Holding his Hostage - Amy Gamet Page 0,3

panic attack. They needed to get away, to find somewhere safe. She needed to protect her family.

But how?

The house appeared in the distance, a white rail fence and acres of manicured rolling hills surrounding a big white ranch with a barn and stable visible in the distance. She suddenly wished that fence were electrified and at least twenty feet high, but even as she thought it, she knew she still wouldn’t feel safe with that man somewhere out there.

She pulled to the side of the road and stopped at her mailbox, April putting her window down and collecting the mail. Behind them, the car had stopped some hundred feet back, headlights blazing. They weren’t even trying to be inconspicuous. This was an intimidation game, a tactic to terrorize her, and it was working.

She pulled into the drive, fresh snow crunching under her tires. She waited to see if the other car would follow.

“Who’s Evelyn Nowak?” asked April.

“Evelyn?” The name was a relic from her past, a part of her life that seemed more like a story about someone else than an actual piece of her memory. But if that was true, then Evelyn was one of the best parts of the book. “An old friend. My ex-boyfriend’s mother. Probably a sympathy card.”

“Looks like it.”

Jo glanced in the rearview. The car stayed on the main road with its lights on. Better than following them to the door, but worse than driving away.

“How old were you?” April asked.

“Seventeen.” She opened the garage door and pulled inside. Her panic was subsiding, and she knew it was the mention of Evelyn’s name that had comforted her so quickly. There was only one place she’d ever really felt secure, only one place she’d ever had a friend she could trust and people who felt like family. That was in Evelyn’s house, and she longed to be back there now.

She pushed the ridiculous idea out of her mind. To get there, she would need to cross a bridge she had long since burned to the ground. She would feel better when she got inside and set the alarm. Make herself a cup of tea and get some perspective on this whole god-awful day. Maybe try to log in to David’s bank account and see just how much money he had squirreled away.

She grabbed the mail and her purse, her finger trailing over Evelyn’s perfectly formed script as the kids climbed out of the car.

“I get the Xbox,” called Lucas, racing ahead.

“I want princesses!” whined Fiona, trailing after him.

April got out but turned back. “You coming?”

“I’ll be right in.” The door closed, the car suddenly filled with silence. She took a deep breath and opened the envelope. A watercolor iris graced the front of the card, and she knew immediately Evelyn had painted it by hand. Inside, she read, “Dearest Joanne, I was so sad—”

The garage door to the kitchen opened and Lucas appeared, screaming, “Mom!”

She held up a finger, continuing to read. “—to learn of David’s passing. I wish I were there, so I could give you my shoulder on which to cry. When you’re ready, please come for a visit so I can hug you properly and reminisce. Love always—”

A knock at her window made her jump. April stood on the other side. “You need to come see this.”

The horrified tone had her scrambling to get inside. Something was clearly wrong. Had Fiona hurt herself? She pushed the door open and froze.

Utter destruction.

Drawers from the antique hutch were strewn about the floor, their contents scattered about like leaves in the fall. Pictures had been taken off walls, their frames and canvases separated with slices and rips.

She stumbled toward the kitchen, Lucas weaving his way through the room like he was crossing a pond on stones. “Who would do this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Jo lied, avoiding April’s knowing stare as she bent and picked up a picture of the kids, its glass shattered and wooden frame fractured. It was a favorite of hers, their last family portrait, and she pushed the glass aside, cutting her finger. She gasped and popped it in her mouth.

A sudden shriek echoed through the house. The picture forgotten, Jo flew down the hallway toward Fiona’s screams. She should have grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer, and she chastised herself as she ran, rounding the corner to Fiona’s room.

The little girl stood in the middle of the space, surrounded by toys and clothes and discarded drawers, wailing. “Somebody hurt my