her fingers through her short violet hair, the ends tipped with fuchsia. “Who says my teenage granddaughters should have all the fun?”

“Not I.” Annie began to wind the hanks on the swift that stood next to the counter, quickly producing neat cakes of yarn. “I need to thank you for agreeing to run the knit and chat tonight. I’ll be here, but this way you’re giving me the freedom to ring up orders. I really don’t have a handle on everything yet.” As evidenced by her hot-and-cold emotions over her return to her hometown.

“No problem! And give me a break—like you said, you’re a city girl now. There’s nothing you can’t handle.” Ginny’s sincerity slayed her.

“I’m hardly equipped to run a business. Different brain cells than working at NYPD.” Annie’s grandmother had bragged to all of her customers about her one granddaughter’s “big city” job, so she wasn’t telling Ginny anything she didn’t already know.

“We’re all glad you agreed to help Ezzie because this shop is important to a lot of us in Silver Valley. It gives us a reason to get out of the house. Speaking of which, I’m going to run out to the grocery store to pick up a birthday cake for Lydia, with whipped cream frosting and strawberry filling. She’s seventy-five tomorrow.” Annie knew that Lydia was one of the dozen or so women who religiously attended knit and chat sessions.

Annie couldn’t help but notice the far cry running a yarn shop was from the life-and-death atmosphere of NYPD.

As they planned for the weekly Friday night gathering, a new customer came in. Petite, blonde and made up like a movie star, with perfect makeup, designer clothing that hung perfectly where her two-hundred-dollar jeans weren’t hugging her tiny frame. A large, leather designer bag that complemented the heeled sandals finished the woman’s ensemble. Annie couldn’t help but take notice of her. It wasn’t as if there weren’t other women in Silver Valley who dressed with high fashion in mind, but it wasn’t her outward appearance that pinged Annie’s internal radar. It was how she held herself as she slowly walked to the counter. The blonde’s eyes darted from Ginny to Annie and back again, her mannerisms a little jerky. Something had her wound tighter than a cheap skein of acrylic yarn.

Ginny caught her staring past her shoulder and turned around. “Oh, hi, Kit! Are you going to stay for knit and chat?”

The woman shook her head like a shy child. “No. Maybe. I thought about it. I don’t know. I should go home earlier than I did last week. I’m almost done with my shawl.”

Ginny waved her hand at her, much as she had done with Annie. “Oh, no, missy. You’re having fun, and that’s all there is to it.” Ginny turned back to Annie, her eyes wide. “Kit’s new to our group, and I told her we need fresh blood.”

“Where is Ezzie?” Kit spoke with a slight accent, which Annie would bet was Russian. Annie had studied it in college and worked with a lot of Russian-speaking cops. Kit’s pronunciation was distinctly Russian, maybe Ukrainian. The pale woman under the heavy makeup looked lost, as if she’d never been in the store before. Her obvious wariness combined with the way Ginny treated her flipped Annie’s internal alarm bells, and her training shifted into full alert.

“Hi, Kit. I’m Annie, Ezzie’s granddaughter. She’s had a mild stroke and is taking a break from the shop for a bit.” She stepped from around the counter and held out her hand.

Kit took it, but instead of the timid grip Annie expected, it was a strong, almost painful clench. As if Annie were her lifeline. Kit’s motions were more like those of a frail octogenarian instead of a young woman Annie estimated was in her twenties.

“I need to talk to your grandmother. I’m sorry she’s sick.” Kit’s eyes blazed. “Is she in the hospital? Will she come back soon?”

Annie looked into the woman’s stunning ice-blue gaze and saw fear, trepidation and concern for Ezzie. Something else, too. Anxiety that didn’t have a name, the result of living with a constant threat to your life. Annie had seen enough of it in victims and police officers. She knew how stress affected first responders over the years, and it was even worse for civilians. Kit displayed outward symptoms of a trauma survivor.

Keep her calm, show her she can trust you .

“Grandma Ezzie’s fine, really. My parents insisted she go to their place in Florida for a few months while she does some rehab and relaxes. Since my grandfather died, she hasn’t given herself a break from the business, and my parents knew she wouldn’t do an honest rehab if she stayed here.”

“I understand.” Kit said it as if she’d been betrayed. Annie made a mental note to ask her grandmother about Kit. Annie was certain there was more to the woman than knitting a shawl.

“Can I help you pick out some yarn today? A pattern?”

“You can trust her, Kit. Annie’s from New York City and...” Ginny trailed off at the “shut the heck up!” look Annie threw her. She instinctively didn’t want Kit to know she was in law enforcement. Not yet. She wanted this woman to trust her first.

“New York?” Kit’s brow wrinkled. While her eyes seemed wise and old, her skin was positively translucent. Looking at Kit’s hands, Annie thought her first assessment was correct and that Kit was quite young. Early twenties at the most.

“I grew up here, went to Silver Valley High, then left for college. How about you, Kit? Have you been in Silver Valley long?”

“Yes. Well, for the last five or six years I’ve lived here, anyway. Are you the granddaughter Ezzie said works for the police?”

Dang Grandma Ezzie and her bragging. “I am. But I’m not a cop. I’m support staff.”