Linda Johnston - Tommy's Mom

“Grrrr!” It was growling at him. “Go away, little boy,” it shouted. “Get out of here! Now!”

“Nooo!” Tommy cried out as he ran toward the door of the shop. Only there was a big counter in the way. As he got near it, he tripped. He looked down. And screamed, “Daddy!”

But Daddy was asleep. There was bright red all over him. Blood, like when Tommy fell down and cut his knee.

And the monster came closer.

“I said get out of here, little boy. And if you ever talk, if you ever tell anyone what you saw, I’ll come and get you.”

Gasping to breathe, Tommy ran around Daddy and toward the glass front door. It was a big door. A heavy door. But he pushed and pushed. And then he got it open.

Tommy ran outside and down the sidewalk, screaming and crying and very, very scared.

“Oh, Holly, you poor thing. I want you to know, the whole town is nearly as devastated as you about Thomas’s death.” Evangeline Sevvers breezed into the funeral parlor’s small anteroom off the front of the chapel.

Evangeline would be aware of what the whole town felt, Holly Poston thought wryly. In addition to owning a boutique down the pedestrian mall from Sheldon Sperling’s arts and crafts gallery, she was mayor of Naranja Beach, California.

Holly had been waiting in the small room for the memorial service for her husband to begin. Sad, numb, scared—those were emotions she applied to herself for the loss of Thomas and the turmoil from the circumstances surrounding his death.

Devastated…not really. Not yet, at least.

She glanced down toward her son Tommy, at her feet. He looked at Evangeline, but quickly resumed playing with a toy car on the floor.

His hair, as dark a brown as Holly’s, had been neatly parted and combed to the side a few minutes ago, but now it was mussed. She would undoubtedly have to brush dirt off his black dress pants, maybe off his white shirt, too, but Holly was thankful that Tommy was acting like a normal child…almost.

He hadn’t said a word for the past four days.

“Wait until you see how many people are here to pay their respects to Thomas.” Evangeline’s enthusiasm sparkled in her eyes.

“That’s great,” Holly replied, a lot less excited.

Evangeline, ever the politician, would be pleased for a throng anyplace she happened to be. Evangeline was also a good friend. A consummate professional woman, she almost always wore a suit—at least while not in costume, for she was a driving force and starring actress at the Naranja Community Theater. Today, she wore a tailored deep cranberry suit that should have clashed with the dyed shade of her red hair but somehow didn’t.

“You’ll see for yourself soon,” Evangeline continued. “Right now, though, I want to introduce you to someone.”

Oh, lord, Holly thought. Not yet. She’d brought Tommy here early, before anyone else arrived, to protect him from the polite verbal poking and prodding of other mourners. And the not-so-polite intrusion of the media. As a result, she had avoided them, too. She would have to face them eventually. Probably soon. But she had to prepare herself.

Before she could object, a man entered the room behind Evangeline.

“Holly, this is the new police chief of Naranja Beach, Gabe McLaren. Gabe told me he hadn’t met you yet.”

No wonder Evangeline wanted to introduce them personally, Holly thought, as a very tall man entered behind the mayor, practically filling the small room by himself. He was a relative of Evangeline’s, or so Holly had heard.

Chief McLaren wore a navy blue suit and a conservative tie. Could his shoulders and chest be as vast as indicated by his clothing, or had he worn body armor to a funeral?

He had a wide forehead, and his thick brown hair was cut short in a military style, parted on the side and combed off his face. His jaw was an expanse of steel, his mouth an earnest line beneath a strong and even nose.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. Poston,” he said, holding out his hand.

I should say the same to you, Holly’s thoughts rang sardonically. She knew from long and sorry experience that cops only cared about other cops, and their duty.

This man had lost one of his officers in a crime still unsolved. He was in charge of a police force with a blemish on its record, at least so far—an unenviable position for a police chief.

She accepted his proffered handshake and said, “Thank you.” She knew she wasn’t being fair. Sometimes crimes were solved quickly, sometimes they took a while. But a cop had been downed. The Naranja Beach Police Department wouldn’t rest until they knew exactly what had happened that misty morning in Sheldon Sperling’s shop.

And if, along the way, they learned who beat Sheldon unconscious and traumatized her small son so much that he wouldn’t speak, that would be an added benefit to them.

To her, it was a prerequisite for getting on with her life.

Chief McLaren was still holding her hand. She wanted to pull it away but found this stranger’s grip oddly comforting.

Never mind that what she knew about him wasn’t favorable. She had heard Thomas and his partner Al Sharp discuss the new chief hired three months ago after the sudden death of the former chief, Mal Kensington, from an unexpected heart attack. Nepotism, Thomas and Al had complained, since McLaren was a distant relation of the mayor’s. Sure, he had police administration experience, but he was too young to be seasoned. He had an attitude, made it clear he would run things his own way, never mind that things had run just fine under old Mal Kensington.

Chief McLaren continued to grip her hand, and his green eyes, beneath thick, unruly brows, bored into hers.

“Mrs. Poston,” he said, “I want you to know—”

“Hi, Tommy, my lad. And Holly. Chief McLaren, Mayor Sevvers… May I come in?”

Holly moved so she could see the anteroom’s doorway. Sheldon Sperling stood there.

Sheldon was one of Holly’s oldest friends. The pallor of his face nearly matched the whiteness of the sling he wore to support his right arm. He was only sixty-one years old, but the wrinkles around his eyes and the hollows in his soft cheeks had deepened over the past four days, making him appear a decade or more older. He had gone through a lot, poor man.

“Sure, come in, Sheldon,” Holly said uncertainly. She wasn’t sure where he would fit.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mrs. Poston,” Chief McLaren told her, releasing her hand. It felt suddenly empty.

Watch it! she admonished herself. She wasn’t going to be one of those widows who clutched at anyone and anything to avoid feeling alone. And certainly not a stranger.

“I’ll go with you, Gabe,” Evangeline said. “See you in a bit, Holly.”

As they left, Sheldon squeezed by them into the anteroom. He moved slowly, easing himself down on an upholstered chair facing the floral print sofa where Holly sat. He looked gaunt in his black suit.

She hadn’t much black in her own wardrobe, but she had put on the next best thing: a short charcoal skirt with a lace-trimmed blouse several shades lighter. She’d had to belt the outfit tightly at the waist. She had lost weight in the past few days. She hadn’t been able to eat.

“How are you feeling now, Sheldon?” Holly asked softly.

“Much better. The headaches are almost gone, and I can move my wrist a little now. And you? How are you two getting along?”

Terribly! Holly wanted to shout, but of course she couldn’t. Not with Tommy there. “Tommy has been a very good, very brave boy,” she said. “And he has been a real comfort to me.”

At least that wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t sure what she would have done without her son to keep her going. For despite all that had happened between Thomas and her, all the anger and bitterness and even indifference, she had never anticipated—had refused to anticipate, despite his being a cop—that she would finally lose him this way.