by Lisa Harris
But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness,
and all these things will be given to you as well.
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow,
for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Matthew 6: 33 & 34 NIV
Chapter One
Camryn Hunt’s feet ached as she stepped onto the darkened Everett street in front of D & J’s Diner and trudged toward the bus stop. She glanced at her watch. Five after ten, already? It had been a long day. Twelve-hour shifts were all well and good if you sat behind a desk. But hauling around trays full of heavy plated-meals for twelve hours was simply exhausting.
At least she had a job. After the chaos the Coronavirus inflicted on the economy, she was thankful to have work at all. Hopefully, she’d be able to get another car soon—she’d lost hers when she was laid off from her teaching assistant position when all the schools had closed down for the year. But for now, she chose to be thankful for public transportation—and that though it was completely dark, the streets in this part of town were well lit.
Washington’s public transportation was at least saving her from another monthly payment. Her gut crimped at the thought of her bills. When she’d been in school, taking out loans had seemed like the smart thing to do. It had allowed her to study more and get better grades. But now that her payments had started coming due, she wasn’t sure how she was going to keep ahead of everything. Even though she lived in a tiny studio apartment, her desire to live in a safe neighborhood of the city made her rent almost astronomical. Plus, she had to pay for water and garbage.
Before her mother passed, she’d needed a private-care home. Mom had no insurance other than Medicare, which didn’t cover all the costs. For months Camryn had been able to keep up with the other portion of the payment, despite being in school, but then she’d lost her job. Thankfully, the care provider had been understanding of her situation. He offered to continue the care, with the understanding that she would begin making payments on what was owed as soon as she could or within twelve months of care-termination, whichever came first. Mom had passed away, but not before racking up fifteen thousand dollars of care costs. The end of the twelve-month grace period was in two weeks. And she truly did want to pay the man. He’d been more than generous. He’d cared for Mom for six months with only partial pay before she passed.
Camryn sighed and glanced toward the sky. She might pray if she thought it would change anything. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in God. She just wasn’t sure that she was important enough for Him to bother with. But maybe that was simply the result of living through a back-to-back string of extremely lousy months.
Losing Mom had been the biggest blow of all. She was alone in the world now. But God didn’t seem to care much about that either. For a while she’d prayed that the right man would come into her life. But after a series of Mr. Wrongs, she’d given up on that prayer too.
An icy wind danced down the street and slipped fingers around her neck. She tucked her coat closer about her throat with one hand and adjusted the cross-body strap of her purse with the other as she rounded the corner onto Hewitt. She eyed the bench at the bus stop ahead with gratefulness. It would be the first time she had sat down since the fifteen-minute break she’d squeezed in for lunch. The bus wasn’t due to arrive for another ten minutes. She only hoped she’d still be awake when it pulled up. But the chill in the air ought to help with that. She never could sleep when she was cold.
On the opposite side of the street, a shadowy figure in a gray hoodie darted from the entrance of the Everpark Garage.
Camryn pressed a hand to her chest and squinted into the depths of the garage, trying to see what he might be running from, but the concealing shadows cast by the streetlights were too heavy. She couldn’t make out anything except a brief glow of an orange dot.
She returned her focus to the hooded man.
Not bothering to get to the crosswalk, he gave a cursory check in both directions, then dashed toward her side of the street.
Camryn hesitated, caution rising further. Should she be afraid of him? One could never be too careful, yet the man wasn’t even looking in her direction.
Tires squealed, jerking her focus a little farther up the block. She leaned forward to peer between the edge of the bus stop shelter and the leafless branches of a potted tree which stood between her and the street.
A car careened around the corner, coming from the far side of the parking garage. Headlights blinded her for a moment. With a gasp, she realized the running man was silhouetted in the glare.
“Dear God!”
He was going to get hit!
“Watch out!”
Her hand dropped automatically to her phone in the apron pocket of her uniform. She heard the fleeing man yelp, then the ghastly sound of impact. He tumbled across the hood. Rocketed up the windshield. Crested the roof. For a horrifying instant, he was airborne, and then he crashed to the pavement with a grunt.
The coupe hesitated, headlights pointing directly at her.
One hand clutching her phone, Camryn held up her other to squint past the glare toward the man in the road.
The screech of rubber fighting for grip on pavement pierced the night once more. The car fishtailed before it leapt toward her.
For one heart-jolting moment, Camryn thought the car would jump the curb. She lurched further behind the flimsy protection of the plexiglass-encased bus stop. But the vehicle kept to the street. It peeled out and zipped past her in a blur.
Camryn felt her stomach curl.
A bald man in the passenger seat had been holding up a phone, obviously taking a video of her. Why would he be doing that when the driver had just run somebody over? Was this some sort of terrible social-media challenge? Kill someone while live-streaming?
One red taillight glowered through the night as the car screeched around the corner at the next block and disappeared from sight, leaving a great billow of smoke obscuring the entire area.
Camryn shook her head and swiped at the clouds of burnt rubber. She left the shelter and dashed forward on trembling legs. Her fingers shook as she fumbled to dial 911 and run towards the moaning man in the street at the same time.
“Sir, are you alright?” She gritted her teeth. It was a stupid question. She poked the speakerphone button and set her phone on the pavement as she fell to her knees by his side. Her hands fluttered over him. Even in the light of the streetlamps, she could see that his clothes and every exposed patch of dark skin were slick with blood. “Dear Jesus.” One of his legs canted at an odd angle behind him. The man rolled his head from side to side, groaning in anguish.
“I’m so sorry. Where does it hurt?” Another stupid question. By the sight of him, he probably hurt everywhere.
“Nine-one-one what is your emergency?”
“A-a man was j-just run over by a car.” She needed to get a grip. But she only seemed able to breathe in choppy bursts.
“Where are you, ma’am?”
Of course, she should have said that first. But her mind was blank. Camryn squinted at the street sign. It was too far away to read. Think. “Uh…I’m near the Everpark Garage. Out front.”
A keyboard clicked in the background. “I see an Everpark on Hewitt, ma’am. Is that the one?”
“Yes!” It was as if that bit of information had blown away all the clouds obscuring her street-name recall. “Hewitt Avenue. Between Colby and Hoyt.”
“And you said a man was run over by a car? Is he alive?”
“Yes. He’s moving. But there’s lots of blood. I don’t want to hurt him worse.”
“Okay, ma’am, I need you to stay calm and stay with me on the phone. Help is on the way. What’s your name?”
“Camryn. Camryn Hunt.”
“Are you in danger, Camryn?”
A chill zipped down her spine. She lifted her head to scan the street and was surprised to see several bystanders gatherin
g along the sidewalks. What if the driver came back? But the street remained empty, and with witnesses now looking on, it wasn’t likely anyone would do anything to her. “I-I don’t think so. The car drove off.”
The injured man clutched for her, tugging at her jacket with one hand, and she suddenly realized he was murmuring something. But the 911 operator was also asking another question. Camryn ignored the phone and scooted closer to the man’s head. She leaned over him so she could look him right in the eyes. “What is it? Tell me what you need.”
His mouth opened and shut a couple times, and she could hear a sickening bubbly sound at the back of his throat. Without thinking, she gently pried his hand from her jacket. His fingers tangled in the material for a moment, but then she was able to take them in her own. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you until the paramedics get here. Help is on the way.”
He gave a little shake of his head and blinked hard a couple times like he was trying to focus on her but was having trouble. “Pocket.” He gritted. “Get it.”
Camryn searched the length of him. His shirt had a pocket. She patted it, but it was empty. Then she noticed the man’s free hand, which was mangled and torn, jabbing at the front right pocket of his unzipped hoodie.
His eyes widened with intensity. “Get it.”
Camryn felt a hard rectangle through the fabric of the pocket. “This?” She pulled out a mangled iPhone. The poor man probably wanted to call his family. “I’m afraid it’s broken, but you can use mine. What number do you want to call?” She reached for her phone even as she realized the 911 operator was speaking.
“Camryn, please don’t hang up the phone!”
Camryn pressed her phone to her ear, forgetting for a moment that it was on speaker. “I think he wants to make a call, but his phone is smashed.”
The man shook his head, and the hand she was still holding squeezed hers with surprising strength. His gaze drilled into hers intently. “No call. Pack. Police.”
“Yes. I’ve already called 911. Help is on the way.”
The man shook his head again. “Give. Phone. Pack. Po-lice.” The words emerged in little moans.
Understanding dawned. She eyed the mangled bit of broken glass and bent metal. “You want me to give your phone to the police?”
He loosed a garbled breath. “Pack.”
“Pack police.” She had no idea what that meant.
The poor man seemed to relax a little. “Yes.”
“I’ll do it right away when they get here.”
“Thank—” a breath slipped free and his head slumped to one side.
A hard knot formed in Camryn’s chest. “Sir?” She gently shook his shoulder.
“Camryn, what’s happening?” the dispatcher asked.
“I think he just died.” Camryn sucked for oxygen. “I didn’t even ask his name.”
“Listen to me, Camryn. Do you know how to do CPR?”
“Y-yes.” She’d had CPR training for her college lifeguard job. “But I’ve never had to do it.”
“That’s okay. I’m going to walk you through it. All you have to do is press on his chest fast and hard, okay? Remember mid-sternum. Not lower. Put the phone on speaker and set it down.”
“It’s already on speaker.” She set her phone back on the pavement and shoved the man’s phone into the pocket of her apron.
“Good. Now place your hands directly over his sternum. The smooth bone in the middle of his chest.”
Camryn was already leaning over the man. In the distance, she heard the first notes of sirens. She automatically placed her hands, one atop the other, over his chest and stiffened her arms as she started pumping. “I can hear the sirens.”
“Yes. That’s good. I need you to pump his chest, Camryn. Nice and firm, but not too hard. Are you pumping?”
“I’m pumping.”
Behind her, tires squealed and the bright glare of headlights slashed through the night.
Chapter Two
Island County Sheriff, Holden Parker, pulled his cruiser over to the curb in front of old Mrs. Hutchinson’s San Juan Island house and cut the lights. She had a halogen porch light reminiscent of a prison yard. Through the branches of her now-dormant rose bushes, he could already see her waving her cane as she bellowed at Mr. Snowden, her next-door neighbor. The old coot was simply standing there, arms folded, but he wore that self-satisfied smile Holden had seen on him a thousand times.
Holden chuckled. He keyed his mic and let the Friday Harbor Office know that he’d arrived on the scene.
Dealing with the almost-without-fail, twice-weekly dispute between these two neighbors had become something of a joke down at headquarters. Island policing might not offer all the adrenaline and challenges that his Seattle homicide job had, but he would take this peacekeeping, kitten-rescuing position any day over trying to determine which suspect had offed a little girl or mother or husband.
Still, these two usually had their row much earlier in the day than this.
He climbed from behind the wheel, tamping his Stetson into place. The song of waves caressing the shore on the other side of these houses greeted him. “Mrs. Hutchinson, Mr. Snowden. What seems to be the problem tonight?” He reached automatically for his flashlight, then realized the porch light made it unnecessary.
For being almost eighty, Mrs. Hutchinson was as spry as a kid goat. She spun toward him, still swinging her cane, and about took his head off.
Holden leapt back. “Whoa there, ma’am.”
She thumped the tip of her cane on the walk and advanced on him, stabbing an accusatory finger in Mr. Snowden’s direction. “His filthy dog”—she spat the word like an epithet—“tinkled on my lawn again. And poor Miss Bluebell is now terrified to come into the yard because she can smell dog pheromones in the air!”
Holden adjusted the brim of his hat and reminded himself not to crack a smile. Mr. Snowden’s eyes were twinkling up a storm, and he knew without a doubt that the old guy let his dog go onto her property a couple times a week simply for the entertainment of it—and for the offer of refreshments that always came afterward. And likely Mrs. Hutchinson’s part in the whole affair was just as contrived.
As for Miss Bluebell, the huge gray cat was so old and fat that Holden had a feeling her refusal to exit the house was more about feline superiority and laziness than any pheromones that might be lingering in the air. He could see her even now, lounging in the golden light that bathed the pink pillow Mrs. Hutchinson kept for the cat in the bay window of her living room.
Holden hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and dutifully repeated the conversation he’d had with these two multiple times a week ever since accepting the job of sheriff on San Juan Island. “You don’t have a fence, Mrs. Hutchinson. If you so adamantly want to keep Mr. Snowden’s dog off your lawn, you really need to have one built.”
The feisty woman used her cane to jab the box hedge that separated her property from Mr. Snowden’s. “I do too have a fence.”
Mr. Snowden folded his arms and leaned into his heels, all but grinning. The old guy knew the script of this conversation as well as Holden did.
“It’s not a fence, Mrs. Hutchinson. It’s got too many gaps to be considered a fence. The dog can easily slip through.”
“He should keep it on a leash when it’s outside!”
Holden shook his head. “He’s not required to have the dog on a leash in his own yard, ma’am.”
“But that mutt wasn’t in his yard! It was in my yard, doing its best to water every plant on the premises!”
Holden looked at Mr. Snowden in expectation of his line.
“It is a he.” The old man nodded definitively. “And he’s got a name, same as your darn cat!”
Mrs. Hutchinson snorted. “Periwinkle isn’t a name. It’s a color.”
“Oh, so you can name your cat Miss Bluebell”—Mr. Snowden flapped a hand at the cat—“but I can’t name my dog Periwinkle?”
Said canine gave a woof at the sound of
his master saying his name, drawing Holden’s gaze to the scraggly looking shyster sitting on the walk in the patch of light spilling from Mr. Snowden’s front door. The dog was indeed almost a bluish-purple color, which Holden could only assume had given rise to his name. He looked like he might be a cross between an Airedale and a Poodle and maybe something else that had long straight hair, because every tenth hair, or so, was about three inches longer than the curly ones around it and straight as a porcupine quill. Holden could quite honestly say he’d never seen an uglier mutt. And yet...
The dog, having noticed Holden’s gaze on it, gave another yip and wagged his tail so hard that his entire backside wiggled as he sidled toward him.
Holden leaned across the hedge and patted the mutt’s head. The dog was so ugly it couldn’t help but be cute, if that made sense.
And now to bring this conversation to its conclusion. “Mr. Snowden, can you try to do better at keeping Periwinkle on your own side of the hedge?”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff Parker. I’ll do my best, sir.”
The dog was enjoying the pat on the head so much, that Holden leaned across with both hands to give him a really good rub.
“Traitor,” Mrs. Hutchinson muttered. But there was a gleam of amusement in her eyes when she offered. “Since you’re out at this time of night, I presume you have the night shift? Can I get you a cup of coffee, Sheriff? It’s the least I could do for troubling you to come all this way.”
“A cup of coffee sounds lovely, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat.
The woman glanced across the hedge. “And I don’t suppose it would be neighborly of me to ask the sheriff and not you. I’ve fresh lemon pound cake that came out of the oven only an hour ago. Would you care to join us, Henry?”
Henry Snowden almost kicked up his heels. “Don’t mind if I do. I’ll put Periwinkle in the house. Come on, boy.” He snapped his fingers and hustled up his walk. A treat probably awaited Periwinkle inside for fulfilling his part of this little enactment. No doubt Henry had smelled the pound cake and launched a mission to get himself invited for a piece.
