My chest feels like a trio of elephants decided to take up residence on it. A million questions pop into my mind. “But who—”
Casting a concerned glance at Deacon and Willow before centering his gaze on me, he leads me back behind the counter. He reaches down and withdraws the iPad that’s strictly for monitoring the shop’s video surveillance system. Tapping the screen, he pulls up the footage from yesterday, then presses Play after muting the volume.
He always prefers to open by himself first thing in the mornings, saying he enjoys the quiet time. But now, watching the two men stride into the shop while my father is alone unsettles me. Each of them wears dark sunglasses, not bothering to remove them once they’re inside.
One man wears a cutoff shirt, the arm holes ragged, and a blue NC State ball cap concealing the color of his short hair. He has one of the neck gaiters men sometimes wear when hunting to keep their necks warm pulled up to cover the bottom half of his nose and mask much of his jawline.
The other man wears a similar ball cap with NC State embroidered on it and a white undershirt that’s seen better days, the short sleeves frayed at the edges. I squint at the screen, noticing the tattoo of a star and some lines peeking out beneath his shirt near his neck.
They hold themselves like they don’t have a care in the world, relaxed and cocky as they stand at the counter opposite my father. Yet the one with the neck gaiter positions himself at an angle, ducking slightly so only his profile can be seen. I find myself wondering if he’s trying to hide a trademark feature. It strikes me as odd that only one of them conceals his face.
Within a moment, the one in the undershirt grows angry and gets in my father’s face, but before I can see more, Dad stops the footage.
My eyes dart up to his, studying his tight, agitated features as he quickly slides the iPad back beneath the counter. Expelling a sigh, he levels his gaze on me. “Just…be aware of your surroundings. We can talk more later.” Somber expression etched on his face, he grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Please be careful, baby girl.”
“I will,” I whisper back.
Clouds of worry ease marginally from his features when he glances over at Willow, and his lips curve upward. “She reminds me so much of you.”
My smile is tinged with pride and so much love for my sweet girl. “She’s the best.” Then I add, “I need to grab the cookie cake from the car. Be right back.”
I turn, but something makes me swing back around and give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, Dad.”
His eyes, with those fine lines fanning from the edges, soften. “Love you, too.”
Before I make it more than two steps toward the doorway leading to the rear of the shop, the windows shatter. An instant later, a sudden cacophony of flashes and earsplitting noise assaults me before gunshots intermix with shouts from my father and Deacon.
Pain sears my head, and when I dazedly reach for my temple, something hits me, and the impact hurls me back against the doorjamb. The linoleum floor is unforgiving as the side of my body slams into it so hard that my teeth rattle. Body riddled with agony, my left shoulder feels as though it’s made of lead. My arm is of no use, but nothing can stop me from crawling back to where my family now lies.
“Willow!” I cry out, but my voice is drowned out by the gunshots. I’m barely able to focus amidst the confusing layer of smoke surrounding us and the obscene noise.
The sound of gunshots echoes, causing my ears to ring painfully. A fraction of the smoke parts, offering me a glimpse of one gunman nearby Willow’s body. He turns his head when a second man approaches him, and through my shaken daze, I spot a tattoo near his neck.
When my eyes dart to the other man wearing a neck gaiter, something about him strikes me as familiar. I wonder if I’m seeing things, but as soon as I squint in concentration at the area near his temple, the men turn and disappear from sight.
As the smoke settles further, a wretched sob emerges from deep within me at the sight of my daughter’s body lying so utterly still, surrounded by a pool of blood. Her tiny fingers were clutching her new bow only moments ago.
“Willow!” I scream again, willing my body to cooperate and move closer to her. As I drag myself inch by inch, my sole focus is getting to my daughter, but near-debilitating pain sieges, threatening to overtake me.
The shop is decimated, appearing like a war zone with debris covering every inch. Deacon lies a few feet away from Willow, and when I call out his name and get no response, my panic increases. When my eyes lock on my father, just as my lips part to say his name, I freeze, all breath stuttering in my chest. Because in the center of his forehead is a hole.
“No!” I cry out, my mind too numb to comprehend the scene before me. Tremors wrack my body violently, shock settling in so deep, that my teeth begin to chatter as I collapse flat on the floor on my stomach.
“No, no, no.” I can’t look away from them, my body frozen in place. Even though a part of me knows it’s not possible, I will them to move. Will my daughter to sit up, to call out my name and tell me she’s okay. I need this all to be a nightmare I can wake up from.
My vision grows hazy a moment before the pain overpowers me and darkness pulls me under.
3
Caitlin
There’s something to be said for the human brain and its resilience. For its ability to heal and block out pain, whether it be emotional or physical. To recall fine details of a memory you haven’t revisited in years.
To identify clues so jarring that you question everything. Especially your own sanity.
Waking up in the hospital, I inherently know that everything has changed. I know it deep down in my gut even before I open my eyes to find two men hovering near the doorway of my room, speaking in hushed tones.
The pungent scent of antiseptic fills my senses, and I blink against the dim lighting in the room. My left shoulder is bandaged, and my entire body holds a stiffness to rival all those times Deacon tried to get me to go running with him in the mornings. The side of my head feels tight, as if the skin’s been stretched to the extreme. When I gingerly raise my right hand to investigate, careful not to disrupt the IV, I encounter a bandage on my head.
The taller man in the suit steps inside. He looks to be in his late thirties but in good shape. Blond hair neatly trimmed in a cut that makes me wonder if he’s former military, his blue eyes appear sharp as though he doesn’t miss much.
“Be careful, Mrs. Ashford. I’m sure you’re curious about your injuries.” He nudges his suit jacket aside to flash a police badge clipped at his waist.
Addressing the slightly younger, dark-haired man with premature graying at the temples who appears similarly fit, he says, “Why don’t you get the doctor for us? He’ll want to know she’s awake.” The man nods before exiting and closing the door softly behind him.
“I’m Detective Warren. I’ve been assigned to your case. The other gentleman”—he gestures with a tip of his head toward the closed door—“is my partner, Detective Clairborne. He was the first on the scene.”
The detective studies me carefully, and I do the same. I’m painfully alone, now, but it’s my father’s voice that echoes in my head, serving to soothe me while simultaneously making my heart ache with loss.