She took a deep breath and had turned to go back in when she spotted the full trash bag against the wall.

And the navy blue T-shirt laying on top of it. She picked it up, noted the white paint stains on the left shoulder. Pictured it on the teen who’d come to kill them.

She lifted it to her face and wept.

FOUR MONTHS LATER
JANUARY
GREENVILLE, SC

Heather pulled to the curb of her best friend’s house, put the SUV in park, and cut the engine. Brooke James lived in a middle-class neighborhood in a cottage-style home with a perfectly groomed yard. Even in the dead of winter.

But that was Brooke, a woman whose friendship Heather deeply appreciated. Most of the time, she couldn’t wait to get together with her. But at the moment, Heather wasn’t in the mood to put on her party face. Her left leg jiggled up and down—a sure sign she was anxious and stressed. She didn’t even bother to try and stop it. “Just go home,” she muttered to herself. “If you go home, you can curl up on the couch and read a good book.” While intermittently checking the alarm system, windows, and doors to ensure no one could get in.

No one, meaning the stalker she seemed to have acquired.

She sat tense and knotted while scanning the surrounding area for him. Seeing nothing that set off her alarms, Heather allowed herself to relax a fraction.

But she still wanted to go home. She cranked the car. Hesitated. And shut off the engine. “Ugh.”

She’d promised Brooke and the others she’d come. They were welcoming fellow vet Gina Wicks home from Afghanistan. Gina had been her nurse in the FOB hospital, a dinner mate during hard times, and a vacation buddy more than once. Should the situation be reversed, Gina wouldn’t miss it.

But doing that required getting out of the car.

The longer Heather sat, the faster her anger boiled. Seriously. A stalker? No . . . more like a watcher. He watched but didn’t approach—or acted like he was going to, then changed his mind at the last minute.

It was unnerving. Even when she’d been serving at the hospital base in Afghanistan, she hadn’t been this jumpy. She’d thought getting out of the military when the opportunity had presented itself would help with the nerves and the nightmares. And it had. At least until this guy had shown up.

Another glance in the rearview mirror didn’t help. Neither did checking the side mirrors.

There was nothing and no one there.

But she’d seen him. Several times. She just couldn’t get a good look at him. Once, at work, she’d thought he might attempt to speak with her, but she had been approached by a colleague. When she’d turned back to the place she’d seen him, he was gone.