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  “Oh, Chance—why now?” I complained to Caller ID, eyeing the clock as I stirred garlic and seasoning into the meat.

  “Hello? Are you home? Pick up, pick up,” the voice called out from the answering machine as I reached for the phone. “Hey babe, I was hoping you were home,” said Chance.

  “Yep, I’m still here—trying to feed the dogs, put away groceries, and cook chili all at once.” Probably best not to mention the wine. That could sound either medicinal or celebratory, and I wasn’t feeling either, although work had given me a headache and I was celebrating the end of the workweek.

  “How was your day, hon?” Chance’s voice was deep, rich, and as warm as a hug.

  “Um . . . crazy.” That felt accurate. “Hey, Chance, let me call you back tonight, after church? ’K?”

  “No problem. Tell Mac and Shane I said hi. I miss—”

  The whirr of the can opener sliced through our goodbyes as I dumped the contents of the can into the pot and hung up.

  “Oh, man—oh my gosh! I can’t believe I just did that.” The words Julienne Cut Beets jumped out from the empty can where Kidney Beans should have been. Out of time and out of hamburger, I rolled my eyes and poured a little more wine. “What the heck,” I said, adding a proper can of beans, a little extra chili powder, and a couple of chopped jalapenos. “It’s all good.”

  There was a new face at church. A very sweet middle-aged face framed with honey-blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses over a pair of blue-gray eyes that had locked onto Mac like a heat sensor on target. Pastor Mac was his usual self, moving here, there, and elsewhere, but the stranger never stopped following his moves.

  “Hello, I’m Sunny McLane. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  The stranger’s hand was soft and her voice softer. “My name is Kinsey, but you can call me Oma,” she said, never taking her eyes off Mac.

  “Alma?”

  “O-ma.”

  O-kay.

  Oma must have read my mind as she turned from Mac. “It’s a nickname,” she said.

  Ashley walked up as she finished off another bowl of my chili.

  “You’re eating meat,” I observed.

  “Can’t help it, Sunny,” she said between slurps. “This so good I can’t get enough. You have got to give me your recipe.”

  “Sure,” I said. Positive that I would omit the can of beets.

  “This is Kinsey.” I introduced the stranger to Ashley, skipping the Oma part because I thought it was weird.

  “We’ve met.” Ashley greeted her warmly. “Good to see you, Oma.” Ashley turned to me. “Oma is a guest of Pastor Mac’s,” Ashley added, with a tip of her head and a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

  So, Ashley already knew about Kinsey aka Oma. I’d been to church almost every Sunday. How could I have missed headline news on the Gossip Gazette? A familiar twinge tightened in my stomach at the thought of being left out of the social loop.

  The evening progressed with the majority of the people gathering into the same cliques they gathered into every Sunday morning. The monthly potluck was supposed to be for church folks to co-mingle with community members, and in the interest of fairness it did happen—starting with the usual icebreakers: “Would you get the door for me?” “Who made this?” “Would the driver of the green truck please move it so people can get out?” And always, “Where’s the bathroom?”

  I liked the bathroom. It sat apart from the historic little schoolhouse that served as the main building and had a heater hotter than a Pittsburgh furnace. Scurrying inside and out of the cold, I was horrified to find Ashley bent over a toilet heaving her insides out.

  “Oh Ash, I am so sorry! It’s my fault you’re sick,” I said, continuing to beg forgiveness as I patted her face with a moist paper towel over the sink. “It was the beets.”

  Ashley was sweating and trembling, giving me an incredulous look. “Beets?” Her eyebrows peaked in bewilderment.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I accidentally put beets in the chili.”

  Ashley digested the information and doubled over again, this time with laughter. She grabbed another paper towel to dry her eyes, saying, “Not beets, silly.” She sniffled. “Babies. I am going to have babies!”

  “Babies?”

  “Twins!

  CHAPTER 3

  Tears glistened like so many crystal balls sparkling in the lamplight foretelling my future. Kissme ignored them, scouring the back of my hand with her tongue. It was her doggie way of expressing love. I hoped. Kissme would have made a good mother, but like me, that wasn’t in our future. I’d spayed Kissme because I loved her, and two pounds was too small to breed. But unlike my dog, nothing was loving about my inability to bear children.

  Life with Logan had gone from bad to worse. It was my mother’s hippy composition and my father’s outlaw biker ways—plus being raised in the woods without electricity—that shaped and defined my youth. It was all I’d known. It was my life, and it wasn’t all bad before meeting Logan and getting pregnant.

  Like a pair of pit bulls locked on each other’s throats, Logan and I had gone round and round—he demanded an abortion that I repeatedly refused. Logan finally won the argument by pushing me off the upstairs balcony, crushing our child and any chance I might have had for another.

  Kissme shifted gears from neutral into overdrive as little dogs are wont to do, exploding into a frenzy of barking at the sound of knocking. Ashley didn’t wait for me to answer the door.

  “Sssshh! Kissme—it’s okay! Sunny? Sunny?” a soft voice called. “It’s me, Ashley.”

  No kidding? Only Ashley would be rude enough to walk in uninvited to my pity party.

  “Just a minute.” I slipped into the kitchen and quickly washed the sorrow from my face, like cold leftovers from a dirty plate, and then shined it with a towel. “S’up?” I asked with a cheerful façade as I tossed the towel aside.

  Ashley never failed to remind me of my mother’s peaceful presence in her younger years. Wrapping her arms around me, she said, “Sunny, I know I’ve hurt you, and I am so sorry.”

  “Why would you think that? Because I left before dessert? Or because I backed into Ramey’s motorcycle in my less-than-graceful getaway?” My stomach churned the mix of resentment and beet chili into a bubbling mess.

  Ashley snuggled next to me on the sofa with my traitorous dog jumping onto her lap.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you on purpose. You’re my friend, and I love you.”

  “I’m not hurt,” I said, reaching for a tissue. “Why do you keep saying that?”

  Ashley paused. “Kissme’s head is wet,” she observed, petting my tear-soaked dog. We locked eyes and laughed. “Oh, Ash, only you would notice such a thing. Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

  Ashley dropped her gaze and puckered her face, looking thoughtful and contrite as she squeezed my hand.

  “Because you hate kids. And . . . I didn’t want to spoil this time—our time—for Shane and me with negative energy. I’ve been on a natural high since finding out. It’s so awesome! So amazing!” Her voice rose, shining like the sun. “It’s like we’ve been dreaming and planning for this moment all our lives. Shane and I are thrilled beyond words.”

  Shane? Her husband was one of Chance’s friends. The ugly thought slithered in. “Has Shane told Chance?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Of course? “So . . . everyone knew but me—your closest friend?”

  “It’s because you’re my best friend that I didn’t want to tell you! I know you lost a baby once, and that must have been horribly painful for you . . . to leave you so bitter toward children.”

  Painful? She had no idea of the horror, the agony, the utter hopelessness in the months following the miscarriage. What it was like to be sucked through a wormhole into the dark place. I had prayed for death.

  “I don’t hate kids. I just don’t need them.” I pressed my lips into
a tight line and blinked. “So, when are you due?”

  “Four months.” Ashley’s face grew luminous as if a dimmer switch had been turned from soft to radiant. “Twins!” she exclaimed in a burst of joy. “I am going to have twins!” And she hugged me as if I cared. As if I could catch pregnancy like the flu.

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. They sank, feeding the toxic brew that still churned in my stomach. I tried again without success. This time the words were trapped behind a huge lump in my throat. All I could manage was a meaningless utterance—“Ungh”—and a nod to fill in the gaps.

  “Isn’t it fantastic?” Ashley rose to hug me, chatting for three all the way to the door. Nausea threatened. We hugged again and this time, “I’m happy for the both of you” slipped out of my mouth like a shadowy wisp. Then I closed the door and retreated to my familiar world of disassociation.

  How can I help others when I can’t help myself? I warred myself as I turned to walk down the hall.

  Healing is a process, not an event, I reminded myself. Physical wounds heal, but emotional scars last a lifetime. Every time I thought I had recovered, a new test would come. A new kind of punch from someone I loved, leaving a different kind of bruise, a different kind of scar.

  Disassociation is a natural survival mechanism for victims of prolonged abuse. The mind packs its bags and checks into a different reality and in extreme cases, a different personality. When my father would beat my mother or Logan would hit me or pull my hair. When hurtful words crushed my self-worth, or I was overwhelmed with sadness, I would withdraw. Sometimes into books and daydreams, and sometimes curled into a fetal position, hugging my knees to my chest and embracing the darkness that wrapped around me like a celestial womb.

  Gayle called from reception. “Sunny, Amanda is waiting in the conference room. The first applicant has arrived.”

  I hurried to the conference room filled with mixed emotions. It was a bad time to remember that I had forgotten to call Chance back last night.

  The meeting in the conference room would begin the first round of interviews for the Investigative portion of our vertical prosecution team. The team called for one prosecutor, one advocate, and one investigator. Vertical prosecution is a system that prevents cases from being handed off to multiple attorneys and increases conviction rates as victims are supported and stabilized They become part of the process instead of impartial witnesses. The former investigator for our unit, Travis Winslow, had returned to his position as a field operative at the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms office in Oakland after finishing his work here. Now Travis was back working with his former father-in-law—Paige’s dad.

  Amanda, a deputy sheriff named Jax, and I seated ourselves behind a long table looking official and formidable as the first applicant shambled in.

  Fred Edwards had worked for the Glenn County’s Sheriff’s Office since the beginning of time. Watery eyes peered out from beneath brows so bushy they reminded me that my lawn needed mowing. He probably had a barrel chest once, but now looked as if it had slipped beneath his belly button. Fred kept running his fingers through non-existent hair, swiping at his head, which reminded me of the soft-boiled egg I’d had for breakfast.

  Amanda ran through her list of questions and answers, then straightened the papers before her, to indicate that the interview was finished. She concluded with the traditional “Do you have any questions for us?”

  “Where’s the restroom?” Fred asked as he hitched up his pants.

  The next person was a recent graduate from the law enforcement academy at the local community college. Duane Pickett wore multiple earrings and sported colorful tattoos that peeked from beneath his cuffed shirt. Too perky. Too trendy. Too green.

  “Do you have any questions for us?” Amanda wrapped it up with the standard question.

  “Do I get a car and a gun?”

  Next.

  A stunning black woman with the elegant name of Jewell Johnston entered the room. Tall and graceful, she exhibited a professional demeanor that belied the lack of experience on her résumé. She carried a black leather portfolio and handed out copies of her college transcripts and letters of recommendation. Her answers were accurate and concise. Her references were as impeccable as her attire.

  “Do you have any questions for us?”

  “When can I start?”

  Amanda headed for lunch with a happy glow. I skipped lunch with a pounding headache.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. McLane.”

  “Duncan.” I bolted upright at my desk with a warm smile for the master computer tech. “You can call me Sunny. ‘Missus’ feels funny. Anyhow, my husband and I are sort of separated.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Duncan looked flustered, and I hurried to make him comfortable.

  “Please sit down,” I said, pulling out a chair.

  “I’m here with your new laptop. I’ll connect you back up to the county intranet, and of course, you’ll be able to get online as well. Oh, and I’ll show you how to download drivers for the office printer. It’s easy.”

  “Won’t you stay? I’m bound to mess up.” I threw him a warm, adorable puppy-dog look. I was determined to give Duncan back the self-esteem I had so blithely stripped away before our first hello.

  Duncan proceeded to walk me through the process of setting up the new laptop in place of my old dinosaur desktop computer. My workshops and outreach were going to be a lot simpler to prepare and present with just one computer.

  “Oh, by the way, the projector should be here any day,” said Duncan. He brushed by me on his way out the door.

  “Duncan. Is that. . . Eternity I smell?” I recognized the crisp scent of jasmine, sweet basil, and sage that I had given to Chance as a parting joke-gift when he left for seminary school.

  A blush crept up from under the head tech’s starched white shirt, and laugh lines deepened at the corners of his mouth. “Yes. It is. Thank you. . . um, I’ll show you how it’s done. Uh, the uh, run the projector that is.”

  “Thank you, Duncan.” I kept him there for a few more minutes making small talk: asking how he liked his job, where he used to work, etc., etc., then sucked down half a dozen M&Ms and a Tylenol, thinking all the while that a half-dozen Tylenol and one M&M might have been the better choice.

  Halfway back to the conference room I pulled up short and slapped my forehead. Oh man, I still hadn’t called Chance.

  How had my husband slipped to the last place on my list of to-dos? While I was still working on the process of complete forgiveness, Chance’s decision to move to San Diego and attend seminary school last September had come with a washtub of mixed emotions that I was still sorting out. I was proud that he felt called to be a pastor but sad that he might give up his profession with law enforcement and search and rescue. I was glad to have my independence but sad that Chance had moved away.

  Pulling my pen from my desk, I hastily jotted Call Chance into my appointment book and let my fingers linger over his name, then hurried back to the interviews with a lighter step.

  Two more applicants to go. One as soft as pudding. The other

  as hard as nails.

  Bonita Esquivel was not as large or grand as Amanda, but she would make a formidable contender if they were mud-wrestling. Amanda seemed regal compared to Bonita’s roughness. My father would have said Bonita was built like a “brick shithouse.” I try not to think like that, but the image came to mind nonetheless. She wore her chestnut-brown hair buzzed short, and there was a mustache on her lip as sure as there was a gun on her hip. Bonita’s background was in corrections, and throughout the interview, I kept wishing she was assigned to guard Logan. If Logan messed with her, she would probably beat him to death with her baton. I liked Bonita. A lot.

  As always, Amanda asked her if she had questions for us, to which Bonita replied, “Can I ride my motorcycle to work?”

  The last person for the day was Jas Wheeler—wearing pants that were tighter than Paige’s pre-pregnant spandex outfits, loafe
rs, a hot-pink shirt, and smelling like a bowl of French vanilla pudding. He did not have a gun or a portfolio, but he did have a pack. Not a military commando-style pack or a messenger bag, but a man purse. Okay. Not a problem. If he could have talked without a lisp and effeminate hand gestures, he might have been a consideration. But the job of Investigator for the Special Victims Unit sometimes included interviewing brutal wife beaters, and frankly, I didn’t want Jas to become the next victim.

  Amanda asked Jas the final question of the day, “Do you have any questions for us?”

  “What is the dress code for transgender employees?”

  I needed an appointment with mental health. Not as a client—yet—but regarding Nina’s case.

  “Dano speaking.”

  “Danielle Kitch?” I asked.

  “Yes, this is Dano. How can I help you?”

  Dano? Draino? I rubbed my tired head as I briefed her on my encounter with Nina and requested a consultation. My request was followed by a weighty pause on the other end of the line.

  “How fast can you get over here?”

  I had a few more hours until “quittin’ time,” so I agreed to hurry over.

  Dano and I swapped credentials as a formality. She was pleasant and easy to talk to. No rooster-strutting or hen-pecking ego trips arose. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

  “Impeccable timing,” she said from behind her desk. “I have a client scheduled in about,”she glanced at her watch, “fifteen minutes. I think you will find interesting, to say the least. I’ve been seeing this particular client for about three months now. Her name . . . well, one of her names is Taylor.”

  One of her names?

  “Taylor is the only case of multiple personality disorder, commonly called DIDs for dissociative identity disorder that I have ever treated. I think you will find her . . . interesting. Taylor has made some extraordinary legal claims, and frankly,” Dano said, tapping her pencil on the desk, “I don’t have a clue how to proceed with the legalities. But we can talk about that after her session.” Then Dano asked me the magic question that would forever bond us as friends: “Latte?”