I despised an unseen enemy.

The memory of my first prison beating repeated in my mind—not the cuts, bruises, and broken arm, but the violation of my spirit. An inmate bribed a guard to give her and three friends ten minutes to persuade me to talk about the missing money. I refused. At the time, I longed to forget the many hands assaulting me. The pain taught me how to avoid those who lived to do me harm. Smartened me to prison degradation. The gang set out to build an empire while I counted each day until my release.

Other beatings occurred, but none like the first.

I stared into my bedroom and at the closed door of the second one. Who did I call when my only evidence lay in dirt on the floor, the shape of the drawers in my bedroom, footsteps in the dirt, and a sixth sense crawling up my spine?

Actually no one but James Peterson or Sheriff Wendall. My suspicious nature told me even they could be behind the threats.

Silence kept its secret.

My phone rang with an anonymous caller ID.

“Shelby,” the distorted voice said. “Did you receive my calling card?”

“Yes. Why not come to the door when I’m here and knock like a civilized person?”

The voice laughed. “Are you ready to accept my invitation?”

“Which is?”

“Take an overdose, an easy way out. Your parents despise you. Marissa and her daughter are afraid of you. Give them the peace they deserve.”

Love for my family had guided my actions for years . . . but I refused to take my own life. That belonged to God. “I’d rather live and see you arrested.”

“Always the selfish one.”

I stared at my phone after his final words. One bit of information told me the caller knew more than I did about my family . . . I had a niece. All these years I’d wondered if Marissa’s child was a girl or a boy. Now I heard it from a person who wanted me dead.

17

DENTON

I stepped into church three times a year—Christmas Eve, Easter, and Mother’s Day. Sometimes I attended weddings and funerals, both as a sign of respect. Today gave me an extra God-star. I’d sacrificed sleeping in on a Sunday morning not to strengthen my faith, but to add a notch in my friendship belt with Shelby.

I assumed Shelby would walk in any minute, a way to start a new week out right after a rotten start. I chose a pew midway on the right side, thinking she’d sit close by. “Doesn’t matter where you sit, only that you listen” echoed from one of my grandpa’s sayings. Shelby didn’t hit me as a front- or back-row gal.

Five minutes to ten, Shelby slid into a pew on the left in front of me. Go figure. She wore jeans and a shirt . . . so did many other folks. Out of my upbringing and sparse attendance, I’d dragged out slacks and a sport coat to spend an hour in God’s house.