Chapter Sixty-One: What Greets Me Makes My Blood Boil

 

Officer Holder rises from his desk, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Hi, Mrs. Summers. Can I help you?" The audacity. Trice, there's no proof it was Holder. Calm down.

"I'm just meeting Gray here. He had something he needed to talk to me about." I try to act nonchalant, but if he could read my emotions, he'd sense the nerves and anxiety. His demeanor shifts, a hint of annoyance and even anxiety creeps in. "I see. Well, go ahead and wait in his office." I nod, swiftly walking to the office without daring to look behind me. True to his word, Gray appears about 15 minutes later. He strides into the office, shutting the door behind him.

He sits down, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, Trice, this theory of yours is razor-thin, but I'm going to hear you out because you've been right about most everything." I want to acknowledge his correctness but don't want to rub it in.

"Think about it, Gray. When did Holder show up here?" I say, trying not to talk too loudly. "And, he's had access to our home this whole time. I know it wasn't Officer Lopez who planted a camera in my vase."

"Yeah, I know. Holder did get transferred here, about a month after Troy was found. It could be why he volunteered to patrol your home while you were gone, to gain access, plant the camera. He knew when you were here and gone. The only problem is proving it."

I fold my arms, anger evident in my voice. "He stood there and greeted me with a smile out there," I say, turning to the window. "We, you, trusted him with your city and everything that has happened on my street." A newfound rage takes over, and I have to ask, "Gray, did he kill Goldie?"

Gray closes his eyes, contemplating this very real possibility. "I don't want to admit it, but it makes sense. He had access to a gun, and who knows, he could have bugged her home as well, knew she was leaving and then followed her to Home Depot. He also could have known about the text messages you were sent. Maybe he even knew you met her at the park. She was collateral damage."

I feel my fist balling up. "That –" and before I'm able to finish my words, we hear a knock. Gray puts his finger to his lips to hush me.

"What is it?"

"Chief, sorry to bother you, but I need to speak to you. We just got a call from the prison." Officer Holder's gruff voice comes through the door, and I want to open the door and punch him. Gray backs up his chair. "Stay here. I'll be back."

I do as instructed. My knees are shaking, and anxiety rises to my throat. I suddenly feel nauseous. I take some deep breaths and chant, "Inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, hold 1, 2, 3, 4, exhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7." After doing this for a minute, I start to calm down. I get up, walk to the window, and stare out. I need some air. After opening the window, getting some fresh air, and closing it again, I hear the doorknob rattle, and I hurry back to my seat.

Gray comes in and closes the door. He doesn't return to his seat, just stands at the door. "Well, an inmate murdered Jeff a while ago. They were out in the yard, and someone came up to him and stabbed him in the back. It was quick. No one came to his aid until it was too late."

"What?" I jump out of my seat. "And why?" But I already knew. Melanie is picking them off one by one, and we're next. "This isn't just a coincidence…"

"Now don't assume something you have no proof of, Trice," he interjects. He knows me all too well.

"Come on, Gray. You know it's true. First Troy, then Goldie, Dimitri, and now Jeff. You need to remove the drugs from our property. They won't stop until they get what they want, and I'm tired of being a target." The tears bubble up, and Gray comes over and hugs me.

"I'm sorry, Trice, you're right. Tomorrow, first thing, we'll get the drug unit to seize the drugs. We have a secure location to store them while everything gets sorted out. We'll issue a press release, diverting attention away from you. And I'm going to question Holder. Go back home and stay there. I'll text you in the morning. Oh, and there may be more cameras around the house, so be careful. Don't discuss the case or anything related to Jeff's murder. When we come tomorrow, we'll scrutinize the house for any more cameras."

I ease out of his embrace. "Yeah, okay. But we can't keep doing this, Gray. I haven't seen my kids or grandkids in almost a year. My best friend's home was vandalized, and we've narrowly escaped death a few times, along with you and Officer Lopez. Please, solve this so we can all return to our normal lives." Desperation colors my voice, but it's been too long. I promised Goldie I would find her killer. I vow to keep my promise, with or without Gray's help.

Returning home, I share the events with Brock. He sits on the couch, hands to his face. "I can't believe someone killed Jeff. This whole thing is so damn messed up, Trice."

"I know."

"The more I think about it, the more I believe Jeff wasn't going to hurt us. When we escaped, he was trying to find us, not kill us. It was his wife – Melanie – who wanted us dead. It still doesn't excuse what Jeff did to Troy, but he didn't deserve to be murdered." He falls silent, tears welling in his eyes. I realize how deeply this is affecting him, and I draw closer, wrapping my arms around him.

"I'm sorry, Babe. I know this whole nightmare is taking its toll."

He looks pensive, a shadow of sadness passing over him. "The world is so messed up. How did we get caught up in it?" I hang my head down in shame.

"It's my fault. If I hadn't answered Goldie's texts—"

"No, this is NOT your fault. If you hadn't answered back, we wouldn't have known who killed Troy or what he was caught up in that ultimately led to his death. Goldie would have been killed with or without you. But now, you can avenge her death. I just meant, you know, you never think it's going to happen to you, to your family. A year ago, we were completely oblivious to any of this. It just seems this rollercoaster will never end."

"It will, but it may mean we have to end it." I hang my head.

Brock lifts my head back up. "Look at me." I meet his eyes. "I will not let anything happen to you. I will go down if it means I can save you."

"No, Brock! This isn't a you or I deal. We are going to make it together." We come together and kiss like it's our last day on earth and then go upstairs hand-in-hand.

In the morning, I groggily open my eyes to the sun filtering in through the blinds. The days are getting longer, and usually, by this time, I'm planning out my gardens for the season, but I can't even focus on that right now. I glance over at Brock snoring softly and get up, shuffling to the bathroom, rubbing my eyes. Herc follows me, wagging his tail. I look in the mirror littered with water droplets and push down under my eyes. I look like the dead. I take out my undereye cream, dab some on, and then brush my hair, smoothing it with a little oil for some needed shine. After getting dressed and feeling more awake, I quietly leave the room with Herc by my side and head downstairs to make some coffee.

The sun streams through the windows, and I look out back, scanning from right to left, always aware these days. Relieved I don't see anything, I pour myself a cup and grab a bagel with cream cheese. Walking into the living room, I turn on the TV. Gray said he would be here around 8:00, so I have nearly 80 minutes more to wait. I flip through the channels and settle on a geographical program about ancient Egypt. About an hour later, Brock comes downstairs, yawning but dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

"Hey."

"Hey," I say, patting the couch and motioning him to sit down. "Gray should be coming soon. I want these drugs out of our shed now."

"Same. And before you say anything, I’m going to ask some of my legal team to dig up some dirt on Petra and Greg. The more we find, the better, you know?"

“Brock, no, you could get in real trouble.”

“I'll just tell them it’s for a case I’m helping out with. Don’t stress about it. If the cops can’t sort this mess, we will, just like you said.”

I did say that. It’s time to put an end to this crazy ride.

Almost twenty minutes later, Gray texts saying he’s here. Brock and I spot him, Officer Lopez, and the drug unit hanging out in our driveway, each person clad in white hazmat suits.

“Hey, Trice, Brock. We’re going to do this quick and low-key. That's why the drug unit truck is sneakily backed up in your driveway. Let’s grab these canisters out of your shed.” We all head to the backyard fence. Brock opens it, and we stroll into the yard. We slapped a lock on the shed, and it's still holding firm when Brock opens it. In one smooth move, they snatch the blue canisters, toss them in the back of the truck, and slowly drive away, leaving just us, Gray, and Officer Lopez.

It took all of 5 minutes or less.

“With these substances gone, you should be safer. We’ll set up a press conference saying you found them and we're doing some tests to determine what they are. Who knows? Maybe Troy slipped up, and we can pull some DNA from the cans,” Gray says, nonchalantly shrugging.

“It’s a bit of a long shot,” Brock comments, arms folded.

“Probably, but you never know,” Gray says. He snaps his fingers, making me jump. “Oh, and we've got some news about Greg and Petra, the other two in Troy’s mess. The gun used to kill Goldie, well, DNA came back saying it's registered to Greg. We’ve got enough to nab him, so I told the squad to quietly get a warrant for his arrest. And Petra's address? She's in Salt Lake City, moved there like nine months ago.”

“Right after Troy got dumped,” I say.

“Yeah. We can quietly bring them both in, Trice. Once we get solid proof, we can put them away for good,” Gray turns, checking out the surroundings.

“What about Holder?” I ask, noting that his name is still the big unknown.

“I’ll have a chat with him, but there’s no real evidence he killed Demitri.” I know Gray's got a point, but who else has had easy access to our place? I’m not convinced Holder's in the clear just 'cause he’s a cop.

“Well, we’re gonna take off. We'll keep an eye out for a bit, you know, patrol the area, but now that the stuff’s gone, you shouldn’t be a target anymore.”

“I won't totally buy that until every person tied to Troy, Goldie, and anyone else’s death is dealt with,” I say, determined.

“They will be. We’re putting most of our energy into these cases, Trice. Just hang tight a bit longer.”

We say bye to Gray and Officer Lopez and head back inside when my phone buzzes. It’s Leah.

“Trice, what the heck is going on at your place? And don’t give me any bull.”

“Got time to chat?”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

True to her word, Leah swings by, and I invite her in. “Okay, spill it,” she demands, hands on her hips.

What do I tell her? If I spill everything, I could drag her into this mess, but if I don’t, and she hears it from someone else, she’ll never let it go.

“You better sit down.”

 

Chapter Sixty: I’m Not So Sure Anymore

The next couple of days drags on as we wait for information about the gun. All is quiet at the house, but that’s to be expected since the police are back watching it. Brock and I are trying to get back some semblance of a normal life, but every noise startles me. This can’t continue or I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

It’s Saturday, the last day of March, and I’m at the grocery store. I’m also headed to the garden nursery to pick up some spring plants. It’s finally Spring, and I need some color in my life. After paying for the groceries, I head out to a sunny and warmish day. It feels about 60, but I’ll take it. After loading the groceries and loving that I got the shopping done in the morning so few people are around, I hear the familiar buzzing of my phone, and my heart leaps. I fumble in my pocket and pick it up.

It's Gray.

“Do you have some news?” I say, not mincing my words.

“Yes, and this is going to shock you. Also, the shooter did wear gloves when he shot Dimitri, but we were able to match the residue from the bullet to the gun and then put that in our gun registration database.”

I wait with bated breath. “And …”

“The gun belongs to your neighbor three houses to the west of you, Jack Montgomery.”

I mentally calculate it and then gasp. “Him?” I’m very shocked, but then I recall when Troy was found, and he had that smirk on his face and the way he looked at me …

“Trice, you there?” I snap back to the present, unaware Gray has been talking.

“Sorry, yes. I was just thinking back to the day Troy was found. Jack wasn’t upset. In fact, he looked satisfied. I just chalked it up to the fact that he didn’t like him and left it at that, but this doesn’t make a lot of sense, unless … “ And then, as if the world stopped, the pieces start falling into place. “He knew about the drugs.”

“Now, we don’t know that. He could have been walking by and saw the shooter on your property or was out on his deck and saw movement in your backyard. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet.”

“I highly doubt Jack walks anywhere. He’s a truck driver and has been gone three-fourths of the year. When he’s not gone, he’s probably sleeping. Put it this way. I have never seen Jack on a walk in the entire time I’ve lived here, and we both have been here for thirty years.”

“Yeah, well, we still don’t want to assume anything until we’ve had a chance to interview him after we take him in. The problem is he’s on a delivery for the next week and won’t be back until then.”

“So, we have to wait. I guess at least we know who shot Dimitri and that for the time being, we’re safe, right?” I chew on a nail and force myself to stop the nasty habit I’ve had for decades.

“Not necessarily. Your theory that he knew about the drugs could be right, but we have no solid evidence. Again, he could have seen something, and since this street is now infamous for crime, he took it upon himself to get rid of a problem. You do know he was in the military, right? He was in the National Guard.”

I didn’t know that, but I’m not entirely surprised.

“Yes, so he knows how to handle himself and shoot a gun. Now, if we go with your theory – and it’s just a theory,” he says, emphasizing the word, “Then Jack had to have known that someone was after them –“

“Melanie,” I say, cutting him off. “But how does she know Jack?”

“It could be that Jack found out about the affair, either from Troy himself or by accident and was blackmailing Troy when he learned about the drugs. Hell, maybe the two were in on it together and had some sort of deal. Maybe Jack was … “ he stops mid-sentence, and I sense he’s had an epiphany.

“Was what, Gray?”

“Well, and this sounds insane, but could Jack and Troy have been running a drug operation? It would be easy enough since Jack is a truck driver. They could have hidden the drugs in empty boxes in a large semi. Maybe at some point, it was starting to become too risky or something and so they had to find someplace to hide the drugs in case we came snooping. Or, maybe in one of the states he was delivering, he started getting suspicious about something, and they had to stop. The government has been cracking down hard on fentanyl.” I had to admit it was a strong possibility. But how did Melanie know about all of this unless Troy told her. When Grant killed him, suddenly, the drugs were fair game. I tell Gray about my theory.

“If Melanie knows and sent someone, Dimitri, to get the drugs and Jack somehow found out, he was ready to take care of the problem,” I say signaling air quotes.

"That makes sense. But I’m still hung up on how Jack knows Melanie sent someone when she did and he just happened to be there to catch him. That part isn’t adding up.”

He’s right. We have to find out what Jack knows, but that won’t be for another week. In the meantime, if Melanie finds out Dimitri isn’t coming back with the drugs, will she send someone else? The thought sends shivers through me.

Gray promises to call me as soon as they can arrest Jack, and I head to the nursery with too many questions filling my mind.

***

---

I return home after picking out some Spring plants to fill my pots. When we get more freezes, which can happen until Mother’s Day or beyond, it’s easy to move them indoors. But just having some color to adorn our porch and deck gives me hope for a Spring rebirth and an end to one of the hardest and most dangerous years of my life.

I grab the groceries from the car and head inside. Brock is in the kitchen making pancakes, and the smell of bacon wafts through the air. I realize I never ate before leaving, just grabbed coffee, and the food looks good.

“Hungry?” Brock says, flipping a pancake. He’s wearing his light blue apron one of the grandkids got him for his birthday one year. The words “World’s Greatest Barbeque King” splashed across the front, with a crown on top, matches his baby blue eyes. I grin.

“Yes! As soon as I bring in the rest of the groceries and plants, I have some news from Gray, and you’re never going to believe it.”

“Really?” Here, let me help you.” He tosses the remaining pancakes onto a plate with the bacon on another one and covers them with a plastic plate.

Once everything has been brought in and we’re sitting down to eat, Brock says, “Okay, spill it.”

I tell him everything, and he stares at me as if I’m telling him a mesmerizing story.

“You’re right, I can’t believe it. I mean, I knew or thought I knew that Jack hated Troy. But maybe that was all a façade. If Jack hadn’t shot Dimitri, he may have never been found out. For someone in the military, he should have known they would match his gun with the bullet found and trace it back to him.”

“Yes, but he could use the defense tactic too. He was walking by, saw or heard some commotion and went to investigate. He saw Dimitri in our backyard and there was a struggle and he shot him. Clear self-defense.”

Brock nods. “Yes, and I would have argued just that as a defense lawyer. However, if your theory rings true and he murdered Dimitri so he could get the drugs himself, then the self-defense plea won’t work. Gray has to question Melanie. She obviously knows about the drugs.”

“Well, maybe, but maybe not. Here’s another theory. What if Dimitri was hired by Jack to get the drugs and he wanted some of the cut, which makes sense, or he would go to the police. So, Jack agrees; however, when Dimitri finds the drugs, he changes his mind or he demands more. Jack goes to confront him and they fight. The gun goes off and Jack kills him. Not wanting to be caught, of course, Jack takes off and leaves Dimitri there.”

“Could be. The one thing I’m still hung up on, though, is how this all happened under the cop’s nose. Weren’t they watching the house? How could not one but two people jump our fence with no one seeing or hearing anything?”

“Yeah … it just seems odd, right?” I cock my head and look pensive, trying to piece everything together. “I mean, unless a cop is in on it, which seems silly.”

“I wouldn’t completely dismiss it, though. There are dirty cops.”

“Yeah, but in Grantsville?”

“Still, who was on patrol that night?”

“Well, Officer Lopez and Holder. She left with Herc and then came back because she forgot his food. By then, the murder already happened.”

“So, what if she was in on it with Holder?”

“Lopez? No, she wouldn’t do this. I trust her. But, Holder could have. He’s new to the force. Maybe he found out or knew Troy or Jack and he was able to get access since he was watching the house.”

Brock snaps his fingers; his eyes grow wide. “Oh my God, Trice. He was patrolling the house when we were gone to New York. Officer Lopez took a few shifts, but while she had Herc, he was here the whole time. Maybe he found out, and Jack told him he would get a cut if he kept quiet. Holder is young, might have debts, who knows? Melanie knew we would be gone and contacted Jack.”

"Wait, so you’re saying they all were in on it? I find that hard to believe, Brock. I still don’t get how Melanie knew, unless Troy told her and when he died, well, we hashed that out already. So, Melanie, Jack, Dimitri, and Holder knew about the drugs. Do you think Jeff knew as well?”

Brock looks to be pondering my question. “I don’t think he did. I don’t think he poisoned us. Melanie knew we were leaving to go back home, and she couldn’t have that since she still didn’t get the drugs, so she laces our coffee with arsenic, even though I don’t know how she acquired the same poison Grant used to kill Troy.

“But, when we escaped and came back home and found the drugs ourselves, Holder was there. Remember, he came when Gray came. He contacted Melanie and Jack. She hires Dimitri to get the drugs, but when the deal goes south, Jack kills him.”

An alarming thought enters my mind. “Holder knows Jack killed him and warned Jack to stay away. What if Holder gets the drugs himself? He’s patrolling the house tonight. How easy would it be for him to grab a buddy or give a kid a hundred bucks to help him get the canisters and toss them into the back of the truck? No one would be wiser because he’s a cop.”

Brock rubs his forehead and then buries his head into the table. I hate that we have to deal with several murders now, and we still have no idea who murdered Goldie.

He abruptly flips his head up. “This means Holder has known about this since day one. How convenient that he happened to be transferred to Grantsville shortly after Troy’s body was found.” As we are talking, I start to feel the hairs on the back of my neck flicker, and a cold feeling washes over me as I notice, out of the corner of my eye, a tiny camera hidden in my vase of artificial flowers. I try not to react.

I must get Brock out of the house.

“Hey, enough talking about this, or it will drive us both crazy. Come help me get these plants outside,” I say to a very confused Brock.

‘Wait, now?”

“Yeah, I need to clear my head and need some help.” I turn the vase around and pretend to be fiddling with the flowers. When the camera is no longer in sight, I grab Brock’s arm and point to the vase and mouth CAMERA. Brock places his palm over his mouth as he looks at the vase and then back at me.

“You’re right. We both need some sun and clear air.”

We get up and head to the car but don’t say anything until we’re out back. I pull him away from those cameras as well. Who knows if Holder has hacked into our home security system.

“I noticed a tiny camera in the vase,” I whisper. “Damn it, we’ve been recorded this whole time.”

“That son of a bitch. Trice, we have to call Gray, now,” he whispers back.

“Hold on. If he did hack into our system and he’s watching us, he will know we’re contacting him. Let’s get the plants in the pots, boring stuff, and then I will mention that I need a few more plants and leave. Instead, I will head for the police station while you go back inside and put away the breakfast stuff and the rest of the groceries.”

“Okay, that would work. But be careful and watch for anyone behind you.”

“I will. This ain’t my first rodeo, so to speak,” I say and chuckle a little. At these times, you either laugh or cry and I’ve done enough crying to last a lifetime.

We finish potting the plants, and I take a few pics and video as I always do for YouTube and Instagram. 30 minutes later, I back out of the driveway and head for the police station. Every minute or so, I glance out my rearview and side mirrors and see that no one is tailing me.

I pull into the police station. I had texted Gray before I left, out of earshot of the backyard cameras. He wasn’t at the station but said he would meet me in 15 minutes, which gave me enough time to record my YouTube segment.

I park and look around to see if I’ve been followed or if anything suspicious stands out. Finding nothing, I hurry into the police station.

What greets me makes my blood boil.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Is Melanie Ordering a Hit on Us?

The next morning, Brock and I barely speak. We quickly get breakfast, pack up, and head back to Grantsville for another nightmare that won't end. I don't even care how I look since I didn't sleep much. I'm sure my eyes are bloodshot with purplish bags under them. I hear Brock get up a few times, once he goes into the bathroom and the other time, he leaves our room and doesn't return for a while. I never ask him where he goes.

It's close to 9:00 when we get into the city. I don't want to go home and see crime tape strewn across my lawn, but I know that's the scene we will encounter. When we enter our street, I notice a crowd gathering – of course, I know where. Soon, the press will be here, if they aren't already, and questions will begin.

"Do you know about the body?" 

"It seems odd the police notice it after you leave."

 "Where have you been?" 

"Another murder on this street? 

"Are you involved?"

I want to crawl into a hole and not come out until this whole horrible string of events and murders is behind us. However, now, we have a dead body in our backyard, drugs that we found in our shed, no idea who killed Goldie, and who is now targeting us – again.

I take a deep breath as we slow up on the crowd, and they start to part, seeing our car. Is it too late to slink down into my seat so no one can see me? I look straight ahead, my heart racing, palms sweaty, and the feeling of dissociation comes on strong. I try taking some deep breaths. I have to face this, and panicking won't help.

Brock pulls into the driveway, and I see a few police cars on the curb. I had texted Gray that we would be home around 9:00, and he said he'd meet us there, and he's right. Brock stops the car in the driveway, and at first, I wonder why he doesn't pull into the garage, but then figure police would need easy access to the backyard.

"Hi guys," Gray says as we exit the vehicle. He looks somber.

"Hey Gray," I say. The morning sun is beating down, and if I'm not just coming home to a crime scene, I would relish the late March day.

"Let's go inside. Officer Lopez is in there with Hercules." I nod and follow him in, feeling eyes on us from all angles as the crowd comes back again.

"Please, give the Summers some privacy," Gray barks at them.

When I step inside, Herc is right there, tail wagging and running circles around me. I bend down and scratch behind his ears.

"Hey, buddy," I say, thankful he was with Officer Lopez and not at the house yesterday. He would have for sure heard the commotion and went out and maybe even tried attacking the intruders. Who knows what could have happened to him. I wrap my arms around his neck. "I'm glad you're safe."

"Do you want to see where it happened?" Gray says. "The body has been removed," he adds.

"I want to see," Brock says.

We follow Gray out back, and since it's still too early to mow and it hasn't rained, I can clearly see a bloodstain in the grass.

"As I said on the phone last night. Officer Lopez found the male – Dimitri – with a bullet to the chest. It pierced his heart because he bled out on the grass." I feel ill. "He's from New York, Queens. His license shows him with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a scar running down his left cheek. He's 31 years old. And you've never heard of the name?"

"No," I say, as he pulls out what looks to be the man's wallet. He pulls out a New York license. He hands it to me, and I stare at his photo having no idea who it is. I hand it to Brock, and he shakes his head.

"I've never seen him before."

"Yeah, figures. We have no idea what happened here, and since he's dead, we can't question him. The only one we can question, besides you and Brock, is Jeff. Being from New York himself and this Dimitri also from New York, it can't be a coincidence."

"Well, that very well could be. If she knows about the drugs, where they're stored, and Dimitri was staking the house, he would have known when you left, as well as Officer Lopez. He had the perfect opportunity to get the drugs. Of course, he wouldn't have known that we too were waiting for someone to show up. The question is who found him and subsequently shot him?"

A shiver runs through me. If Dimitri was after the drugs, who was after Dimitri? Better yet, did they know about the drugs too? Was this a neighbor who heard something and came over to investigate, saw him, and there was a struggle and he was shot? Did they flee because they had just shot and killed someone? Questions swirl in my head, and I try to focus on what Gray is saying.

"So, you question Jeff and if he doesn't know who this person is, then what?" Brock folds his arms and stares down at the bloodied grass. Officer Lopez kept Herc inside, or he would have been sniffing and digging around.

"Well, we can question Melanie. If she is the one who poisoned you, we have means, motive, and opportunity, but it will be tough getting proof." Gray is right. This seems like a crapshoot. The one person who could spill the beans is dead.

"You guys didn't notice anyone suspicious slowly driving by or stopped next door or across the street before you left?" I shake my head. "No one. Of course, I wasn't paying that much attention since I figured no one would come until last night when we were gone."

"Whoever shot Dimitri has to be connected with the drugs somehow," Brock says.

"What I don't understand is why come in the afternoon and not nighttime when it was dark?" I say.

"Lopez said she wasn't gone that long before she forgot to grab Hercule's food, maybe 30 minutes. It was long enough, apparently, but I still can't understand how he got into the backyard without anyone noticing," Gray pivots to the 6-foot-tall vinyl fence.

"Not only that, but how did Melanie know where we live?" I say and then realize she could have found us online.

"She probably Googled us," Brock answers for me.

"Yeah, I realize that now. You can find anyone online," I mutter. "Gray, you said you questioned the neighbors, what did they say?" I completely forgot to ask him about that.

"I talked to the neighbor to the east, but she wasn't home, and I couldn't reach the neighbors who now live where Troy and Samantha used to, and the home across the street, Mrs. Baxter, wasn't helpful either as she's an old widow who is legally blind." I knew Mrs. Baxter was mainly a recluse but had no idea she couldn't see. It shows how much I converse with my neighbors.

I shuffle uncomfortably, wanting to leave the backyard, suddenly feeling uneasy, as if someone was watching us. "Can we go back inside? It's getting windy, and I need to sit down." I start to head for the sliding glass doors before anyone can object. Back inside, it feels warmer, and I can concentrate on who this person who shot Dimitri is and who Dimitri is connected to. We all sit down in the living room sectional.

Gray looks lost in thought and then he pipes up. "Trice, didn't you say Melanie works in New York City?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know where?"

"Um, it was some big ad agency. Let me think." Did Jeff or Melanie mention where she worked? I can't remember and tell this to Gray.

"We can always check her social media; she might have it listed on Facebook or Instagram," Brock says, getting out his phone.

"True," Gray says. "Okay, see if you can find that out. Trice, can you look up ad agencies in New York? I know it's a long shot since there are probably more than we can fathom, but it's worth a shot."

I grab my laptop from the study and flip it open and start searching. Google comes back with a ton in the city. It could be anywhere, but I screenshot the top ten.

"There are a ton of ad agencies, so I screenshot the biggest ones since I remember Jeff telling us it was a huge one in the city," I say. "I'll do some research." I start clicking on each one and go through the company bios to see if Melanie shows up in any of them, and then when that doesn't produce results, I enter her name in Google and up comes several Melanie Pattersons. I narrow the search to her name and city, and I see her photo and her title at Top Quality Advertising, not a very unique name. I click on the link which takes me to the website and her photo and bio that mentions she's the Account Executive. The company's in Brooklyn.

"I found it. Here's the company she works for, address, and phone number," I say, taking the laptop over to Gray and showing him.

He takes the computer. "Brilliant, Trice." I feel my cheeks grow hot. I always felt odd with praise, probably why I don't read my YouTube comments. I also don't like hate or confrontation either.

"I found her social media," Brock says a few minutes later. "The last time she posted was late last year, looks like Christmas Eve. Nothing after that." I found that rather odd. Melanie is what I call an attention whore and I can't see her not posting for months. I look myself and see Brock is right, and even photos of her and Troy are gone. It's like she erased anything to do with him. After all, if Jeff's in prison, her lover dead, she could hire someone to find the drugs and get them and no one would know the wiser. She would have paid Dimitri to make it worth his while, but I'm sure his death wasn't part of the deal.

"All right, well, this is a good start. Once we get info on the gun used, we might be able to lift prints if the shooter was careless and didn't wear gloves. If he did, it's going to be harder finding out who killed Dimitri."

Back to square one. The mystery of Goldie's killer remains unsolved, and now we're faced with another murder to unravel. It feels like the Universe is working against us, and it's a reminder that fate is not to be trifled with.

"I'm going to head back to the station and expedite this investigation. The shooter is still at large, and there's a possibility they're waiting for the right moment. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay here for a while. Tonight, Holder will be stationed in his squad car, keeping watch over the house. If this person is aware of the drugs and took out Dimitri, they might attempt to seize them. Maybe not tonight, but when things settle down. I strongly advise you to keep your gun with you at all times."

"It's in the safe, but I'll grab it," Brock says, heading upstairs.

"I'll inform you as soon as we have any information about the gun," Gray assures. He rises and heads for the door. "You know the drill. Stay vigilant, and if you observe anything unusual or hear any strange sounds, contact me immediately."

I am all too familiar with the routine, and it has become wearisome. Shouldn't the forces of good prevail?

I'm not so sure anymore.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: And If it Doesn't ... Who Knows What Will Happen

I'm back writing again after being sick for two weeks. Hope you're enjoying the novel so far. Full disclosure: This is the first novel I have not outlined and fleshed out characters before starting. I decided to throw caution to the wind and let the characters tell the story. 

Is it perfect? Far from it. I'm still a little rusty from not writing for years, but I love creative writing and crime stories, so if you guys keep reading it, I will keep writing it!

This novel has about 60 more pages before I wrap it up, and then I will start on the second one - this time, Patrice will be in an exotic place when the crime(s) take place, and I will change from the present to the past, as it gives me more artistic license with the characters. (this one was a test) The new novel will be Begonias & Belladonna: A Patrice Summers Mystery. Begonias loves warm and humid climates, so join Patrice and me in none other than Greece for the next novel!

Thank you to those who have stuck it out and subscribed to my newsletter. I'm always open to feedback and suggestions.

Okay, back to the story ...

The following day, we head to Salt Lake City. The weather is a bit gloomy, with a chill in the air. Snow might be on the horizon – Northern Utah does that whole snow-in-May thing and warm Decembers. I was hoping for some sunshine, but it doesn't seem likely.

Brock pulls up to the Marriot Hotel entrance. It's starting to drizzle, but thankfully, there's an underground parking lot to dodge the rain. Finding a spot is a breeze since it's not exactly peak season. I snap a quick pic of the parking area – gotta outsmart the forgetful parking struggle that comes with age. Brock's more of a wander-around-looking-for-the-car type; I prefer a foolproof strategy.

Brock hauls out the luggage, wheels it to the door, and I trail behind. The automatic doors whoosh open, and a blast of warmth hits my face. Maroon flooring clashes with crème-colored walls as we stroll down the hallway under fancy tear-drop chandeliers. Our room's on the third floor, offering a sweet view of the mountains to the east.

At the guest desk, a friendly host greets us. She has a long, slicked-back, low ponytail of blonde hair and sports a black blouse and a dark green skirt that matches her eyes. Looks about 30-ish.

"Enjoy your stay," she says, handing over our key cards.

"Thanks, we will," I respond, while Brock just nods. I'm usually the one who interacts with hosts; Brock is all about getting to the room.

We ride the elevator to the third floor, find our room, and Brock swipes the card, opening the door. It's nothing fancy, but it's got two king-size beds with peach comforters and beach scenes framed above them. A large TV sits across from the beds.

I head to the bathroom, eyeing the inviting jetted tub for later. "Where do we want to go first?" Brock yells.

"Well, museums, lunch, Temple Square, and maybe some shopping at City Creek?" I suggest. Salt Lake, settled by pioneers in 1847, has a rich history centered around Temple Square and City Creek. The story is one of faith and tragedy.

"Oh hey, I also want to head up the canyon if there’s not too much snow," Brock adds.

"Sure thing. We've got all day. It's only 10:30," I check my watch. Ready to go Brock enters the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair.

"Okay, I'm ready," he says. I touch up my hair and lipstick, and we leave the hotel. The cooler air hits me, and we walk a bit before visiting the history museum.

I love soaking in history, studying each piece, while Brock opts for a quicker tour, glued to his phone towards the end. "Hungry?" I ask when we reconvene.

"Yeah. Let’s grab some food. Johnny Rockets is only a few blocks from here at City Creek. Should we go there?" Brock suggests.

"Sounds good to me." As we step outside, rain pours. I open my umbrella, and Brock pulls up his hood. We dash to Johnny's, a place we've frequented in the past few years. It's our go-to lunch spot in Salt Lake and Brock’s when working in the city – evidenced by the friendly workers saying hi to him.

When seated, I dive into a juicy Cheddar Bacon Burger and strawberry lemonade. Johnny's, with its 50s throwback vibe, is packed. Somewhat like Daniel’s in Grantsville, however, the décor of Johnny’s is colorful and in your face. Half the walls are a bright peach and halfway down is painted with dark brown stripes intermingled with a light peach. The flooring looks like confetti – no joke – and the booths are crimson red leather, with a white V shape in the middle. The tables are white.

A large bar at the back of the restaurant features a stainless-steel counter that wraps all around, with a silver backsplash that travels up to the ceiling. Silver lights that look like small rockets shine down on diners. Old-time red stools stand under the counter to complete the look.

You can’t step into a Johnny Rockets and not feel like a kid again. The place was loud, with college kids being the loudest. The University of Utah isn’t too far from here, and this is a popular place to hang out. Brock had told me.

Post-lunch, we explore Temple Square, declining an invitation to learn more about the LDS faith from a few nice missionaries who introduced themselves as Sister Carrington from London and Sister Langston from Montana. It wasn’t that we weren’t religious, but Brock said he had his own relationship with God and didn’t need organized religion, especially since so much wrong has been done in the name of religion. Since I’m a Christian but don’t belong to any sect, I took on his religious perspective as well. Still, it’s nice to see the architecture and culture of the LDS faith and what they went through to become a worldwide religion.

Back at the hotel around 5:00, I'm exhausted. We decide to rest before dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, for which I've made a 7:00 reservation. The rain has stopped, and the sun had come out when we walked into the hotel.

As I relax, my phone buzzes. It's Gray. My heart picks up a bit. "Hey Gray, what’s up?" I answer, pretending it's just a casual chat.

"Hi, Trice, how’s Salt Lake?" he greets. Maybe he is just calling to chat. "It’s nice, a little rainy today. Walked around a bunch and heading to dinner in a while."

"Good," came the initial response, followed by a pause and a hefty sigh, which wasn't exactly a positive indicator.

"Gray, something's up, right?" I query, my tone casual yet tinged with concern.

"Yeah, well, there's been a bit of a situation. A dead body was found about an hour ago," Gray revealed.

"What?" My disbelief was palpable.

"On your property," he adds. My eyes widen, and I shoot up, color draining from my face.

"What?" I repeat, urgency creeping into my voice. "How, when, where?" I need answers, pronto. Brock, engrossed in TV, hits pause and turns to me.

"Trice, spill. What's happening?" he asks. I shush him.

"This morning, an hour after you left. In the backyard. Lopez was waiting for Hercules to finish his business when she heard him suddenly barking like crazy. She went out to see why, and that’s when she saw the body. Hercules kept sniffing, and she had to grapple with him, getting him away. The body was found next to your shed. Trice, he was shot,” Gray explains.

“Shot?” I echo back.

"Shot?" Brock's eyes widen. "Who got shot?" He almost grabs the phone from me.

"Hold on, Gray. Let me catch Brock up." I relay Gray's update to Brock, who has the same questions as I did. "I don't know, but he was shot."

"Can I see the phone?" Brock gestures for it.

I yank it back, "No, just hang on."

"Okay, Gray, putting you on speaker so Brock's in the loop." I activate the speaker icon and put the phone between us. "Go ahead."

"Well, as I was saying, Lopez found a dead body in your backyard. Male, recently deceased. Identified as Demitri Ballinger. Any bells ringing?" Gray inquires. Brock and I exchange puzzled looks. I shrug; he shakes his head.

"No clue," I admit, wracking my brain to place the name.

"He's not local; he's from New York," Gray continues. My heart races.

"Connected to Jeff? He's the only one in the mix living there," I speculate.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Gray confirms.

"But Jeff's in prison," Brock points out.

"True, but he can still communicate. Maybe he knew about the shed and drugs and sent Demitri to get them," I suggest, acknowledging the wildness of the idea.

"Possible, but how does Jeff know unless..." Brock starts.

"His wife knew," I interject, like I knew all along but didn’t want to believe it.

"Could be, but why rat out Troy?" Brock questions.

"If she knew, maybe she got Demitri to grab the drugs. Jeff's in prison, money's tight, no job, lawyer fees, living in New York on one income—it adds up," Gray theorizes.

"That's what I was thinking. That woman never liked us. Maybe she even spiked our coffee with arsenic, not Jeff. He confessed to protect her," I say, my excitement rising thinking back to that nightmarish day, the poisoning, being tied up, the little girl untying us, escaping, twisting my ankle. 

I shiver.

"You might be onto something. Revenge, framing Jeff, she gets the drugs, sells them, and makes money. Seen stranger things," Gray adds.

"So, she sends a goon to our house, knowing that's where the drugs are. But what's weird is that Demitri gets shot shortly before we leave. Who knew he was there? Did a neighbor hear, investigate, and shoot him in our backyard?" Brock ponders aloud.

"That's the big question. I need to quiz the neighbors. Unfortunately, guys, your trip's cut short. We need you back to answer questions. Protocol," Gray informs us, a necessary but unwelcome reality.

"Can we at least return in the morning? We're beat," I plead, stifling a yawn. I know Gray is correct, but I’m not ready to come back home and deal with yet another murder, another dead body, and one that is on our property – just yet.

"Yeah, tomorrow works. But hustle back. We'll question the neighbors tonight. Text when you're in town," Gray instructs.

"Thanks, Gray. Can't believe this isn't over yet." I push end and sit there. A sickening thought crosses my mind.

Would Melanie put a hit on us?

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Time to Discover the Truth

 

Brock first checks the foyer window, with me following, checking myself. A squad car is still there, and I wonder how long he’ll be there until Officer Lopez replaces him.

“Okay, the house is still being watched, so we can go out back and check the shed,” Brock says, going back into the living room and to the sliding glass door. Herc is behind us, wagging his tail furiously.

I follow Brock outside; the sun is bright, and it feels slightly cool but not bad. Thankfully, no snow has fallen for a few weeks, so no worries about ice. Herc starts growling at the stupid cat in our tree. I swear he lives there. “Shhhh, Herc,” I slightly scold him. I bend down and rub his neck. “It’s just a cat.”

Brock opens the door and we both go in. He flips on the light, the one I asked him to replace because it’s dimming. Hopefully, it holds out while we’re here. I wonder if we should tread lightly, but then why? This is our property, our shed. Still, I can’t help but feel a little anxious about what we’ll find.

Brock heads to the back, where the large blue canisters stand. The shed is fairly large; Brock built it about 20 years ago, close to when we moved in. The old one was smaller, with the gray paint chipping off. It looked weather-worn, and I wanted a larger area for all my garden stuff. So, he built me a new light crème color shed with two matching window boxes I fill with colorful plants each year. Inside, toward the front, a row of shelves houses my fertilizer, pesticides, and herbicides; underneath, there is a large enough area for soil and mulch. On the back wall, the lawnmower and edger sat. He installed a row of hooks on the east wall to place the shovels, rakes, etc. The two blue canisters fit under the shelves along the west wall.

I’m unsure if I should help him open them or let me have a go at it. I scan the yard as he’s pulling them out from underneath so he can grasp the lid of the first one. Herc is still eyeing the cat, sniffing the air. “Okay, you ready?” Brock claps his hands.

“No, and yes.”

He grabs the lid and starts turning it. Curiosity and all that leads me to watch. My heart is beating fast, and I feel my stomach turning somersaults. Once it’s turned all the way, he opens the canister, and we both stare at gallon-sized white bags of white powder, dozens of the stuff packed in the container. “Oh my God,” I clamp my hand over my mouth.

“Trice, this has got to be worth a ton of money.” He pulls the other one out and opens it. More drugs in bags are in this one, too. “We can’t touch this and need to contact Gray now.” He’s right. This is evidence.

He screws both lids back on and pushes them under the shelf. We leave the shed, and this time, Brock locks it, telling me the key is on his keyring.

“One thing that still bothers me,” I say. “We were gone for nearly a week. Why didn’t they try and find whatever he stashed then?”

“Well, the police were parked on our street every day and night, remember? They would have been caught.”

“Ah, true.”

When we go back inside, I call Gray and tell him what we discovered.

“You’re kidding,” was all he said. He then promised to be over with his officers and the drug unit ASAP. “Stay inside until we arrive.” He ends the call, and Brock and I sit on the couch, both shocked at the discovery that has been in our shed for probably close to a year.

“Now, it makes sense,” Brock says.

“Yeah. The amount of drugs in those canisters amount to probably a million dollars or more, and it’s all in our backyard shed.” The realization sinks in, and I get why our home and our lives have been targeted.

A few minutes later, I hear a knock at the door and Gray announcing his arrival. Brock and I rush to the door and let him in.

‘Okay, show me.” Following him are drug-sniffing dogs, two more officers, and another officer in charge of the drug unit. Soon, the street will know something is up. At least four police cruisers and the Canine Unit van are parked on our street. Thankfully, kids are in school at this hour.

We all file out back and to the shed. The police officers are stationed on both sides of the yard, watching the area and standing guard. Brock opens the canisters and Gray has the drug-sniffing dog go to work. His tail is wagging hard and Gray says, “It’s definitely drugs.” With his latex-gloved hand, he pulls out a bag, opens it up, and sniffs the contents. “Smells like Coke.” He takes another bag from the second canister and does the same thing. “This smells different. Could be Fentanyl.” I’m dumbfounded. The two most lethal drugs have been sitting in my shed, and my neighbor, whom I mourned and grieved his passing, was dealing drugs and used our property to stash them.

The bastard.

“So, this is why you two have been targeted for so long. I’m so sorry,” Gray says, shaking his head. “I’m going to take the heat off you. We will have a press conference and announce what we found and that it will be removed and sent to a secure location, so this thug or thugs will have no reason to keep targeting you. I’ll notify the news stations. This will not stand on my watch.”

Oh great, now our home will be broadcast to the whole world, but I can’t argue with him; this is the right thing to do. It’s just when it’s removed, what happens then? Will we ever find out who killed Goldie? Will we be back to square one?

“If it’s moved, how will you catch the people or person? Wouldn’t it be better to trap them? We know they will try and find the drugs. Maybe we should let them keep trying and then catch them in the act,” Brock says, which does make sense. “If you take it, we may never find out who killed Goldie and is after us.”

Gray contemplates Brock’s question as he inhales deeply and puckers his lips. “You have a point. Okay, but you must leave again for a few days or so. If they get wind that you’re leaving the house, they may decide to try and find the drugs. We will stay hidden and have the officers in an unmarked vehicle. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay there at night with your dog, but stay out of sight. You have cameras on the perimeter, right?”

“Yeah, two in the front, on each side of the house, and three on the back, one in front of the sliding glass doors and two by the side fences,” Brock says, pointing to the area.

“Okay, they will monitor the cameras. If there’s any movement, they will see it. Hopefully, this perp will be caught. When we leave, tell your neighbors you thought you heard someone in your garage, but it was a stray cat.”

“What about the Canine unit?” I ask, knowing there will have to be a good reason why the dog is here.

Officer Lopez speaks up and says, “Tell them you found a cat who knocked over a bag of white powder in your garage you hadn’t seen before and wanted to know if it was a drug. When the results came back, it was just diatomaceous earth that Brock had bought years ago and put into a box. The cat found its way inside, knocked the box over, and spilled the contents. Enough said.”

That would work.

“Okay, we’ll go with that plan,” Gray says, seemingly impressed with her clever excuse. “Can you take off again for a few days, say to a Hotel in Salt Lake?”

Brock and I look at each other and nod. “Yeah, we can do that,” Brock says. “At this point, I’m willing to do what it takes to put the thugs behind bars.”

“Same,” I pipe in. “I just want this nightmare to end.”

“Okay, get your reservations for tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. The weekend is a perfect time for them to try again. You’re off for a romantic weekend for an anniversary or something,” Gray says.

“My birthday is coming up in April,” I announce.

“Well, there you go. Brock is taking you away for a birthday weekend celebration in Salt Lake City.”

I just remembered that tonight is Garden Club. We are discussing Spring planning. I can’t miss it, as we’ve only held it four or maybe five times in the last year. Two times, I couldn’t meet, and one time, we canceled because only one person was coming. The rest of the time, we dealt with Leah and Trevor’s home being broken into, us being threatened, and others ill or away on vacation. Plus, it’s been winter, and no one really cares about gardening until Spring, which meteorologically begins next week. March is planning month for gardeners, and April and May are typically for buying and planting. I plant all season, though.

This is the first time that everyone is supposed to come. I won’t tell anyone of our plan, well, maybe Leah. I’ve hidden so much from her, and we rarely talk now. She’s busy with her new adventure as a vintage boutique shop owner - they opened late last year. She’s there quite often, and when I do talk to her, she seems happy to be busy. I also haven’t released a YouTube garden video in almost a month, and have decreased my marketing consultant business while dealing with this mess.

We all file out of the backyard; by now, the street is humming with people gawking and whispering. Our street has had its fair share of shocking events this past year. I wouldn’t be surprised if people started moving out and our property value decreased.

“Nothing to see here, folks. Mrs. Summers wanted a box of powder tested a cat had knocked over in the garage. It wasn’t drugs, just some old pesticides,” Gray tells the growing crowd.

“I guess that’s what happens when you live with a gardener,” Brock jokes as he grins and shrugs. That gets some laughs, and people start leaving.

“Let me know when you two are going to leave tomorrow, and I will get Officer Lopez and Holder here,” Gray says before leaving. We nod, with me feeling guilty they have to leave their families to stay in our home, but Officer Lopez said her boyfriend would take the kids to his parents for the weekend, and Officer Holder is young and unmarried.

I still hate that we are once again in danger. But at least now, we know why.

After everyone left and Officer Lopez and Holder pledged to be here when we leave tomorrow, Brock and I flopped on the couch, each absorbed in our thoughts. I have to call a Salt Lake hotel and get reservations. We’re supposed to only be gone for a few days, but what if the person targeting us doesn’t show up while we’re gone? Do we stay longer? What if they come back tonight before we leave? Our street was once again center of attention today and will be when the gardening group meets again tonight.

“I’ll call Marriott in Salt Lake and see if we can get reservations for tomorrow night and Sunday,” I tell Brock.

“Yeah, okay.” As I watch him, I notice he looks more tired than usual. Dark circles look prominent under his eyes, and fine lines are more pronounced. His gray hair is nearly all gray now, and it seems both of us have aged a decade in the last year. I don’t think I’ve had a good night's sleep all year.

After getting our reservations and packing – yet again – I get ready for the gardening group. Since we’re nearing Spring, this is the time to start planning our gardens, but I haven’t had any desire to plan, let alone think of the plants I want to grow this year. My mind keeps wandering to the shed and what is contained in two blue canisters – the amount of drugs is mind-blowing, and no doubt, whoever is after them will go to great lengths to ensure they get them.

I look in the hall mirror before opening the door to the first gardening group member. I rub my lips together after putting on some rose lipstick and smoothing my hair, which is nearly to my shoulders now. I lightly pinch my cheeks to bring some color to my cheeks, a trick my mother taught me when I was younger. Squeezing your cheeks lightly brings the blood to the surface so you display a pinkish tint.

I think back to the gardening group. If they knew our home had been cased out, broken into, and there were possibly hundreds of pounds of drugs worth a ton of money sitting in our shed, they’d never believe it. Hell, sometimes, I can’t believe what I saw in my own backyard.

Officer Lopez was in an unmarked car next door, watching the house. She didn’t like that we were having people over, but I told her this meeting had already been canceled several times. We have to act normal – at least for tonight.

“Welcome,” I say, taking the cheese and crackers tray from Roger, a new group member as of a few months ago. He’s wearing light jeans and a black hoodie. His sandy brown hair waves to the side, reminding me of a California surfer, which is apt since he’s from the state. His blue eyes stand out and are a deep hue piercing you when you stare back. He looks about as tall as Brock, around 6’2, and a slight pinkish scar runs down his neck. I wonder about the story surrounding the wound.

“Hi Patrice, your home is gorgeous,” he says, his eyes following up and down and around as I lead him to the living room. I place the platter down and motion for him to sit on the sectional and wait for the remaining members. He’s single, says he went through a divorce last year, and is trying to put the pieces of his “dreadful” life back together again. He’s a mechanic and works 10 hours daily to pay for child support for his 8-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter. I feel bad for his situation, especially when he told me his wife had an affair and petitioned for a divorce six months later. What is it with couples having affairs and then divorcing their spouses shortly after?

The doorbell rings, and I quickly walk to the door—Herc’s in Brock’s office with him while I host the group. I told Officer Lopez I was planning on seven people tonight and that each person would bring a platter of food, so if anyone showed up without one, she would know to be suspicious.

After everyone shows up and the food has been passed around, Leah starts the conversation surrounding today’s police call. “Trice, what was really going on here earlier?” She asks me after taking cheese and crackers. She’s holding a butter knife and waving it around. “I mean, we all know, or should know, you don’t just call the police to check if something is poison or not.” of course, I dread where this is going, and I feel trapped. What can I say? You’re right, Leah. The police were called because a ton of drugs were found in my shed, and our home has been a target for nearly a year, if not longer now. Instead, I tried to make it into nothing.

“I didn’t call them; Brock did. A stray cat pulled over a box of some white substance in our garage. We don’t know how the cat got into the garage in the first place, and we were concerned that Herc would mess with it and possibly end up ingesting it or getting into his skin. We had to ensure it was safe, and since I didn’t remember purchasing it, it was better safe than sorry.” And that was that. A few members seemed to buy it, but others still looked at me as if I was telling them a lie, especially Leah and Veronica, my true crime partners.

It was nearly 9:30 when the meeting ended. I put away the remainder of the plates and cups and was now reading in my bed. For the most part, the meeting went well. We actually talked about gardening, and by the end, I was getting excited about the plants I would grow this year. For a few hours, chatting about nothing but gardening felt normal. We each had developed our gardening plan, and I was given them so I could “grade” the space, plants, water, fertilizer, soil, etc., to ensure they chose the best garden for their space.

Our reservations were for the morning. I told Brock we could spend the day in the city and check in that evening. We would stay until Monday morning – three nights. If whoever was coming to get the drugs did so in that period, Officer Lopez and Holder would be ready.

I just pray everything goes as planned.

And if it doesn’t … who knows what will happen?