in the window above Tory’s became an adult Juicy, who in turn morphed back twenty years, racing down a darkened street with a blond boy at his side. Morales frowned at her with unspoken disapproval before growing wavy at the edges and disappearing. Nate was by her side, whispering in her ear. Did you draw your weapon?
I couldn’t find it, the dream Risa responded. Your jacket was so big.
Juicy’s young friend looked up at her with pleading in his eyes. But when he spoke, it was another boy’s words she heard. Risa, don’t leave me.
And through it all the shots echoed over and over. Her brain told her hand to move. To draw her weapon. But it remained frozen at her side. Adam fell against her. Knocked her to the ground. His blood soaked her shirt before she turned him over.
Jerry Muller bounced the basketball in the driveway without looking their way. Just kept his head down and dribbled. Dribbled. Dribbled. Call an ambulance, dream Risa called.
You killed him. Jerry dribbled again. He’ll burn up before it gets here.
And when Risa looked again, Adam was in flames. The smoke billowed and plumed, making her cough and turn away. The blond boy morphed into Darrell, holding a full carafe. It’s just Flo’s coffee. He laughed. She always burns the coffee.
But the smell grew stronger and Adam melted away. Risa looked down and saw the flames shooting up her arm. There wasn’t pain but the smoke made her choke and her lungs heaved for oxygen . . .
Her coughing woke her. Disoriented, she sat up, waited for the sleep-induced haze to clear from her mind. But the haze didn’t clear. It filled her nose and settled in her lungs and made it difficult to breathe.
It took a moment to realize that it wasn’t part of the dream. Another to identify it as smoke.
Risa bounded from her bed, went to her closed bedroom door. The heat emanating from the doorknob had her snatching her hand away again. She grabbed the comforter from the bed and folded it, wedging it tightly at the bottom of her door. Then she flipped on the light switch. Found it not working.
“Mom!” Her mother would be home by now. Light was edging along the shade on the window. She’d be home and soundly asleep after working all night. Risa crawled across the bed and slapped a searching hand on the bedside table. Found nothing. With a stab of frustration she remembered that her cell was in her purse. Which was setting on a table right inside the front door.
She lunged up from the bed and crossed the room to pound on the adjoining wall. “Mom! Wake up!”
But though she pounded until her fist ached, her mother didn’t respond. And it wasn’t getting any easier to breathe in the room.
Rounding the bed, she went to the window. Unlocked it and struggled to shove it open. The house was outfitted with double-hung windows, which meant only the bottom would move. It would be enough space to wiggle through. But first she had to remove the combination storm.
Which proved more difficult than she’d imagined. The house was over fifty years old. The outside windows may not have been removed in that time. And the smoke was making it difficult for her to see. To breathe.
Racked with coughing spasms, she ran back to the bed and pulled on the table. Then shoved it over near the window. Climbing on top of it, she kicked out one foot against the storm. Once. Twice. Again.
It held tight. Her throat and lungs were burning. She leaned down and opened the drawer of the table. Took out the holstered weapon she’d placed there. She hadn’t unloaded it when she’d come home. Had been so exhausted it was all she could do not to fall into bed fully clothed.
She drew the weapon with hands that shook. Nearly dropped it because of the sudden dampness on her palms.
Then fired two shots at the base of the outside storm. And this time when she aimed a kick at the window, it flew open. Hung loosely.
Risa lost no time replacing the safety on the weapon and squeezing through the window to drop to the ground.
The shots fired had her neighbor tumbling from the house next door, security light blazing. “Did he come back? I’m ready this time, Risa!”
Ordinarily the sight of the barefooted, short, burly Jerry Muller in a satin robe swinging a baseball bat would have given her pause.