I glimpsed the two other women wearing jeans and red T-shirts with Amy-Jo’s Café on the back. I could do this.

“Let me show you my boutique. We expanded last fall, and I’m tickled pink with the results.” She led me to a wide entrance on the right. An ornate chalkboard inscribed with Amy-Jo’s Gifts was mounted on an easel and pointed to another large, wood-floor room. The charm of the old building, probably built in 1932 like the one housing the parole office, complemented the homey displays of quality gifts, small furniture items, and decorating accessories.

“Edie tells me you design jewelry. I’ve been looking for a feminine line with flair. Would love to see what you have.”

Excitement rose inside me, along with a lump in my throat. “I have a few pieces in my backpack.”

“Let’s do it.” She patted a small oak table. “Right here.”

I fished out the tissue-wrapped jewelry and laid out the pieces. Amy-Jo touched a green-and-gold labradorite pendant with twisted antique brass wire. Her bubbling laughter showed her pleasure. She selected a few designs from my sketch pad to create. I had no clue why God was blessing me—a woman with a muddy past. But I loved His favor.

“Does your business have a name?”

“Yes, ma’am. Simply Shelby.”

She wagged her finger at me. “Simply Shelby, I’m Amy-Jo. Call me ma’am when I’m a hundred.”

I completed my errands and took a look inside a secondhand store for a bicycle. The owner didn’t have a thing. Once I paid Pastor Emory, I’d purchase a new bike. Hope-filled dreams surrounded me as I pedaled home. Later I’d call Edie with a list of jewelry supplies I needed and tell her about today’s adventure. My fingers tingled with the expectation of creating new jewelry pieces.

Night came all too quickly. The headlights and roar of an advancing vehicle sent me hugging the grassy side of the road. I glanced back. A truck gained speed, closing in fast. I moved farther onto the grass near the ditch and took another look behind me.

The driver of a black pickup headed straight my way. Why? He had the whole road before him. Was the driver blind? On his phone? Drunk?

Or worse?

With nowhere to go on a bicycle that wasn’t mine, I screamed. The truck raced past, spitting stones from the shoulder into the left side of my body. The momentum sent me off-balance and into the mud and ditch. Only a fool would call what happened an accident.

Except I’d seen the first three letters of the rear license plate.

Alone and dripping wet, my thoughts darted from anger to fear and back again. I yanked on my backpack for my phone and pressed in James Peterson’s number. I despised the title of victim as much as I hated ex-con.

I’d been easy prey once. Never again. I’d find who stalked me.