CHAPTER ONE

March 2059

Covington, Georgia

“I’m coming,” Kathryn murmured and then rolled over, nuzzled further beneath the quilt, and drifted back to sleep.

A few moments later, the chimes sounded again, twice in succession, and Kathryn opened her eyes, rubbing the fatigue away. She started to poke her husband, in hopes he would crawl out of bed on this chilly morning, but her elbow met empty space.

She glanced over at where he generally slept, and then at the clock on the nightstand. Seven o’clock, the bright red digital display read. Odd, she thought, as she threw the quilt back and slid to a seated position; Robert is usually home from work by now.

The musical chimes of their doorbell rang again.

“I’m coming!” She quickly donned her pajamas and darted down the stairs, adding in a whisper, “Keep your drawers on!” A thought settled in her brain that Robert simply forgot his key, but as she approached the front door, she saw a note from him taped there.

“So, he didn’t forget his key after all.”

She pulled the note down and smiled as she read, the early morning visitor momentarily disregarded.

Kat, have taken the little ones to breakfast. They were up when I came in, and you looked like you could use a little extra sleep. Be home soon. Rob

Rob may not be the most passionate of men, she thought, but even after five years of marriage, he is very courteous.

He worked third shift, and was undoubtedly fatigued when he came dragging in early in the mornings, yet he still took time to think about her. Well, if she continued on her current road of success, she would repay his kindness by offering him the prospect of early retirement.

The chimes sounded again, accompanied by a shout from the other side of the door. “Mrs. McMurray? Are you there?”

“Wait a minute,” she murmured, “if Robert didn’t forget his key, who’s this then?” Although they lived in a respectable neighborhood, it didn’t mean she could safely open the door to strangers. Too many wackos in the world, by her estimation.

Besides, why would the caller ask for her and not Robert? That could only mean the man knew she lived there; yet there was nothing familiar about his voice. If it were a burglar, why call her by her name? Why call out to her at all? Why not just break in? To put her at ease? But that hadn’t worked. By calling out her name, he actually set her on her toes. Should she ignore him and dial 911? “And look like a complete idiot,” she countered quickly. She sighed heavily. Living with a mistrustful police officer had driven paranoia deep into her own brain. She sighed again and took a deep breath. There was only one way to dispel the suspicion and ease the worry over something that could turn out to be nothing. After all, her daddy had always told her that people feared the unknown, but if it became known, there was no cause for fear.

After another deep breath, she stepped toward the door. “I’m here. What can I do for you?” A quick inventory of the locks, all secure, brought her mental imbalance back on an even keel. There was no way a burglar could get through this fortification.

“Could you open the door, please, ma’am?”

Oh yeah, like I’m that stupid, she thought with a shake of her head. She wondered how many innocent women had simply obeyed an authoritative command to open up, only to have the door smashed inward and . . .

Kat ceased that thought in its tracks, but still shuddered at the possibility it could happen to her. She may not like the paranoia that accompanied being married to a police officer, but she certainly couldn’t complain that his directives kept her out of harm’s way.

“Since I’m not going to open the door, you can leave now. Unless you’re prepared to explain – very quickly – why you’re ringing my bell so early in the morning.” Kathryn moved to the adjacent living room to see if she could get a view of the man on her porch. She was a little more than curious whether the man would remain or if he would leave. If he left, she could all but conclude that he’d meant to crash in and assault her; however, if he stayed . . .

She couldn’t quite ascertain what the implications of that would be. What would a stranger want with her before seven in the morning? She lifted the living room curtain slowly and glanced out, but the glare of the rising sun made the figure barely distinguishable. She really wished Robert would concede to getting a peephole put in the door, but he said he never liked them, because it made it too easy for someone to stab you in the eye when peering out. That was a police officer for you, always obsessed about safety.

She glanced back at the door when she noticed that he’d started speaking again. She wouldn’t be able to hear him from here, so she moved back to the foyer.

“I’m sorry, but what did you say?”

“I said, this is the police, Mrs. McMurray. It’s Sergeant Kieran O'Sullivan. Do you remember me? Your husband and I work together. Could I please talk to you for a moment?”

Kathryn had met Kieran O’Sullivan only twice during her marriage. It was a name familiar to her as her husband’s superior. Definitely a good name to use if someone wanted to gain entrance into their home. She shook the suspicion away again and moved back to the window. She lifted the curtain and tried harder to make out anything about the man standing at her front door. It wasn’t working. The sun was simply too bright. Well, that was one thing she was going to insist upon Robert installing – an overhanging eave. That way, sun or no, she would be able to see who was ringing her bell. She lowered her head and shook it in frustration. There had to be a way to establish if this was Kieran O’Sullivan.

When she looked up, the man was leaning over and staring at her through the window. It startled her, and she dropped the curtain back into place.

“Mrs. McMurray? Open the curtain. I’m sorry I scared you. I have my badge out so that you can call and verify my identity. Please, I really need to talk to you.”

Kathryn took several deep breaths to calm the rapid beating of her heart and moved slowly back toward the window. She reached out, and then pulled her hand back when she noticed how badly it was shaking. She took another calming breath and then reached out again. A little steadier, she noticed. Apparently, she thought with another deep, calming breath, this man isn’t a burglar, if he is this intent on speaking with me, and is willing to show me his face – and his badge. Badge?

He said he was a cop, but she ignored that. Anyone could claim being a policeman, but not everyone had a badge to show as proof. She drew the curtain aside and Kieran smiled. He removed his hat and smiled again, but it was an insincere effort; did not reach the sadness enveloping his gaze. He held his badge against the pane. “Call the squadron if you need too. I’ll wait.” She felt a shudder pass throughout her body, for though she now had no difficulty identifying her husband’s superior, she was suddenly even more loathe to move back to the door, to release the security of the deadbolts.

“Mrs. McMurray? Can I come in now?” Kieran asked, placing his hat back on his head. “If you’re more comfortable, I can call my partner from the car.”

Kathryn shook her head and lowered the curtain. By the time she retraced her steps to the door, there was no longer any doubt as to why he’d come. Her hands were shaking in despondency by the time she released the final deadbolt, and with a cry of anguish, she wrenched open the door and flung herself into the Sergeant’s embrace, tears of distress wracking her body.

“I’m so sorry, Kathryn,” Kieran whispered, holding her close.

CHAPTER TWO

March 2059

Wind River, Wyoming

“Mrs. Guthrie!”

“Yes, sir. I’m right here, sir!” The housekeeper bustled into the study, eyeing her boss with wary unease. He was drinking too much today. She understood why well enough, but since he wasn’t at all familiar with bourbon, it was having a displeasing effect on his disposition.

“Oh,” he said, stumbling toward the chair at his desk. “Get rid of everyone,” he said, his words already beginning to slur. “I want them all out of my house now!”

“But, sir,” Mrs. Guthrie said gently, “they’ve only come to pay their respects. Surely you–”

“Get rid of them, Mrs. Guthrie. I can’t do it, whatever it is they think I’m supposed to do, I just can’t. Not today. I can’t.” He took another gulp of the fiery liquid, gasped, coughed, and then took another swig. He’d heard that drowning one’s sorrows was the best remedy at a time like this, and he fully intended to saturate himself so that he would sink straight to the depths of Hell. His mind was already there, so why not let his body join along. I’m not thinking straight, he thought as he missed the chair he was aiming for and landed with a loud thump on the carpet. He looked up in confusion.

“Sir, should you–?”

“Go away, Mrs….Mrs….”

“Guthrie, sir.”

“I know, now go away now, Mrs....”

“Guthrie, sir.”

“I know! Go away!”

“Certainly, sir, and I’ll be happy to take my leave of you, but perhaps I’d best take the bourbon along as well. What little there is left, that is.”

“Touch it and you’re fired!”

“Drinking yourself into a stupor isn’t going to bring–”

“Say it, and I’ll kill you!”

“Aye, well, you’ll certainly be regretting this behavior come morning, and I will, for certain, be making you.”

“Go away!” Dalian said through gritted teeth.

“Aye, sir, and I’ll see to the guests for you,” she said, backing toward the study door. “And I’ll make certain you’re not disturbed. Not that anyone would want to be in your company right now.”

The door closed softly, leaving Dalian Rivers alone with his drink and his mourning. He pushed himself onto unsteady legs, spotted the chair, and took careful aim, plunking his butt soundly into the seat. The bourbon bottle tipped during his efforts and a small bit spilled onto his pant leg before he could right it. His brow furrowed in confused irritation, as the odor drifted into his nostrils, then he noticed the bottle of amber liquid grasped in his hand. How did that get there? He wondered. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” He lifted the decanter and swallowed another substantial gulp, then lowered the crystal container, gasping. The burning subsided in his throat and the warmth enveloping his stomach intensified. His head suddenly felt too heavy for his shoulders, so he let it fall back on the headrest. He stared at the ceiling, but the splatters of paint rapidly began configuring into the shape of his dead wife and unborn baby, so he pulled his head up. It was taking a Herculean effort to keep his skull steady, so he finally gave up and let it collapse onto the desk.

Then the tears started falling.