Always be aware of your surroundings.
Anything can be used as a weapon.
Never offer your trust easily.
Detective Warren pulls up a chair beside my bed and takes a seat.
“You were in pretty rough shape when they brought you in.” He leans his elbows on his knees, eyes boring into mine. “Ma’am, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss.” He pauses as though attempting to choose his words carefully. “We suspect that the Dixie Mafia was behind the incident, but I have to warn you.” He glances at the closed door before lowering his voice. “Anyone who’s tried to go up against them—eyewitnesses to some of their stunts—hasn’t exactly…come out of it unscathed.”
Meaning, they’ve never come out alive. I’ve heard of the Dixie Mafia in news reports here and there. From what I recall, the farthest north they’ve been active in their “operations” has been Tennessee and Georgia. Vaguely, I remember hearing something about them being suspected of illegal activity down in South Carolina.
“They’ve been allegedly bullying business owners into being a front for their…dealings.”
“What kind of dealings?”
“Money laundering. Drug smuggling. You name it, they’ve got their fingers in all the pies.”
The door opens, drawing our attention.
“Well, look who’s back with us.” A man in hospital scrubs enters the room, his lips curving up into a faint smile. He snags the clipboard at the foot of my bed and skims it before approaching me, opposite from where the detective sits. “I’m Dr. Humphrey.”
I give a brief nod and instantly regret the action. Lord, how my head aches. Dr. Humphrey notices my wince and explains, “You’ve been through quite the ordeal.” Addressing the detective, he says, “If you’ll give me a moment with my patient, please.”
Detective Warren nods before rising from his seat. “I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s all right with you, Mrs. Ashford.”
Dr. Humphrey flashes a stern look at the other man. “She’s been through a lot. She’ll need to be cleared medically before being bombarded with questions and undergoing more distress.”
“No, it’s okay,” I protest. “Tomorrow’s fine.” The detective nods at me and exits the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
The doctor checks my pupils and asks me basic questions, like my name, age, and what year it is. He clicks off the light and rests a hand on the bed rail.
“You got lucky with that one bullet just grazing the side of your head. Another one pierced your shoulder, but it didn’t hit anything crucial.” His eyes fill with sympathy. “It’s quite a relief to see you awake and coherent.”
“Doctor…” I will my voice not to crack when I ask, “What happened to my family?”
He averts his gaze, drawing in a deep breath before releasing it slowly. “From what I understand, they didn’t suffer.” His eyes lift to mine, and a part of me is pleased that someone in his position isn’t completely numb to death. Clearing his throat, he says, “They were pronounced…when paramedics arrived.”
I clamp my jaw so tight, pressing my lips thin to hold back the anguished cries threatening to break free, it takes me a long moment before I manage to force out the words. “How soon can I be released?”
The doctor considers my question. “As long as your vitals remain stable, we should be able to get you out of here in a day or two.” He hesitates before asking, “Do you…have someone you can call to come get you?”
My mouth parts before I snap it shut, realizing the two people I’d rely on in a moment like this are gone forever. I could call Deacon’s best friend, but he’s likely mourning the loss of him nearly as much as I am.
My best friend, Sara Jane, is in Los Angeles attending a week-long art curator conference and marketing workshop. She planned to make a mini vacation out of it, and I know she’s been looking forward to it for a while. Sara Jane’s been eager to take her small shop to the “next level.”
Once I get out of here and her conference is over, I’ll call Sara Jane. I vow this even as I worry my bottom lip nervously, knowing she’ll be angry as hell that I didn’t call her sooner. I’ve always hated relying on others and am especially terrible at asking for help, primarily when it requires the other person to go out of their way for me. But I can’t bear to ruin this opportunity for her.
There is one other person I can call, though.
Looking up at Dr. Humphrey, I answer, “Yes.”
4
Caitlin
Early the next morning, the detectives visit my hospital room once again. Settling into the chairs nearby my bed, they get right down to business.
Detective Warren speaks first. “Mrs. Ashford, did your father ever mention anything about the Dixie Mafia?” Seeing his features intense and determined provides me with a fraction of comfort.
“Did anyone approach you or your husband?” Detective Clairborne poses the question quietly, dark eyes watchful, a pen and pad in hand.
I slowly shake my head because I’ve never been approached, and Deacon certainly hadn’t mentioned anything to me.
“No, sir. Nothing ever—” I stop, suddenly bombarded by the memory of the last conversation I had with my father that night.
“Some men have been nagging me about letting them use our shop for some of their business.”
“They told me I’d regret saying no.”
Then the surveillance footage he showed me.
“Wait.” My voice fills with urgency. “My dad did mention something but didn’t say any names.” I relay the conversation back to them, being sure to inform them of the surveillance footage, and the men exchange a quick look before both jotting down a few notes.
“This footage, it’s possible to retrieve it to view again?”
“Yes. It’s also saved on a cloud backup.”
Detective Warren nods and writes something down. “Can you describe the men in the footage? As many details as you can provide will help.”
Frowning, I shuffle through my memories, attempting to ignore the throbbing that lingers near my temple as well as the debilitating heartache as scenes from that night flash in my mind. I stamp my lips together firmly against the anguish threatening to overtake me before I’m finally able to speak and describe what I saw on that iPad.
The detectives’ attention is laser sharp as they hang on to every word. “Do you recall seeing anyone the night of the shooting? Anyone you could identify?”
My breathing grows choppy, and I close my eyes to will my lungs to drag in oxygen. As if the entire scene is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, I speak without looking at the men.
“I only saw two men.” My eyes flare open with a dawning revelation. “I believe those were the same men from the surveillance video. The ones who threatened my father.”
“Was there anything else you noticed?”
Wracking my memory from that night, I feel my heart rate increase as agony pulses through me. I try to concentrate on any glimpses I had of the men amidst the distracting flashes of light, the sound of the gunshots, and the flare from the muzzle of their guns.