Treadwell: Sheltered in the Foothills of Southern Indiana, a Reclusive Woman Is Pushed to Her Limits by the Savage Invasion of Ruthless Drug Dealers

By Dana Joy Wyzard

After living for sixty years in the cabin of her birth, Nelda Pike is as resilient and self-reliant as she needs to be. Like other residents in the backwoods town of Treadwell, she guards her anonymity with a fierce tenacity and a shotgun.
When she discovers a terrified young woman stumbling beside the country road, Nelda goes against her better judgment and offers temporary sanctuary. As the only witness to her mothers brutal murder, seventeen year old Laura is running for her life.
Successfully tracking her to Neldas secluded cabin, the killers forcibly abduct Laura and disappear into the backwoods.
Enraged, Nelda reaches out to her lifelong friend, Wosie Mae - a woman as irascible and indomitable as Nelda herself for help.
Together, two old women with shotguns, and a geriatric hound, are now on the murderers trail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483603667

Dana Joy Wyzard

Born and raised in New Albany, Indiana, Dana lived for sixty years in the four room house her father built when she and her siblings were born. Living on the outskirts of the city limits and within miles of the commonly named Cabin Town, she became familiar with the local legends and lore of those whose personal lives were closely guarded by the hills of southern Indiana. Her father insisted that his daughters and son learn how to take care of themselves. In his eyes, this meant changing oil in the car, gapping sparkplugs, raising animals and becoming marksmen with rifle, pistol and shotgun. “Looks don’t matter when it comes to survivin’,” was one of his saying that is quoted in her story. After working for the City of New Albany Fire Department, she and her husband, Joe Wyzard, an Assistant Fire Chief, retired to Hernando, Florida where she published her first book.

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Copyright © 2013 by Dana Joy Wyzard.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/06/2013

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

chapter TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Thank you, dear Joe,

for spending a long winter in stealth mode

while I concentrated on my writing.

And a special thanks to Sandie,

who pushed me into publishing.

CHAPTER ONE

The wooden posts supporting the wire enclosure around the chickens were starting to split from the dry, summer heat. This, she could fix. But the weight of the ten-foot long tree limb that had fallen onto her clothesline during the night was another matter.

Thicker than a fat woman’s thigh, Nelda estimated. It’ll weigh forever.

Lifting it, sliding it and pushing was not succeeding. She attempted one last time to pull it from its resting-place, but it wouldn’t budge.

Sometimes, Tommy, I miss Earl. He never did learn how to plant or hoe, but he sure could lift and carry. We worked well together.

Tommy stopped mid-stride and turned in her direction, staring at the woman before him.

The Indian Summer was already taking its toll on her hair and it wasn’t even 8 a.m. The wiry gray tendrils plastered themselves to the sweat on her forehead and neck, making her itch.

The bandana she pulled from the pocket of her rolled up trousers was already too moist to dry her face, but it felt good to rub it along the back of her neck for a moment.

No time for scratchin’, she said as she knelt on the ground. She deftly wrapped the ten-gauge wire around the last of the weathered posts. Using Earl’s pliers, she twisted the ends of the wire together until the splits in the wood squeezed tightly and the cracks disappeared.

Damn, my back, she exclaimed as she straightened and pushed a fist into the lower part of her spine. Oh, right there.

Tommy watched in silence as she kneaded the spot where the pain was intense.

The clothesline bounced another inch, catching her attention. With every minute that passed, the weight of the limb stretched the nylon cord closer to the ground. The dead leaves on its lifeless branches rustled with the motion, reminding her of Gladys’ dry cough.

Nothin’ we can do now, Tommy, til it hits the ground and I can saw it into firewood.

Nelda shoved Earl’s pliers into the opposite pocket of her work jeans, stamping her bare feet until the circulation returned to her legs.

I’m goin’ down to check on Gladys. You comin’?

Unconcerned, Tommy strolled to the patch of shade beside the old car and sat down. Licking an orange paw, he wiped the last of his breakfast from his whiskers, purring with satisfaction.

Stepping into the sagging lean-to she shoved her boney feet into Earl’s leather shoes that always rubbed the tips of her long toes.

It’s sure easier goin’ to Gladys’ than it is comin’ back, Tommy. Downhill and I’m there. Comin’ back, tells me I’m not fifty anymore.

It wasn’t that Nelda loved hearing her own voice in her ears, or believed that her orange cat understood or cared. She knew her voice was "Lower than a woman’s voice has a right to be", she always thought. But she preferred her own company to that of others, and usually agreed with whatever she said.

What served as a steep driveway from Nelda’s house to Old Mill Road was nothing more than hard packed dirt, ruts and rocks, making her regret wearing the hot shoes.

My feet’s gonna be all blistered up, slidin’ around in these things, but it ain’t proper to go visitin’ bare footed. It’s bad enough I forgot my hat. I’ll be wrinkled ’fore my time.

At sixty years of age, she didn’t look a day over seventy and couldn’t have cared less. In an area where looks weren’t as important as survival, she only cared about what mattered.

Hopping the open drainage ditch that ran in front of Gladys’ property, she noticed that none of the windows had been opened to catch a moment of early morning air. The yard was oddly vacant of Gladys’ routine actions. No grain had been scattered for the chickens. No coffee grounds had been tossed into the Marigolds.

No one in the hills ever used the front door. Intended only for strangers, the law, or the preacher, a knock on the front door was always followed by the usual question inside the house: Who could that be? followed by various faces peeking between the curtains.

Nelda hurried to the back door and knocked, then tried the doorknob. Gladys’ door was rarely locked, but this time it was. Cupping her calloused hands around her face, she pressed against the glass and peered inside. The usual sights greeted her. Yellow wallpaper peeling in the corners, the old counter-top, scrubbed clean, but no coffeepot on the stove.

It’s nigh on to nine o’clock. She should already be… . Nelda stepped into the side yard and turned to stare at the curtained window to Gladys’ upstairs bedroom.

Picking up one of the rocks at her feet she hurled it at the second floor window.

Off her aim, it went wild and hit the window’s wooden frame.

I’ll wait. That was enough noise to get her curious.

When no face appeared between the curtains, the second rock found its mark. Not large enough to crack the glass, it was loud enough for Nelda to hear the ping from where she was standing.

The third one shattered the lower pane.

Aching back and blistered toes forgotten, Nelda ran to the back door and shoved her shoulder into the wood while twisting the knob. She had created enough noise to wake the dead.

The thought made her whirl around, looking for something heavier to completely shatter the door’s window.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled the pliers free. The glass shattered instantly and she used the pliars to swipe the sharp edges from the bottom of the frame. Reaching her arm through the opening, she found and turned the latch. When the door slammed into the inner wall, Nelda was already in the kitchen, moving toward the living room. When she reached the stairs, she paused long enough to take a breath, then took each riser as quickly as her throbbing hips would allow.

Gladys! she called down the short hall. No answer came from the bedroom. The silence was more unnerving than a cough or a groan would have been. Instinctively cautious now, Nelda stepped inside the bedroom door, then immediately froze, mid-step. She leaned against the door for support and pressed her forehead against the cool wood.

Gladys was beyond caring about broken windows, doors, or the fact Nelda’s homemade liniment hadn’t eased her nagging cough.

Oh, God. Oh, God, she spoke as if beseeching the oak grained panel. Shocked with the unexpected sight of death, Nelda’s stomach roiled; her knees threatened to buckle.

On the bedside table sat an old, blue, rotary-dial phone. Nelda also knew there was an equally old, yellow phone in the kitchen.

I don’t think my knees can make it downstairs, she said, hating herself for such weakness. Okay, old woman. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Now buck-up and act like you’ve got some sense.

Keeping her eyes averted, Nelda hurried across the space between the door and the table, and blindly grabbed for the phone. Jerking it to her chest she forced her trembling fingers to dial 9-1-1.

Sheriff’s department. Debra Swan, speaking. What’s the emergency? The monotone voice that answered, presented an attitude of indifference.

This is Nelda Pike, out on Old Mill Road. I just came to check on my neighbor and she’s…

Name please?

. . . Nelda Pike.

Swan sighed. "Name of neighbor, honey, and location."

In a calmer situation, the patronizing honey would have gotten a ballistic reply, but Nelda had more on her plate than a condescending public servant to deal with.

Gladys Redding. The house with the purple birdbath in the front yard and bird houses in the back. I think she’s… she passed away.

A car will be there momentarily. Please await its arrival, was perfunctory provided before Debra Swan disconnected the call.

Not knowing what she should do, she decided not to waste time while waiting, Nelda replaced the phone, grabbed the magazine and newspaper that Gladys had placed beside it, and edged herself around the bed. Kneeling on the the hardwood floor she used the outdated issue of PEOPLE to sweep the broken glass onto a section of yesterday’s newspaper.

Trying not to look at the face of her neighbor, she plucked the last shards of glass from the handmade Rail Fence quilt that covered Gladys’ body. Feeling she was invading upon a moment that called for the respect of privacy, Nelda felt the broken glass would present a hazard to those who would soon be entering the room.

There’s nothing private about dyin’, ol’ girl, Nelda said when she finished. I wish I could make it different for you. You would have wanted the same for me.

Convinced that going downstairs was now possible, she reached the kitchen, and dropped the glass-filled newspaper into the garbage pail beside the stove.

Removing the broom and dustpan from the closet she began sweeping the broken glass from the door that had landed on the faded linoleum floor.

Once you’re dead, you’re up for grabs, she grumbled, feeling oddly quarrelsome. Outsiders in your home, rootin’ through your possessions—handlin’ your body.

Taking her anger out on the broom, the bristles scattered more glass than it collected.

After Earl died, it was like he had never existed as a person with rights. I guess the dead don’t have rights. Taking her anger out on the job at hand, the glass was quickly disposed of.

You the one that called? The officer’s voice startled her. Consumed by her stress, she hadn’t heard the heavy cruiser approaching on the gravel road—and suddenly there he was: standing at the open kitchen doorway and peering inside, as if looking for the person she had been talking to.

And so it begins, Nelda said as she propped the broom against the counter.

What? According to his name tag, ‘Sergeant C. Bristol’s rotund belly was now entering Gladys’ home, followed by the florid face of a man too used to his alcohol.

I said, ‘she’s up stairs’. Nelda pointed toward the front of the house and remained in the kitchen while the sergeant sauntered forward. There was nothing more she could do. Her time with Gladys was now at an end. Anything from here on would be the responsibility of those in charge.

She returned the broom and dustpan to the closet and stared at the bags of cat food, bird food, and dog food the old woman kept stored inside.

Stray animals—the one thing we always agreed on. Nelda stared at the full supply of feed and winced at the memory of their shared crusade. I wouldn’t have my Tommy if he hadn’t limped his way into her yard.

What? Again, the sergeant’s appearance startled her, and he didn’t travel lightly on his feet. She was shocked that the labored breathing from his exertion on the stairs hadn’t notified her of his approach.

What? Nelda asked.

You a relative of the deceased?

No, Nelda answered. She always said she was the end of the line. Personally, I don’t know of any relatives.

I radioed for a coroner, he said. And you’re the one that called it in?

I am. I had planned to make a mustard plaster for her chest. That’s when I found her. She’s been awful congested. Had it for weeks and now…

"Thin build. Five-feet-five. One-hundred-fifteen pounds. Aged and sun damaged skin. Work jeans rolled to the knees and a man’s plaid shirt; clod hopper shoes, gray hair in need of a comb . . . ." Cliff mentally appraised the woman before him. He was proud of his ability for details and could almost hear himself on the stand: Yes, judge. I made mental notes, he would one day say. That is, if a case ever called for his astute observational skills. Then he’d get the recognition he deserved.

Probably a heart attack, he said. Too much coughing for too long, he tapped his chest with a thick thumb. The ol’ ticker can’t keep up. Anywho, could I trouble you for a glass of water?

Nelda nodded toward the sink and pulled a clean jelly jar out of the cabinet.

Draining the glass, he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. We’ll handle this now. You’re free to go on home. If we need to get in touch with you… ?

I live across the road… up the hill… Nelda Pike.

Earl Pike’s wife?

I was.

After all these years… the officer began. I still remember that wreck. About ten years ago, right? Damn kid on a tractor. No lights. Your husband was in a little Ford Ranger—white, right? Didn’t stand no chance. And the kid…

Nelda felt an immediate urge to be anywhere but in this house, listening to this man nonchalantly pulling memories from her unwilling mind. Without a word, she left him alone in the kitchen, still talking.

Her legs felt like rubber bands and she hated the feeling. She carefully stepped over the drainage ditch on Gladys’ side of the road—the same one she normally hopped over. The sight of gravel dust appearing above the tops of the trees announced an approaching vehicle and Nelda stood where she was, waiting for the car to pass.

When the car swung into Gladys’ short driveway, she turned and watched another stranger exit his car and enter the house.

This is ridiculous, and I ain’t leavin’ Gladys alone in her own damn house with a bunch of strangers clomping through.

She hopped the same ditch she barely managed to step over a moment before and retraced her steps. As she approached the open door of the house, she heard the man’s voice inside, requesting an available mortuary van.

Re-entering the kitchen, she saw the refrigerator door standing open. Sergeant Bristol—his body bent forward—was looking inside, lamenting his fate.

I could sure go for a bologna sandwich ’bout now. I missed breakfast.

The second man closed his cellphone, tapped the preoccupied officer on the shoulder, and extended his hand toward Nelda.

I’m Dan Harrell, ma’am: The coroner. Dan leaned forward and noticed the paleness of the woman’s skin. Are you all right? Is there something I can get you? Water? Perhaps you should sit down.

He stepped to the table and quickly pulled out a chair.

Are you a relative? He motioned toward the chair, but Nelda remained in the middle of the floor.

No. I’m…

She’s just a neighbor, Dan. Sergeant Bristol closed the refrigerator door. I told her she could go home—we’d take it from here. Don’t really need the added aggravation of lookey loos.

Pointedly shooting a look of disgust toward the preoccupied Sergeant, Dan returned his attention to Nelda. Like I was saying, I’m the coroner, Dan Harrell, and I’ve just requested a van from the mortuary for your friend. If it will make you feel better, you can stay here, he pointed to the chair. Stand outside in the fresh air, or—it’s perfectly alright if you need to return home.

The van, she said, ignoring his suggestions. Will it be here soon?

Yes ma’am, the coroner answered. We’ll be taking her to the mortuary from here. Some folks find it kind of… disconcerting, but it’s just procedure. If you want, you can say goodbye to your friend before the van gets here.

Not proper procedure, Dan. Sergeant Bristol said, leaning against the refrigerator, his arms crossed above his paunch.

No, but thank you. Nelda replied, ignoring the presence of the Sergeant. I’ve already said my goodbyes. I’ll just wait outside the door—nearby, she added, for the benefit of the pompous C. Bristol.

When the first sign of gravel dust rose above the trees again, a nondescript van soon appeared and pulled into the driveway. Two attendants got out, nodded to her, and entered the house.

After a short wait, Nelda watched as her friend’s draped body was slid into place in the back of the van.

Sergeant Bristol hurried past Nelda and entered his car. Maneuvering around the coroner’s car and the mortuary van, he backed out of the drive, making sure he would be the first official car in line. The van followed.

Coroner Harrell closed the kitchen door and stopped at her side.

Is there anything I can do for you?.

Thank you Mr. Harrell, but I’m fine, she answered, reminding Dan of tired soldiers standing guard at military funerals.

After the last of the official vehicles disappeared from her view, Nelda stepped over the ditch, removed Earl’s shoes and slowly climbed the dirt road that led to her home. Tom was nowhere in sight when she arrived. She hadn’t expected him to be, but would have preferred to have his company.

The heat of the day infiltrated the house, but Nelda didn’t notice. If anything, she felt chilled and lethargic. She pulled the old afghan from the back of the couch, wrapped it around her shoulders and curled into a ball. Not until the lack of light inside the house told her the sun was setting, did she finally try to rise.

Her joints rebelled as she slowly worked away the stiffness, returned the afghan to the back of the couch, and walked into the kitchen where Tommy was impatiently waiting outside the screen door.

She had missed breakfast, wasn’t hungry by lunch, but her stomach had other ideas for supper. She lifted the heavy, cast iron skillet to the stovetop for her evening meal.

The eggs sizzled in the melted bacon grease as the old toaster spit the darkened toast into the air. Tommy rubbed against her legs, knowing he would share in the meal, and followed her as she carried her plate to the old Formica topped table.

She couldn’t explain the listlessness that had taken over her body and mind, and she wasn’t one for introspection. Action was her friend.

Tommy was insistent he be the one to get the last bit of egg. His purring was loud in the silent kitchen; his thick tail swiped the floor as he finished eating.

Lazy and hungry. Nelda used her long toes to caress the orange fur at her feet, then scooted her chair away from the table.

Grabbing the keys that hung on a nail beside the door, she walked with purpose toward her car.

My feet can only take so much. Nelda grumbled while putting the car in reverse and backing out of the lopsided carport.

Within minutes, her headlights stroked the front of Gladys’ house. She opened the damaged back door and entered the darkened kitchen. Flipping on the overhead light she grabbed the empty coffee pot.

The bags of cat, bird, and dog food were recent purchases. Each one advertised the same weight: forty pounds. She tipped the bag of cat food first and filled the old percolator to the lip.

No animals showed themselves as she piled the food in the back yard near the edge of the dense woods, well away from the back steps. Even though the night gave the impression of solitude, she felt attentive eyes watching from the safety of the tree line.

Another trip inside and Nelda poured an equal amount of dog food into an empty concrete planter that would be empty again by morning. Raccoons, possums, skunks and foxes, would take their meal here during the night, none of which would care if it was eating foods designed for cat or dog. But, if Gladys had seen them with her own eyes—indiscriminatingly taking either choice, she would not have acted differently.

Everything gets hungry, she would have said, while persistently supplying the food.

The birdseed can wait til winter when there’s no free food in the fields. Nelda said to the shadows in the yard. I’ll take care of the rest, Gladys. I promise.

CHAPTER TWO

It was beyond Laura Kaplan’s comprehension how her entire life could totally evaporate in a matter of minutes.

Only months before, she had been experiencing the carefree life of an average teenager. She had believed that the cap and gown she wore the night of her high school graduation signified the beginning of a new and wonderful stage in her life. In retrospect, she could plainly see that the night she had looked forward to, had worked so hard for, had merely been the beginning of the end.

Her mother, Lauren Kaplan, had loudly cheered for her only daughter as Laura ascended the stage to receive her diploma. Her mother’s fiancé, Paul Bristol—along with his ever present son, Adam, had combined to give the illusion of normalcy.

Paul, with the stature of a bull, played the perfect foil to her mother’s petite frame and sweet nature. The son, a six-foot tall combination of strength and attitude, was a formidable presence and never far from his father’s side.

After presenting Laura with a beautiful watch to commemorate the occasion, Paul had thrown his romantic side into high gear and convinced Lauren that it was the perfect evening to end their six-month engagement.

What had started as a graduation celebration had deteriorated into a taudry wedding ceremony in the shabbily appointed office of the Justice of the Peace.

Overwhelmed by the turn of events, Laura and her mother found themselves separated—Laura shoved to the edge of the action by the exuberant Paul.

The ink had not yet dried on the marriage certificate before the festivities abruptly ended.

Within twenty-four hours, Paul positioned himself as ‘man of the house’, and his earlier, easy-going personality was replaced by a lightning fast anger neither she nor her mother had known existed.

Within a week of the nuptials, her mother had taken to her bed, constantly exhausted, pale and lifeless. Laura assumed the daily household duties and tried, unsuccessfully, to convince her mother to visit their family doctor.

Vitamins, mom. Laura pleaded. Maybe that’s all you need. Maybe the doc will give you a shot of something, or find out why you’re so tired, but you need to go.

Your mom’s fine, Paul—forever close at hand—said. You need to take that diploma of yours and get a job. I’ll take care of your mom.

Adam was an immediate addition to the household and Laura experienced a constant feeling of impending doom in his presence. Going from discretely glancing at her, prior to the wedding, he now stared at her in such an emboldened fashion, that Laura’s skin crawled when he was nearby.

A week later, events escalated rapidly when Paul ordered Adam to take Laura out for the evening—supposedly to allow him and her mother some private time.

Between the two of you, Paul bellowed. We never have a moment to ourselves. Now get the hell outta here and don’t come back without calling first.

Adam insisted they go for a ride in his car, but Laura instinctively felt ill at ease with the arrangement.

You do whatever you want, Laura said as she walked away, leaving him to watch as she started to cross the street. I’m going to Lynn’s.

Immediately, Adam grabbed her shoulder and turned her around to face him.

I’ll let you choose how we get where we’re going, but I’m choosing where we go.

Taking her arm, he propelled her in the direction of town where the local lowlife sprang from one bar only to stagger toward another.

The further from her home they walked, the pitted sidewalk grew increasingly crowded as the atmosphere and the neighborhood deteriorated.

Entering an area of Louisville that Laura did not enter happily, colorfully adorned hookers boldly approached passersby or stood beside cars double parked in the street. Laura tried not to stare as they leaned in the open windows, and then climbed into the cars after a mutual agreement was reached.

Friends of yours? she asked belligerently, trying to tug her arm free that was still held within his grasp.

Hey honey. A flashy, barely dressed, redhead purred as they tried to pass. What would you pay for some of this? she asked, stepping forward and sliding her body against Adam’s side.

About two bucks, bitch. he answered, shoving her away.

Enraged, she spat in his direction, pointed a long fuchsia painted fingernail at Laura and snarled, That’s what you get for two bucks, prick!

Neither young woman was prepared for the sight of the switchblade that suddenly appeared in Adam’s hand, and both watched in disbelief as it quickly cut a strip of scarlet in the woman’s forearm.

Whether Laura was the one who screamed or not, the woman was suddenly holding her arm and bending forward from her waist as droplets of blood was absorbed into the sidewalk. A string of curse words and profanity spilled from her mouth, instantly drawing a crowd of onlookers. Instead of coming to her aid, several drunks moved closer and began chanting Cut her again! Cut her again!

Two barely sober males made timid attempts to step forward and subdue Adam, but quickly stepped back as he skillfully sliced again. This time, a thread of blood, mixed with foundation and blush, slid down the hooker’s pale cheek.

Sensing her loyalty lay with her own rapid exit rather than with the wounded woman, Laura used her free had to shove Adam into the gathering crowd and wildly ran in the direction that would take her toward her home. The sound of an approaching siren in the distance did little to calm her rapidly lunging heart, but she felt better, knowing that Adam would be arrested and taken out of their lives.

Rounding the last corner in her flight to safety, Laura was shocked to hear loud music coming from her normally quiet home. Total strangers were approaching the front door and boldly entering without knocking.

Following their wake, shoving aside those who were in her way, Laura rushed into the living room, looking for her mother. She immediately saw her across the crowded room, sitting on the edge of the camel backed sofa.

There was a black rubber tube wrapped around her upper arm and Paul knelt before her, inserting a needle into her vein and depressing the plunger on a syringe.

Mom! Laura screamed, racing to the sofa where she shoved Paul backward onto the carpet. What are you doing? Laura demanded as she fumbled to remove the tubing. Who are these people?

Honey, Lauren slurred. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what…

Her voice became suddenly coherent as she urgently asked her daughter, Where’s Paul? Is he gone? Tell me he’s gone.

I’m here, sweetheart, Paul immediately thrust himself between them and turned his attention to Laura. This is between me and your mom. Now get your ass into your room before I knock that look off your face, you little shit.

Frantically, Laura scanned the small yet crowded living room, hoping to