LITMIR.BIZ

       ONE

      Gabriella Kensington balanced her eleven-month-old daughter Mia on her hip while fighting to get the key into the sticky lock of the back door of her townhouse. The next time she went out, she was going to have to buy a can of WD-40 and fix it. She considered setting the two plastic grocery bags hanging from her wrist down on the porch, but the three inches of snow that had blanketed the city last night from a late fall cold front had left the mostly uncovered surface both slippery and wet.

      But she’d worry about that another day.

      She wiggled the handle, heard the click, then finally opened the door. Heat from the house rushed out and filled her lungs with warmth.

      Gabby stepped inside as an unexpected chill sliced through her. Setting the two plastic bags of groceries onto the counter, she glanced around the kitchen, managing to knock one of the bags over in the process. A grapefruit rolled off the counter and onto the floor, but she hardly noticed.

      Instead, she stared into the living room that opened up from the kitchen. The entire room had been trashed. Papers had been dumped from her desk. Drawers pulled open and their contents dumped. Books and photos lay scattered across the hardwood floor. Mia started fussing. Gabby had no idea if whoever had done this was still somewhere in the house, but there was no time to find out.

       This can’t be happening.

      But the frightening text she’d received two days ago, demanding her to stop asking questions and threatening her and her daughter, only served to confirm her worst fears. Adrenaline pumping, she hushed her daughter who was struggling to get down. She couldn’t take any chances in case someone was still in the house. Not with Mia. Instead, she raced back to the car, fumbled with the straps on the car seat while Mia’s fussing grew louder.

      “It’s okay, sweet baby. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Mama’s going to make sure of that.”

      A lump swelled in her throat as she slid into the car. She wanted to pray, except she knew God didn’t always answer prayers. If someone was after her, she was on her own.

      Hands shaking, she turned the key in the ignition. The car refused to start.

      No...no...no...

      “Not now. Please...not now.”

      She glanced back at the house, terrified that at any moment someone was going to burst out of the back door and come after her. If someone had still been in the house, she had no doubt that they’d heard Mia crying. She turned the key again to start the engine. Her father had tried to convince her to replace her jeep with something more reliable, but it was going to take her another year to save up. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if she should have tried to make it work.

      A third try and the engine caught.

      Letting out a strong huff of relief, she pulled out of the driveway, her heart still racing. Calling 911 was the logical option, but something made her hesitate. The letters her husband had written her before his death while still deployed had left her shaken. And this happening so soon after she’d questioned his commanding officers made her wonder if she’d managed to ask the wrong person, triggering something she was at a loss of how to handle. Which meant if someone was after her, she had no idea how far their arm might reach. She stopped at a red light, then glanced at the leather bag with Will’s letters on the floorboard of the car. That had to be what they were after. She swallowed hard. No. She was sounding paranoid. But Will had been paranoid, too. So maybe her fear stemming from the last letter he’d written her wasn’t that far off after all.

       I think they realize I’ve been looking into the paper trail. I need to go to someone with what I have, but I have to make sure the evidence is solid. Some of these contractors are the kind of people who wouldn’t hesitate at defrauding our government. The kind of people who wouldn’t blink at killing anyone who got in their way.

      The light turned green and she headed north toward the freeway. She’d memorized the details of Will’s letters. They had mentioned contracted workers, so she’d assumed

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