Susan Sleeman
In whose hand is the soul of every living thing and the breath of all mankind.
—Job 12:10
A special thank-you to Susan Snodgrass for naming Walt’s horse Thunderbolt, and Lora Doncea for naming Winnie’s horse Sunrise.
Contents
Some calls went wrong. Terribly wrong. Deputy Kendall McKade’s gut screamed this was one of those calls.
Take care, a warning voice whispered in her head.
Kendall didn’t like what she was seeing. Caution was the game here. Plenty of caution.
She wouldn’t race up to the front door. Burst inside to check on the seventy-four-year-old aunt her nephew was having a hard time reaching.
She climbed out of her patrol car. The steamy heat of the night hit her hard as she took a long look at the single-story home hunkered down under tall cypress trees. Overcast skies cast ominous shadows on the rural property. She’d hoped for a light burning inside the house, but it was as black as the murky night clinging to the foundation.
That alone sent Kendall’s alarm bells ringing.
She reached inside her car and flicked on the headlights, flooding the area with bright light.
An older model Cadillac sat in the drive, the windows coated in thick Texas dust as if it hadn’t been driven for days. Had to be Eve Smalley’s car. Her nephew hadn’t been able to get a hold of her, and there wasn’t a family member, caretaker, housekeeper or anyone else who would be on the property. No one but Eve and her nephew had a key to the house.
A deputy made a routine morning check, but Mrs. Smalley didn’t answer the door. When they notified the nephew, he said she never went out at night and asked them to check back.
So if he was right, and she was home, why were all the lights out?
Kendall thought about her own grandmother in this situation. Her precious, sweet, dear grandmother. Maybe injured. Maybe inside, waiting for help. Or worse—maybe attacked by an intruder.
A cold knot formed in Kendall’s stomach.
“Relax,” she whispered to herself before she overreacted to the eerie night. “Her nephew was probably wrong, and she went somewhere with a friend. Or she’s already in bed.”
Kendall’s pep talk did nothing to stem her anxiety. Six o’clock was way too early for bed, even for an older woman.
Kendall slipped into her squad car and angled her computer to access the department’s record-management system. She plugged in the license plate number and waited. The screen filled with information, and Kendall quickly scanned the data.
Just as she’d thought. The car belonged to Mrs. Smalley. She should be home, so there could be trouble inside. Kendall reached for her radio to communicate with dispatch.
“221.” She gave her uniform number. “I need the information for the deputy dispatched this morning to the Smalley residence.”
“Copy,” the dispatcher said, and silence followed for a moment. “221, deputy 228 responded to the call.”
“Copy.” Kendall reached for her cell phone in the pocket of her vest. She didn’t have to look up the deputy’s number to get a name. She knew it well. It belonged to her cousin, Deputy Dylan McKade, who was off duty now. She dialed his personal cell and