Old Woman Gone

By Aya Walksfar

Sergeant Nita Slowater has just reconnected with Grandma Greene after years of estrangement when she discovers the elderly woman missing from her home. When local law enforcement refuses to take the disappearance of the 85-year-old woman seriously, Nita turns to the Special Crimes Team and to a private investigator, Jaz Wheeler. Nita can’t stand the thought of losing Grandma Greene, yet the death of an elderly woman during her last case haunts her. Will she be too late again? Who would want to kidnap an old woman? Is it the rabid fundamentalist preacher, Reverend Abraham Thomas, who accused Merlie Greene of an unholy alliance with Satan? Is Grandma Greene’s disappearance linked to the 15-year-old murder of her only blood-related granddaughter, Chelsea Greene? Or did the elderly woman possess an artifact valuable enough to kidnap and, perhaps, to kill for? As the case flounders for lack of clues, Nita discovers the involvement of psychic Jaimie Wolfwalker. Though the woman had been helpful in a previous case, Nita doesn’t hold with all that woo-woo crap and aggressively questions the woman’s presence in yet another case with an elderly woman missing. Can Nita overcome her own deeply rooted prejudice and antagonism to work with Wolfwalker? Can they find Grandma Greene in time to save her? Nothing is certain, except that time is running out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aya Walksfar
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311310255

Aya Walksfar

Born on the wrong side of life,I learned to make myself invisible, to be so quiet that no one noticed me in the shadows. My illiterate grandfather, and nearly illiterate grandmother valued books and education; consequently, they coaxed a Carnegie Librarian to teach me to read and write by age six.When I was nine years old, my grandfather was murdered; the killer never apprehended. Writing allowed me to deal with my anger and grief by changing the ending of that particular reality: I wrote murder stories.I published my first poem and my first journalistic articles around the age of fourteen. It was a time of countrywide unrest and riots.After that, I never stopped writing--poems, articles, short stories, novels.Good Intentions (first edition), a literary novel, received the Alice B. Reader Award for Excellence in 2002.Sketch of a Murder and Street Harvest have made Amazon's Top 100 Bestseller's Lists several times.

Book preview

Prologue

The back door stood open. Slanted rays of sunshine ducked beneath the porch roof, tumbled through the doorway and spilled across the slightly warped kitchen floor. The dark floorboards shone in the soft light. The house had been old when her husband brought her home to it all those years ago. Now he was gone, but the house still whispered of his love.

Merlie Greene stood right inside of the doorway, enjoying the warmth of the late-March morning. A gentle breeze wafted to her the faint, sweet smell of sage from the silvery green bushes guarding the four steps from the porch to the white rock of the garden path. To the left side of the path grew salmonberry bushes. The peeling, papery bark of their brown trunks could be easily seen in the leafless thicket.

She sighed and turned away. Time to go upstairs to her bedroom closet and get her purse. The steps creaked as they were apt to do in older homes and the sound brought another smile to her face. The creaks were like brief conversation from a longtime friend.

A quick check confirmed the presence of her wallet inside her purse. She scooped her key ring from an abalone shell on her dresser, ran a finger lightly along its rounded rim. George had given her that shell. A gift from Water. How well he’d understood her connection to Mother Earth, and to the Elements.

What in the world is wrong with me lately? Not one to dwell in the past, the past seemed determined to haunt her for the last few weeks. Dreams stalked her where she ran and ran, hearing the calls of the children and never able to reach them. Never before had the anniversary of Chelsea’s death drawn her into the past. In ten days, March 30th, my sweet girl will have been gone fifteen years. Let my sorrow at her loss be what’s happening, Sweet Mother. I don’t think I can stand to lose any of my other girls. Shaking the thoughts from her mind, she went downstairs to wait for Nita and Dawn to arrive.

She placed her handbag in the center of the plank kitchen table, dropped her key ring beside it then immediately walked over to the cook stove and checked that all the burners were safely turned off. Done, she returned to the doorway and her perusal of the garden.

Not long after, a whisper of cloth sounded behind her. She grinned. Nita, obviously trying to sneak up on her again to convince her to lock her doors even when she was home. Why does that child persist in thinking age compromises my hearing?

While her years weighted her steps, Goddess blessed her with perfect eyesight and acute hearing. She started to turn, a good-humored teasing on her lips. As she turned to face Nita, black hood-covered heads popped into view right behind her. The breath she gasped in caught like a fishbone in her throat, choking back the scream that tried to escape.

She jerked around and lurched for the open back door. Her fingers brushed the screen door as a black gloved hand clamped on her upper arm and yanked her backward. She stumbled and fell to her knees.

The hand clamped on her arm tightened until she thought her bone would snap. The man dragged her to her feet. Jerking her around, her back pinned to his chest, he clamped a hand on either upper arm. The big hands lifted her off her feet. Feet freed, she kicked fast and furious. Her soft leather shoes connected with her assailant’s legs, but the monster didn’t even grunt.

She sucked in a lung bursting breath then shoved it out in an ear-piercing scream. The stink of dirty leather filled her nostrils as a hand clamped across her mouth, cutting off her scream. Her teeth cut the inside of her lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. Her jaw throbbed from the pressure.

Abruptly, her body went limp. The sudden change caught the monster unprepared and his grip slipped. She sank to the floor in an untidy heap at his feet.

He bent over at the waist and reached for her. Grasping her upper arms once again, he hauled her to her feet. With the positions of their bodies slightly changed, she waited until she heard his breathing directly behind her head--close, very close to her ears. She slammed her head backward, felt the impact, the satisfying crunch of cartilage.

The big hands released her so quickly she stumbled. A muffled, Fuck! came from behind the cloth mask.

The anger in that one word spurred her as she darted for the hallway, the blood thundering in her ears. She dodged past the startled second masked man. Breath ragged from fear, she bolted down the hallway. For the first time in her memory, she inwardly cursed her age, the slowness of her run.

A couple of feet from the front door, she reached for the door knob. Her fingers touched the cool brass of the original knob. A flash of hope burned through her as she twisted and yanked. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow portal between door and doorjamb.

Something smashed into the center of her back. Hand jerked loose from the door knob, she flew to the side and forward. The door crashed shut. Panicked, she threw her hands out. Her wrist snapped back. Hot pain shot up her arm. Her cheek cracked against the now-closed door. More pain, this time engulfing her face. She barely stayed upright; her fingernails scrabbled against the polished wood.

A hand grabbed a clump of her moderately short, black hair and dug into the soft tight curls. She flopped like a rag doll. The big hand pulled her head back then slammed it forward. Her forehead bounced against the door. All thought shattered.

Her legs gave way. The grip on her hair released. She slid to the floor. Cheek against the soothing coolness of the gleaming old planks, waves of black washed over her.

The sound of male voices echoed through a tunnel. Git ‘er stuff off the table. Don’t want no one nosin’ ‘round too quick. A rough hand flipped her onto her back. The dull smack of her hand banging into the floor felt disconnected from the rest of her.

A finger peeled back her eyelid. Before the welcoming blackness claimed her, she heard one of her captors say, She’ll live. Long as she’s alive, that’s all he cares about. Encroaching darkness muffled the harsh laughter.

Chapter 1

Day One of Merlie Greene’s Disappearance

Dawn parked her car behind Grandma Greene’s Chevy Cruze Eco sitting in front of the closed two-car garage. As she thought about the tidy stacks of boxes that filled the small space, she grinned. I always feel a smidgen of guilt when I drive my Porsche up here. It’s such a gas guzzler compared to Grandma Greene’s car.

Nita threw her head back and laughed, her raven hair spilling down her back. A Porsche Boxster isn’t an economy car, but only you would feel guilty about something like that.

Dawn pouted, cutting her eyes up at Nita.

You’re cute with your lips all pooched out. Nita leaned over and kissed her.

She slid out of the sleek black car and swiveled around. One hand resting on the windshield post of the convertible, she gazed over at Dawn. Are you sure it’s okay to take her over there today after lunch? This is only your second time walking through the house. I don’t want you to feel pressured if Grandma Greene likes it, but you decide you don’t like it.

A smile reached up to Dawn’s summer blue eyes. The bright sun glinted off her long blonde hair as she tucked a wayward strand behind one delicate ear. Absolutely. I already love it, and I'm anxious to see what she thinks. She pushed open her door and got out.

When Dawn rounded the front of the car, Nita slung a casual arm over her shoulder. She’ll love it because we do. Side-by-side they strolled up the herringbone-patterned brick walk.

Memories. Every inch of this place held memories. When Nita’s father laid those bricks she had been eight-years-old and determined to help with the stubbornness peculiar to young children. Her mother tried to intervene, but Dad had laughed and put her to work. She wondered how he’d ever gotten the job done. What is with all this nostalgia lately? And the dreams! Maybe it’s the anniversary of Chelsea’s death coming up. I hope I haven’t made a mistake coming back here after all these years. Painful memories or not, I don’t think I could stand to let go of Grandma Greene again.

The lawn sported the new green of young grass. The butter yellow daffodils outnumbered the few early blooming red and lavender tulips that lined both sides of the walkway all the way from the gravel driveway to the first step of the front porch. Nita dropped her arm and sprang past the two steps and up onto the porch, beating Dawn to the beautiful old oak door.

As she reached for the brass knob she remembered the first day she’d returned to this house four months ago. The last case had driven home how someone she loved could be gone between one morning and the next. She’d made a dinner date with Grandma Greene. Heart pounding as she walked up on the porch after years of being away, she’d wiped her nerve sweaty hands on her good linen slacks. Unsure of her welcome, she’d pressed the button for the doorbell. Even through the thick wood the sound of the lovely chimes could be heard. Moments later Grandma Greene swung the door wide and propped her hands on her hips. Child, you know better.

Nita had taken a half step backward, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. I shouldn’t have come. She hates me!

The elderly woman stepped out the door, wrapped both arms around Nita and hugged her tight. Next to her ear Grandma Greene whispered, Strangers knock, baby girl. Family walks right in. Don’t ever knock at Grandma’s door unless it’s locked and you forgot your key.

While she loved the sentiment, Nita wished she could convince her elder to keep her doors locked at all times. Perhaps sixty-years ago it hadn’t been necessary, but society had changed, even here in the rural community on the edge of the small city of Mount Vernon. With a slight shrug she admitted to herself that as far as changing Grandma Greene’s ways, she might as well be a river working to change the shape of a boulder--a very slow process that probably would not happen in her lifetime. She twisted the knob and walked into the hall.

Dawn stepped in behind her, calling out as she shut the door. Grandma Greene, we’re here.

Nita moved briskly down the gleaming wood floor; stuck her head through the archway to the living room. The largest room, it sprawled across most of the front of the house, left space only for the hallway. Empty. She moved on toward the back where the kitchen lorded over the second largest area in the house.

Grandma Greene, are you.... Nita stopped and glanced around the empty kitchen. Huh. Back door’s open. She must be out in the garden.

Next time show your brake lights. I nearly ran into you. Dawn gave Nita’s shoulder a friendly shove as she stepped around and made a beeline for the open door. She stood at the top of the four steps leading into the backyard when Nita stopped alongside her. Puzzlement lightly creased Dawn’s brows. I don’t see her out here. She wouldn’t go off into the woods with us coming, would she?

Nah, you know how she likes to be ready to rock ‘n roll. Maybe she’s up in her bedroom and didn’t hear us come in? Nita pivoted and headed into the house.

Maybe, Dawn’s voice reflected a niggling unease as she followed behind, hurrying up the bare wood stairs to the second floor of the old brick house.

Nita topped the stairs and turned toward the far end of the short corridor. Grandma Greene’s bedroom door stood open. The normal position of the door caused her heart to slam against her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat. Grandma Greene should’ve heard us. I hope she’s all right. The faded hall carpet runner muffled her steps as she lengthened her stride toward the silent bedroom.

The cotton curtains, hand stitched from scraps of colorful material, fluttered when a breeze slipped through the slightly open window. Empty, like the living room and the kitchen. Moving rapidly across the spacious room to the master bath as Dawn stepped in, she called over her shoulder, Check the guest room and the hall bath.

She heard Dawn’s footsteps hurry away as she pulled open the bathroom door. Empty. A rag hung over the edge of the huge claw-footed bathtub. Damp. Where is she? I reminded her last night about our lunch date today. Not that she needed reminding. At eighty-five, her memory is better than mine sometimes.

She whirled around and headed for the door to the hall as Dawn power walked into the bedroom and reported. Everything in the bathroom, the guest room, and her office are neat and tidy. No sign of Grandma Greene.

Ramming a hand through her thick hair, Nita felt her heart hit overdrive. Where could she be?

Lips pressed tight, Dawn frowned. I don’t know. Maybe she did go out in her little woods to...pick something?

Nita hurried to the stairway. Let’s go check. This is worrying me. It isn’t like her not to be waiting for us when we arrive.

The woods offered no more clues than did the two-stall barn squatted on the back corner of the twenty acres. Worried, Nita bit her lower lip as she tried the side door of the garage. The padlock’s on the front doors and this door’s locked. Cupping her hands around her face, Nita peered in through the clean glass of the window next to the door. I don’t see any sign of her in there.

Wait here a minute. I know where she keeps the key. Dawn darted for the back door of the house. Moments later she jogged back with the key in hand.

Silent as a tomb, the garage held neat rows of boxes, discarded furniture, and various other odds and ends, none of which gave any hint as to where Grandma Greene might be. A thin layer of dust lay on the lids of the boxes. Obviously, no one had been in the garage in a long time. Dawn carefully relocked the side door. She followed Nita back to the house. Where could she be? Do you think she might’ve gone over to your mother’s house?

Nita gave a head shake and kept walking back to the house. No reason. Mom and Andrew won’t be back from Florida until the week of Grandma Greene’s birthday and she knows Mom hired Gilda to keep things dusted and the plants watered. Eli is taking care of the yard. She halted in the middle of the kitchen, staring around, assessing. Eyes still roving, she asked, You see anything out of place in here, Dawn?

Nooo... She answered as she surveyed the kitchen.

You don’t sound sure. Nita turned her head and studied the other woman. Dawn played with a strand of her hair, absently tugging it, a sure sign something bothered her.

It’s no....yet, it’s yes, Dawn said.

What do you mean? Nita held as still as a cat waiting outside of a mouse hole.

Dawn studied the kitchen, shifting on her feet as she turned around in place so she could scan every inch. If I didn’t know Grandma Greene then I would say there’s nothing out of place in here. However...

However?

She pointed. Her purse is always on the kitchen table when she’s getting ready to go somewhere. She claims it helps her remember to double-check to make sure the stove burners are off.

Slowly, Nita nodded. I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right. Since it isn’t on the table she should either have it with her or it should be hanging in her closet upstairs. I didn’t think to look there.

I did. Her purse is gone from the closet and her key ring is missing from the abalone shell on her dresser. Dawn’s gaze roamed around the room. She’s not here, her purse and keys are gone, yet her front door is unlocked, her back door’s standing open, and her car is here. Dawn slanted a look at her. One time during a visit—before you and I got together--Grandma Greene and I left to go to lunch. She drove all the way out on Highway 20 when she suddenly turned around and came back. She couldn’t remember if she’d locked her doors.

Mom’s that way, too. I remember when neither one of them locked their doors, except at night. Before Chelsea’s murder. Before Dad left.

Nita ruthlessly shoved the thoughts away. Anything else?

No, that’s it for in here. How about you? Dawn turned and looked at her.

She dipped her chin toward the pine plank table on the right side of the huge kitchen. Seems to be a bit crooked. Not much, but Grandma Greene always keeps it perfectly parallel with the wall. And one chair on this side of the table isn’t pushed in all the way.

Dawn studied the table and chairs. You’re right. Not noticeable if you don’t know how Grandma Greene keeps it. I kid her about being OCD because she keeps everything just so.

A chill spread over Nita and goose bumps peppered her arms. I think we’d better look at each room and see if anything else looks off kilter.

The other rooms appeared as they normally did. Dawn crossed the living room to where Nita stood. Where do you think she is? She stopped next to Nita and wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold.

Staring out the front window and toward the cornfield, Nita said, I don’t know. Her purse, wallet, and keys are missing, yet her car’s still here. How does Grandma Greene do it day after day? How can she stand seeing that cornfield, knowing what happened there? She shuddered and forced her mind away from such morbid musings.

It’s like she simply vanished. Dawn blinked back tears.

She turned from the window. We’ll find her. An arm looped around Dawn, Nita pulled her close. Unsure whether she comforted Dawn, or Dawn comforted her, she let the warmth chase away the chill of her thoughts. After a moment she stepped away. Do you know where she keeps her phone numbers?

No, but my guess would be in her desk in her office.

Nita took the steps to the second floor two at a time. When Chelsea and she were young this room had been Chelsea’s bedroom. A window looked out over the back acreage and Grandma Greene’s garden. Beyond the garden stood a copse of trees: a beautiful mix of evergreens and deciduous.

The dark wood desk sat in front of the window. Whenever Grandma Greene raised her eyes from her computer screen, she could see her garden in the back. The heavy antique desk looked too big and bulky to belong to someone as little as the elderly woman.

The center drawer held pens, highlighters and an address book. She pulled it out and flipped through it.

What did you find? Dawn called from where she searched the two-drawer filing cabinet across the room.

She waved the thin brown leather address book in the air. I only recognize two or three of these names.

Dawn closed the file drawer and walked over. You’ve found more than I have. Nothing in those drawers, except things like plant information.

She handed the address book to Dawn then drifted over to the antique library table set against the east wall. One corner of the table held a painted box with a deck of Tarot cards inside. Nita stared at the cards for a moment before she put the lid back on the box.

People gave the strangest things to Grandma Greene. They always had. One time a woman traveled all the way from Oregon to give Grandma Greene a beautifully carved, cherry wood stick about two feet long. She never understood why the woman had done that or why Grandma Greene kept it.

She looked down at the stick laying on a piece of pale blue cotton cloth, actually a bag for the stick embroidered with moons and stars. The stranger had probably pretended to be a witch or something. Adults and their fantasy games; it seemed to be getting worse as adults now pretended to be vampires.

Grandma Greene’s antique silver, seven-armed candelabra stood at the front of the table. She reached out and touched the white taper candles. Jasmine, a sniff of the wax told her, one of Grandma Greene’s favorites for meditating. She claimed the scents and the soft candlelight helped her focus and calmed her mind.

The heavy table had a drawer. Inside the drawer lay an array of different colored candles in long wood boxes. Nita opened several of the boxes and found each box contained candles of a particular scent. She read the labels on several of the boxes—lavender, amber, rosemary.

She wandered over to where Dawn sat on the comfortable desk chair still leafing through the address book. Do you know any of those people?

Something passed over Dawn’s face—uncertainty, maybe—before she spoke. I recognize some of the names. I’ll give them a call, see if they know where Grandma Greene might be.

Sounds good. While you do that I’ll take another look through the house.

Fifteen minutes later Dawn walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch. No one has seen her today, no one knows of any place she meant to go. What little color had been in Dawn’s face had drained away. We have to find her, Nita. We have to. She jammed her fist against her mouth as if to hold in a wail of fear.

Fear churned in Nita’s gut. She had lost Chelsea to violence, but Dawn had lost her entire family to violence. She went to Dawn, draped an arm over the slender shoulders and pulled her close. We’ll find her. As Nita spoke the words, she hoped she wasn’t lying.

****

A concrete building, so gray and ugly that it stood out among the older clapboard and brick businesses on either side of it, housed the sheriff’s department. Bland as the outside of the building, the lobby stank of old cigarette smoke emanating from the smudged beige walls. The receptionist sounded tired and barely raised her eyes to Nita as she picked up the phone’s handset. Elbow propped on the cluttered desk, she more leaned into the handset than held it as she called Deputy Sommers.

Ten minutes later, according to the fly-specked wall clock, Deputy Sommers lumbered from the hall and waved for them to follow him. The man’s office reflected the man himself, sloppy. Nita glanced at the chair in front of Sommer’s desk. Dried spots of something speckled the back half of the seat. She perched on the edge. Dawn settled on the front of the cushion of the chair next to Nita.

Deputy Sommers plodded around his desk and, grasping the armrests, lowered himself into his chair. He looked bored: his heavy lidded eyes at half-mast, his jowly face sagging.

He appeared to be nearly asleep as Nita related her concerns.

After she finished, he stared blankly at her. She finally opened her mouth to ask if he needed her to repeat everything when he spoke. Why do you think somethin’ happened to Mrs. Greene, Sergeant Slowater?

Nita sucked in a deep breath and forced her voice to sound calm as she again went over her concerns slowly, meticulously. "Dawn and I confirmed our lunch date with Grandma Greene last night. We have regular lunch dates with her. We always picked her up at her house. She knew we had something exciting to tell her.

When we arrived at the house we found the front door unlocked and the back door standing open. We couldn’t find her purse, her wallet, or her keys anywhere, but her car is in the driveway. There may have been a struggle in the kitchen. She has a really heavy kitchen table and it appears to have been shifted. One of the chairs seemed to be out of place. Grandma Greene is very particular about her house and keeping everything in its place.

He drummed the end of an ink pen against his desk blotter.

How badly was the table shifted out of place?

Nita met his pale eyes peering out through rolls of fat. If Dawn and I didn’t know Grandma Greene as well as we do we may not have noticed it, she admitted, knowing how it sounded to a cop.

He tossed the pen to the middle of the desk and it slid from view beneath a jumble of papers. So far, Sergeant, you haven’t given me anything to get excited about. Sounds like maybe a friend came by and picked her up.

Nita shook her head. She would not have gone. She knew we were coming.

How old did you say Mrs. Greene is? His thick lips pooched out. On Dawn it looked cute; on the deputy it looked ugly.

She is eighty-five, Deputy Sommers, but in good health and possessing a solid memory. She glared at him with distaste. Someone should tell him he’s got a big mustard stain just south of his uniform shirt collar, and he really needs to learn how to iron. He’s a disgrace.

In the gravelly voice of a man who smoked four packs of cigarettes a day and probably drank too many beers, he said, Sounds like you’re tryin’ to say someone done went and kidnapped Mrs. Greene. Why would anyone want to do that? Does she have a lot of money or maybe a wealthy relative?

No, Nita said through gritted teeth. Except for her car, house and furniture, Grandma Greene doesn’t own much. I believe she lives on a pension. She lives a pretty simple life, but that doesn’t change the fact something has happened to her. We were to pick her up at eleven and go to lunch at twelve. That was four hours ago. Since then she hasn’t come home and she hasn’t phoned.

Deputy Sommers shifted and his chair protested. Have you called around to see if she’s at a friend’s house?

She gave a sharp nod. "One of the things we did when we couldn’t find her. We took her address book and phoned everyone within a hundred mile radius. They were all concerned when Dawn explained why she called. None of them had any idea where she might be."

Does Mrs. Greene have any mental illness that might cause her to wander off? Like maybe Alzheimer’s or somethin’?

"No, Grandma Greene, as I’ve said, is mentally competent, Deputy Sommers."

When he moved again his gut--that overhung his belt--swayed. Old folks get forgetful.

Merlie Greene may be elderly, but her mind is sharper than yours, she lashed out as she surged to her feet. She placed her palms flat on his desk and leaned over them. I believe someone has abducted Grandma Greene.

He shoved his chair back and lumbered to his feet, his right hand resting on his holstered weapon. You need to calm yourself down, Sergeant Slowater. So far you haven’t told me nothin’ that makes me think anyone took Mrs. Greene anywhere against her will. The only thing you’ve told me is a grown woman decided to leave her house and either deliberately, or accidentally, left her front door unlocked, her back door open, and her car in her own driveway.

He stretched his neck, an angry gander about to strike. "I’ll make a note of your concern. Now why don’t you go on home? Give me a call if you find any real evidence that something has happened to Mrs. Greene; until then I have work to do." He dropped back into his chair and shuffled some papers.

Nita pushed upright, her jaw clenched, nostrils flared, glad her swarthy Native American skin didn’t easily show the heat of her anger. You don’t care, do you?

Red flamed across his jowly cheeks and his lips hardened into an angry slash. I’ll do what I have to do, Sergeant, but I'm not going on a wild goose chase, wastin’ time huntin’ that old nig... that old woman.

Fists clenched, she held them rigidly at her sides. What exactly is your problem with Mrs. Greene, Deputy?

She’s trouble, he spit out. She’s caused trouble for the past two years; her and them damn women poundin’ on drums at all hours of the night, killin’ her neighbor’s cat.

Nita narrowed her hazel eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He smirked as he sank back into his chair. If you don’t know what I'm talkin’ ‘bout, you don’t know Mrs. Greene near as good as you claim. Good day, Sergeant.

Dawn stepped up beside her and placed a gentle hand on Nita’s forearm. Come on. We’re wasting time here.

Furious, Nita spun on her