Chapter One
 
Thursday, Swain County, North Carolina, June, 2026
 
     A security guard. Zoe lowered her binoculars. Bouncing donkey balls. Since when did the Higher Education Life Potential School hire a security guard? So much for breaking into the building with no hassle.
     She raised the binoculars again and studied the man patrolling the grounds. Though too far away to see his face clearly, the floodlights illuminated his body. In his thirties probably, her age. Not overweight, held his head high as he walked, moving sure and steady, like a cheetah prowling his territory. 
     He stopped, looked around, right up at her position on the hillside. Zoe shrank further into the shrub where she hid, branches scratching her scalp and tangling in her hair. Ignoring them, she kept watching. He couldn’t see her up here; no way. She’d been quiet as a librarian, so he couldn’t hear her either. She was too far away to be detected.
     Why didn’t he move? He kept looking her way. He wouldn’t stay in this corner of the property all night, would he? No, there, back to walking, around the corner. Perfect. She tucked the compact field glasses into the fanny pack around her waist. She’d wait a few minutes and track him, see when he returned to this spot. He probably had a set route he patrolled.
     But maybe not. What if he returned, parked his butt right where she needed to be, and settled in for the night? Best to go now, while she had the chance. Gripping the bolt cutters she’d bought with the last dollars of her tip money, Zoe slipped from her hiding spot, crouched low, and ran down the hill. Close to the property, she tiptoed the few yards to the chain-link fence. A few snips and she had a hole big enough to slide through.
     A leg in, her shoulder, arm … she hissed as the sharp metal of the fence gashed her hand but forged ahead. This was the hard part. Entering the school would be a snap. The latch on the window of the women’s restroom near the faculty lounge had probably not been fixed since Zoe’s abrupt departure from the school. A good push and the window would give.
     Staying in the shadows, Zoe ran across the campus of H.E.L.P, the unfortunate acronym of the school’s name. Fancy word, campus. Some of her coworkers liked to use it. There were only two buildings on the property now, the school itself and an admin building. The rest of the compound consisted of a playground, a baseball field and a parking lot, with a fence surrounding the whole complex.
     Construction equipment and material filled a corner, ready to start work on the new wing. That must be the reason for a night security guard. Preparation for the project had begun before she’d been suspended; now it appeared to be in full swing.
Zoe gazed around. Though she’d only been gone two months, and June would be summer vacation anyway, she missed the place. A lump formed in Zoe’s throat. She loved her job as an art teacher at H.E.L.P. One day last spring, she’d taken her students to the very hill she’d just climbed down, and they lay on their backs and found animal shapes in the clouds. Fun times, and she’d do everything in her power to make sure there were more sky-gazing days in her future.
     All she had to do was get inside, get the file she needed. Then she could get her job back and get her life in order.
But most important, the information in that file would stop an evil man from attacking another victim, as he’d done to her seven months ago in November.
     Don’t think about that now. Focus. Pressing her shoulders against the building under the window, Zoe took a deep breath and chanted her mantra. I am brave like the badger and twice as fierce.
     After the shit hit the fan in the Secure States of America six years ago, the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians in North Carolina performed special healing ceremonies and allowed visitors to attend. People were encouraged to discover their spirit guide, and Zoe picked the Honey Badger, considered “The World’s Most Fearless Creature” by the Guinness Book of World Records.
     Fearless. Be fearless now. Turning, she stood on her tiptoes, reached up and shoved the window. Just as she suspected, it opened easily. Grab the ledge, pull herself up …
     “Stop right there. Out of that window.”
     Shit. Zoe dropped to the ground into a crouch and turned toward the voice. How did that guard sneak up on her? A light hit her face and she raised her hand to block it.
     “Stand up.”
     She did, keeping her hand over her eyes.
     “What are you doing on this property?”
     Double shit. The guy sounded pissed.
     “I’m a teacher. I forgot paperwork, drove all the way here, and left my keys at home. I need to get into the building for a minute. I’ll show you my badge. Want to move that light out of my eyes?”
     He lowered the beam, and she pulled a plastic badge from her pocket.
     Not hers. Last semester she’d volunteered to assist the human resources specialist, and part of her job had been to order badges. One of the teachers had a divorce name change, and Zoe had shoved the woman’s old badge into a drawer. When the principal put her on “indefinite leave” in April, she’d dumped the contents of her desk into a box.
      Sorting through the box several nights ago, instinct told her to bring the ID along on this mission.
     Security Guy studied the plastic square, flashing his light in her face again to see if the photo matched. She caught a glimpse of his face and did a quick perusal of his body. Like she guessed, mid- to late thirties. Five o’clock shadow, dark hair. Tall, filled out his uniform well.
     “This doesn’t look like you. How did you get in here?” he demanded.
     “Through the front gate.”
     “It’s locked.”
     “No, it isn’t.”
     “Yes, it is. I just checked.”
     “You better check again. I’ll wait here.”
     “Uh-uh. Come with me.” He crooked his finger.
     Crap. Her lie about the gate was spur-of-the-moment improv. She hadn’t thought she’d need an escape strategy, other than her slip-out-the-same-way-she’d-come-in plan. The only reason she’d brought the fake ID was if a custodial worker caught her in the building and questioned her presence.
     Security Guy wasn’t about to let her go without a better explanation. Which she didn’t have. She swayed like she was about to fall, and when he reached for her, she stomped on his foot with strength born from fear, then rammed her knee into his groin.
     “Mother fuck.” He dropped to the ground on his knees.
     Pushing her short legs faster than she ever thought they’d move, Zoe ran for the fence.
     “Get back here!”
     Not a chance in hell. Zoe kept running and suddenly stumbled, landing on her hands and knees. She looked to see what tripped her, but there was nothing in sight. She tried to rise again but it was like someone tugged on her pants legs. WTF? With a heave, she pulled herself up and kept moving.
     Just a little farther. Where was that hole? There. She squeezed through, scraping the opposite hand this time but not stopping. Grabbing the bolt cutters from where she’d laid them on the ground, she raced past the shrubs, across the grass and onto the side street, not stopping until she saw her car, parked two blocks away in the dark lot of a closed gas station. Still moving, she pulled the clicker from her pocket and tapped frantically, wrenched the car door open and fell inside.
     Move. Fast. She dropped the keys, hit her head on the steering wheel when she bent to pick them up. Come on, clumsy, let’s go.
     Fumbling, she jammed the keys into the ignition, started the car and took off.
 
****
 
     Inside her house, Zoe locked the front door, leaned her back against it and slid to the floor. Holy crap, that was close. And futile. She didn’t make it inside. Tears of frustration poked the back of her eyes. It had been such a simple plan. Get into the admin office, pull up the list of conference vendors from Brenda’s computer and get out. Easy.
     Damn security guard. There was likely going to be one on the property every night now, with construction going on. Maybe she could wander into the building during the day. Find out when the custodian came to clean, if there was one in June. Act like she belonged, use that same ID, hope whoever was there had bad eyesight and didn’t look at the badge too closely.
     Zoe glanced at the Humane Society calendar on her wall and her heart sank. Only nine days until the Summer Teachers’ Workshop. She had to find Shitwad.
     She’d given her attacker the name which stood for Stupid Hyena Is Through With All Damage. Hyenas were aggressive animals, scavengers. Zoe assigned him this animal because anyone who molested an unwilling woman was a low-life predator.
And if she didn’t find this predator soon, he would strike again at the biannual conference, she knew. Attack another woman, put someone else through the agony she’d endured the past six months since he’d assaulted her. She had to stop him.
     Last November, Zoe had attended a teacher’s conference. A man attacked her, but he also drugged her so she couldn’t remember his face. It had to be one of the vendors, and if she could get the list of names of every person who was with each vendor company, she could get online and figure out who Shitwad was. That list was in the school, where she’d almost gained entry. Almost.
     The sound of her phone ringing made her yelp out loud. Damn. Did she leave the ringer on during her break-and-enter? Stupid and careless. The caller ID showed her mother’s number and smiling face. Great. Just what this evening needed. A dose of Melissa. Zoe wanted to settle her nerves with silence and a glass of wine, but if she didn’t answer, Melissa would leave a long message and call back in five minutes. Repeatedly.
     Zoe swiped the phone. “Hi, Mom.”
     “Hi, sweetie. You will never guess where I went yesterday.”
     “No, I probably won’t, so why don’t you just tell me?”
     “Well, you don’t need to be snippy.”
     Zoe leaned her head back and closed her eyes. No, she didn’t. “Sorry. Tell me where you went.”
     Melissa loved to travel. Since The Annihilation, citizens of the Secure States of America were able to ride super-fast shuttles and airplanes all over the country. But only in their country. An electronic shield covered the States, keeping Americans inside and everyone else out.
     In 2020, a group, never identified or caught, deposited a substance containing the Malik virus into the United States’ water supply, killing hundreds of thousands of Americans and leaving masses more brain-damaged.
     Two classes of people now occupied the country. Damaged Citizens, or DCs, lived among the rest of the population of Unchanged Citizens, or UCs. The travel restriction was put in place to contain the virus, or so the government said. Deliveries in and out of the country were done by high-power drones and autopilot ships and planes, and only select people got to pass through the shield and exit the states.
     Life changed, and anyone who wanted to survive adapted the best they could. One way the government pacified the citizens was to implement EzRide shuttle busses and EzFly airplanes. Both modes of transportation were free, fast, and easy to use.
Melissa took full advantage of the ability to move around the country and would gather her friends and depart her Indianapolis home for trips all over. Since she loved plants and flowers, they visited botanical gardens, greenhouses, went on garden tours, and did anything and everything related to flora.
     “I went to a bonsai display in Minneapolis. Magnificent! You would not believe how people can grow those tiny trees. I’ll send you pictures.”
     “Sounds like fun.” Zoe pulled herself off the floor and flipped open her laptop. Melissa would talk nonstop for at least ten minutes, and Zoe could use that time to half-listen and clean out her email inbox.
     Scrolling through the messages, her heart skipped a beat. A note from the court. She clicked it open and read it once, then again. A lot of legal jargon she didn’t understand, but one sentence she did.
     When you’re near to completing your anger control program, you must retain the service of an attorney before the court can further process your case.
     An attorney? Zoe clenched her fist. Those government assholes, expecting her to pay for a lawyer. Where was she supposed to get that kind of money?
     Chill. Control that temper. She pulled in a breath. Getting pissed and involved in a stupid road rage incident was why she was suspended and locked out of H.E.L.P. Why she couldn’t retrieve that list she desperately needed. She had to complete an anger control program before the school would consider allowing her to return to teaching, and the judge had told her she might need counsel, Zoe remembered.
     If you are unable to afford an attorney, the court will appoint one to you.
     “Honey, did you get that email I sent?”
     “What?” With an effort, Zoe tuned back into the conversation.
     “A flyer about an art contest. I got it in the mail. It’s addressed to you, but I accidently opened it. I scan-sent it to your email. The prize is ten thousand dollars, and it’s perfect for you. They want artists to pick a zodiac sign and present their interpretation with a twist. Because it’s sponsored by Twist Energy Drink company. Get it?”
     “I get it. I’ll check it out.” Zoe closed her laptop to shut out any more bad news.
     “What are you doing?” Melissa asked.
     “The usual. I’m off work tonight, so I’m cleaning up the house.”
     “Don’t throw anything away without checking it first,” Melissa said.
     “I know, you told me. We need to find the will and Becky’s other legal documents.” Zoe rested her head on the table. The burst of adrenaline that pounded through her body had left, leaving her legs shaking and a headache brewing.
     After her Aunt Becky died suddenly in January, neither Melissa nor her sister wanted to wade through the mess or put the house on the market to sell. After being attacked in November, dumped by her fiancé, Dean, in March, and losing her teaching job a month later, Zoe volunteered to live in and clean the house. Couldn’t be any worse than what had happened to her over the past months, and having a home so close to where she used to live was a blessing.
     Sort of.
     Becky was a recluse, and the family knew she had hoarding issues. They respected her lifestyle and didn’t nag her, but since she hadn’t allowed anyone to come inside her home for the past year, they didn’t realize the extent of her madness. Zoe lived only forty-five minutes from Becky and had been hurt when her aunt declared her home off-limits. She’d told them all she was cleaning and redecorating and even sent them pictures of partially done projects, promising to have a grand open house when renovations were complete.
     The pictures were taken at someone else’s house or downloaded from the internet. When the women had finally gone to Becky’s home after the funeral, Aunt Linda, Melissa’s sister, had raced to the back yard to vomit. Piles of newspapers and magazines created a maze. Mice skittered and cockroaches blatantly roamed, and both inhabitants left their mark with little pellets of poop everywhere.
     Becky’s safe deposit box, which should have contained the documents to wrap up her estate, only contained love letters and poems from one of Becky’s girlfriends when she was in the Navy, so Zoe’s mission was to find the paperwork.
     First thing she’d done was borrow a shop vacuum to hose up droppings. Then she stashed Becky’s moldy furniture in the garage until she could afford someone to haul it away, sold what items she could, bought a new bed, and called the little house home.
     Mounds of paper were moved to the back two bedrooms, and every day for the past two months, Zoe put on a face mask and carefully checked every book and piece of paper before throwing it into the trash.
     “Don’t rush,” Melissa said. “Cleaning is therapeutic. It will take your mind off your asshole ex-fiancé, Dean. And getting fired and losing your condo.”
     “Curse word. Put money in the jar.”
     Zoe automatically tensed when she heard her stepbrother, Zane, yelling in the background. After The Annihilation, Zoe’s father and brother died. Melissa married Troy and adopted his DC son Zane. Zoe tried to be part of her new family but just couldn’t let them in. Letting other people in meant pain, because sooner or later, everyone let you down. Or left you, or both.
     “I’m temporarily suspended, not fired,” Zoe said. “Once I complete the court-ordered program, I can get my job back.” Maybe. “Anyway, I have a job. I’m making okay money at Mario’s Place. I’m doing fine.
     The server job earned her just enough to pay the utilities, put gas in her car and buy cheap food. Really cheap food. Thank heavens for her meal allowance at Mario’s Place, though some days she couldn’t look at a dish of pasta without gagging.
     “Of course you’re doing fine.” Zoe gritted her teeth at Melissa’s placating tone. “You’re going to enter that contest, aren’t you?”
     “I’ll think about it.”
     Wrong answer to give the determined Melissa.
     “Now honey, you need to keep your spirits up. Wallowing in self-pity won’t do you any good. Stay busy. Put your energy into something positive.” Melissa would be waving her hand in the air as she talked and pacing her living room. “Have you heard from Dean?”
     “No, mom, I haven’t.” The pressure in her head increased and she rubbed her temples.
     “You should contact him. I’ll bet he misses you.” Melissa couldn’t or wouldn’t leave the subject alone, once she got on a roll. “Men are like that, you know. They get to a certain age, they need to run away, to find themselves. He’ll come to his senses, realize what a good life he had with you.”
     All he had to do was look up his ass. That’s where her ex-fiancé would find himself. Dean wasn’t coming back to her. His reason for taking off, the new job in Los Angeles—bullshit. Zoe knew why he left. Who wanted to be with a woman who woke up screaming most nights?
     “I don’t want to talk about Dean. I need to go, Mom.”
     “How about Troy and Zane and I come and help you clean next weekend?”
     The throbbing in her head spiked further, and Zoe headed to the bathroom for an aspirin. “Nope. I’m good. I’ll get it done by myself.”
     “Then you come here. Take a break. You remember Carolyn? Her son is coming to visit. He’s a nice guy. An accountant. Good steady job. We could all go to dinner. It takes less than an hour and a half for you to get here from Rache.”
     “What’s that? Can’t hear you, my phone’s cutting out.” Zoe stuttered on every other word to prove it.
     “I said…”
     “What? Sorry mom, you know how the reception is in these mountains. I’ll talk to you later.” Zoe disconnected and swallowed the aspirin. That was all she could take for the evening.
     A meow drew her attention to the kitchen. Vinnie the cat wobbled around the corner to greet her.
     “What have you been doing all day, little monster? You hungry?”
     Another meow confirmed, and Zoe headed to the pantry in the kitchen. The scruffy cat had wandered into the playground at school one day, then hid as the kids all rushed to grab him. Zoe had coaxed him to her with a piece of her lunch sandwich, wrapped the pitiful creature in a towel and took him to the vet on her way home. He had hypoplasia, a neurological condition that gave him walking and balance problems. One ear was badly torn, and he had numerous cuts and scratches.
     A fighter, the doc said, as he removed the ear and cleaned him up. That was the only way he’d survived and probably wouldn’t take to living indoors. But the little guy settled into Zoe’s place fine, and since she couldn’t find anyone searching for their lost cat, she kept him and named him Vincent Van Gogh, after the artist who also had only one ear.
     “How about cat food for you?” She pulled a can from the pantry. The bare pantry. “Might be cat food for me tonight, too. I’m out of leftovers from Mario’s. Any frozen dinners?” A peek in the freezer showed more empty space.
     Time to go shopping. Tomorrow she’d hit the grocery store on her way home from work and … yuck. Bright red letters on the wall calendar announced Friday’s evening agenda. Anger management class. Part of the anger control program the judge said she needed to complete before they’d consider dropping the charges.
     Zoe didn’t want to manage her anger. Rage was her friend. Fury kept her alive, drove her to keep going and reach her goal.         Find the man who attacked her at the teachers’ conference, stop him from harming anyone else, and get her job back. 
But she had to play nice and complete the court-ordered program. If the judge hadn’t lied, the charges would be lifted from her record after she finished, and life would go back to normal. Judges didn’t lie, did they?
     Peanut butter. Again. Zoe took the jar off the shelf and dug out a loaf of stale, white bread. It would have to do. While she ate, she read over the rest of her emails. She’d sent her teaching resume to several job sites, then pulled it down. No one would hire a teacher with charges pending. Why put herself through the humiliation of certain rejection?
     Then, she’d signed up at a few art sites, posting pictures of her oil paintings and watercolors in hopes of making sales. Anything to earn money.
      Junk and more junk in her inbox. Another email popped up. Her mom, sending a picture of a woman in a long, frothy green dress with a ridiculous amount of lace all over.
     Isn’t this a fabulous dress? It would look perfect on you. We can celebrate with a night on the town when you win that contest.
     Fabulous. Zoe wrinkled her nose. Fabulous if you liked a dress that looked like Grandma’s kitchen curtains and would itch like the devil. She clicked and read the email from the court again. A lawyer. Her stomach knotted around the peanut butter.
     To distract herself, Zoe pulled up the flyer Melissa sent and studied it. Ten thousand dollar prize for the first-place winner, with second and third place each receiving five thousand. Zoe planted her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her fists. Normally, she’d scoff at her chances of winning. But having this contest appear, at almost the exact time she desperately needed a large wad of money? Had to be karma smiling.
     But if she won, that money sure the hell wouldn’t buy a scratchy dress and dinner. The court wanted her to have counsel … fine. They’d provide her an attorney? Sure they would. Either some ready-to-retire senior who could care less about her case, or some kid fresh out of school who didn’t know shit.
     Nope. She’d hire the toughest lawyer, a tiger, to fight her case.
     And she’d hire a burglar to break into H.E.L.P. Now that she knew a guard was on the property, she’d be better prepared. Zoe settled in at her keyboard and put her hand down so Vinnie could lick a dab of peanut butter off her fingers. Where did one look to hire a thief?
 
****
 
     Grant fell into his kitchen chair and groaned. What a fucked-up night. He hissed with pain as he bent to untie his boots. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kneed in the nuts, but it hurt like hell. Probably did last time too. A good reason to avoid having his stones make contact with a hard object.
     Who was that crazy woman, and what was she after?
     He’d been hired to protect the construction supplies and equipment and told to stay out of the building. Technically, he should have called the cops on an intruder, but hell, he couldn’t just walk away and let her break in. His instincts fired up the minute he saw her trying to climb in that window and he’d reacted.
     And damn it, his instincts kicked in again as she ran away, and he’d unintentionally let loose a blast of his power at her. Not hard, thank God, but enough to trip her. If he hadn’t been in such pain he could have done more. That hadn’t ended well the last time he used his power on a person.
     The woman was not an employee, he knew that. The badge was fake and that story about needing to get paperwork, having tried to get in through the front gate? Lies. That gate was locked, he’d checked after she ran off, and he found the hole she cut in the fence. No way would anyone go through all that to retrieve forgotten paperwork.  
     His employer, Safety First of Rache, wanted him to alert them when he spotted suspicious activity, so he sent them a text immediately after the incident last night. Or this morning. Whatever the hell time it was. Night shift had his brain scrambled. His supervisor at Safety First told him to write a report and email it, said they’d have a cop out to look at the damage. Didn’t seem too upset, told him it was kids goofing around.
     Grant would send the report, modified. No way would he admit to having his balls racked by a girl. He’d tell them he couldn’t see a face and the intruder ran as soon as he played his light on him.
     Kicking his boot across the room, he winced as it hit the wall. Old Lady Bluehair in the next apartment would be knocking on his door any minute, wondering about the noise. Cheap paper-thin walls. The building was really for high-functioning DCs, but Grant’s brother Aaron had connections and got him in. The only other places he could afford were shitholes.
     Grant was grateful for the place but soon realized how much it pissed him off to see the residents every day and be reminded of the results of the Malik virus. Fucking terrorists. He kicked the other boot off, not as far.
     After getting discharged from the Army two years ago, Grant sold his house where he’d lived with his ex-wife. He planned to buy another home, but the minute the money from the sale hit his bank, the government froze all his funds. Said they would keep his assets until they determined the extent of the damage to the soldier he’d attacked.
     Bullshit. Medical expenses for the guy he busted up were covered by the Army. The government wanted to punish Grant. Other ex-military personnel had the same thing happen, had their bank accounts and other savings locked up, and posted their experience on forums. But Grant learned the freeze could only last three years at the most, so he’d wait them out.
     Hell. It was Friday morning. He should move his truck before the overworked social worker made his weekly visit to check on the residents. First time the guy came, Grant had just moved in. The jerk knocked on his door, woke him up, wanted to know if Grant owned the red pickup truck in the parking lot. Sensing the correct answer was “no,” Grant grunted out a negative response and shut the door in the guy’s face.
     Then he kicked himself for not noticing the absence of vehicles in the lot. Most residents didn’t drive and took the EzRide shuttle to work and everywhere else they needed to go. Cars in the lot belonged to visitors. Dumb move, leaving a hot-looking truck in plain view. Grant counted on the agency that monitored the residents to be busy enough not to stick their nose too far into his business, but he didn’t need to wave a literal red flag at them.
     Bart was his pride and joy, and he wouldn’t give her up. Julia named his truck, when he first brought it home. His wife had come out to the driveway, and he expected an ass-chewing for the impulsive purchase. Instead, she’d thumped the door and told him that was certainly a Big Ass Red Truck. Then she burst out laughing and named it Bart.
     Grant kept the name but had to change the gender to female, since he loved the vehicle. He’d never give her up, so on Fridays, inspection day, he parked the truck down the road until evening.
     Eyeing the bottle of sherry on the counter (his guilty pleasure he hid from everyone; real men didn’t drink sherry, for fuck’s sake, but he loved the taste), he fought with himself a full minute before he grabbed it and poured a shot. For the pain in his groin. The second shot, to dull the humiliation of letting a girl who barely reached his chin knock him to the ground and get away. The third shot ...
     He should be pulling on his vest, heading to work as a police officer, not taking off a stupid security guard uniform. Should be having coffee in the precinct ready room, getting his assignment, hitting the streets.
     With a Bad Conduct discharge from the army, that cop job wouldn’t happen. Only way to get the discharge changed: apply to the Discharge Review Board and request to upgrade to Other than Honorable Discharge.
     He’d contacted the Department of Veterans Affairs for help, and they told him the best path would be to claim the reason he attacked his platoon sergeant was due to psychological issues following his wife’s death. Do therapy, including anger management class, get counseling, and turn in a DD Form 293, “Application for the Review of Discharge or Dismissal from the Armed Forces of the United States.”
     Bunch of crap. He’d attacked Sergeant Murphy for violating his privacy. For digging through his personal possessions and finding those pictures of his wife. But Grant refused to tell anyone that. He’d suck it up and do the bullshit therapy and whatever else it took to clear his name, including telling people he was a nutcase.
     Tap, tap, tap. Grant groaned. He could try to ignore the sound at his door, but Old Lady Bluehair wouldn’t go away. The gentle knocks would increase in volume and then she’d start yelling. He opened the door.
     “Hello, Mrs. Henson, how are you?”
     She peered at him with eyes way too sharp to be a DC. Grant suspected she faked that status, too, in order to live in the building. He never saw or heard visitors at her place, and assumed she had no family. Like lots of people after the Annihilation.
     Fucking terrorists.
     “I’m fine,” Mrs. Henson said, cocking her head on her wrinkled neck. “I heard a noise. Are you all right?”
     “Yes. I banged something against the wall. Sorry to bother you.”
     “Didn’t bother me, honey, I’m up and kicking. I just made coffee. You want a cup?”
     “No ma’am, I work the night shift. I’m going to bed.”
     “Oh, that’s right, I keep forgetting. You poor boy. How about a bran muffin?” She held out a plastic-wrapped object. “Keeps things moving, if you know what I mean.”
     No, he didn’t want a bran muffin. Things moved just fine. But resistance was futile. If he didn’t accept now, the muffin would be waiting on his doorstep, and he’d squash it into a gooey mess with his boots the next time he went out.
     He took the muffin. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
     “You’re too thin. You need to eat more. Honey, if you have a few minutes, would you come take a look at my closet door? It’s not shutting right.”
     “Sure, I can do that.”
     Though he’d tried to lay low and not interact with the building residents, when he saw someone in need, Grant had to step up. He’d helped a man who had no idea how to use a power drill and was attempting to hang a flower box on his balcony and assisted a young woman who was trying to assemble a bookcase with a butter knife in the parking lot. Word got around, and he became the unofficial handyman.
     “Such a sweet boy. Your mother must be proud.”
     His mother would roll over in her grave if she saw him now. Everyone in his family had always been employed, at decent jobs. They weren’t slackers, and they sure the hell didn’t get kicked out of a training program because they lost their temper.
Mrs. Henson patted his cheek. The first time she did this, he’d flinched, but now, the soft, wrinkled hand gave him comfort. He suspected the human contact did her good, too.
     “I’ll give you a call on my day off and come over, check it out.” Though he could just yell and she’d hear him fine through the walls.
     As he showered, he commanded his brain to shut down and not think about the job or about a pipsqueak burglar. Whatever that weirdo was up to didn’t concern him. All he had to do was maintain security on the jobsite, not make waves. Follow the instructions he’d received from the court, behave.
     The warm shower, sherry and calming talk did their job. He almost had his earplugs in when his cell phone rang. Aaron. Another person he couldn’t ignore. His brother would also persist until Grant answered.
     “Whatcha doing, bro?” Aaron asked.
     “Standing in my bedroom playing with myself. What am I usually doing this time of day when you call and bother me?”
     “Too much information.”
     “Then stop asking dumbass questions. I’m getting ready for bed. I work nights, remember?”
     “I remember. Get in gear and get your paperwork going. You filled out that form yet?”
     Grant flicked the blank DD Form 293 on his kitchen table. Was that a ketchup stain in the corner? “Got it started.”
     “Sooner you finish, sooner you can quit that loser job. Be a real cop, like me.”
     “Thanks for the reminder.”
     “I know somebody that can help you fill it out. He had to do one, ten years ago, back when we were fighting overseas. Got PTSD really bad, flipped out, like you. Got his discharge upgraded. He’s good now.”
     “I didn’t flip out. And I can handle this by myself.” Grant moved the form around.
     He had to get on it. Jump through the hoops, follow procedures. Fill out the damn paperwork and submit it with his documentation listing his “issues,” according to item six. Get a copy of his diagnosis, a letter from him rehab counselor.
     “What are you waiting for?”
     “I’m working on it. Get off my ass. I’m seeing a counselor. She’s got me doing all this bullshit—reading books, group therapy.” Grant wandered over to the calendar hanging on his wall. “Got a class tonight. Anger management.”
     “Do you good. Hey, Dad wants to talk to you.”
     “I don’t want … ”
     Too late. The phone had been passed.
     “Grant.” Throat clearing. What his dad, Jack, did when nervous.
     “Dad. How are you?”
     “Fine. You?”
     “Good.”
     Dead silence.
     “So, what did you want?” his dad asked.
     “Aaron said you wanted to talk to me.”
     Fucker. “Not really. That is, I don’t not want to talk to you. I mean, I don’t have anything to say.”
     After the initial ass-chewing his dad had laid into him, he and Grant didn’t talk about his getting discharged. The few times that Aaron, Grant, and Jack were together and Aaron brought it up, Grant told him to shut his mouth and Jack left the room.
     His father didn’t want to acknowledge that one of his kids was a failure. But Jack didn’t want to talk about much of anything unpleasant. When his wife died from the Malik virus, part of him died too. The guy looked worse every day, like he’d just given up on life, and Grant screwing up added to his misery.
     Another round of throat noise. “Security job going okay?”
     Grant closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Of all the shit he had to endure since his discharge, speaking with his father was the worst. They used to talk together easy, laugh and joke. Fuckin’ awkward conversations now completely undid Grant.
     “It’s going okay. I’m working on that other stuff. Going to get my discharge status changed soon.”
     “Good. That’s good, son.”
     No, it wasn’t good, but it was the best he could do. “I’m headed to bed. I’ll talk to you later.” Enough agony for one day. Grant disconnected and went back to his bedroom, calm mood destroyed.
     Pushing out a breath, he glanced at a frame on his dresser. Some masochistic compulsion made him keep the picture of Julia, his ex-wife. Maybe he’d ask one of the hot-shit counselors why he felt the need to torment himself.
     “This is your fault,” he said aloud. “I got kicked out of the Army defending your honor.”
     Honor. Right.
     A surge of rage rushed through him, and before he could tamp it down, the picture flew across the room and smashed into the wall. Glass shattered, flying everywhere.
     “You okay?” Mrs. Henson yelled.
     Holy shit, I have got to get out of here.
     “I’m okay,” he called back. “Dropped a glass.”
     Take it down. Don’t let the rage get control. Grant shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, and pulled in a long, slow breath. Hold it, count to five, exhale, count to seven. A few more and he risked opening his eyes again.
     Don’t stress. Not so bad. A few pieces of glass to clean up. Cheap frame anyway.
     The pounding in his head subsided, and he shoved the ear plugs in and lay down.
     Anger management. Yeah, that would take care of his problems. He’d sit around with a bunch of other pissed-off people talking about their feelings. Shoot me now. Like it was wrong to get angry and hit someone, especially someone who so deserved it, like Sergeant Murphy, sticking his nose in Grant’s business.
     Trouble was, Grant didn’t just hit the guy. He’d shoved him with this weird-ass power that had taken over his body two years ago and broke the platoon sergeant’s right arm, clavicle, and two ribs. Fucker ended up with a concussion from slamming his stupid-ass head into a wall. Yeah, Murphy had been pretty messed up, but the guy didn’t know how lucky he’d been that Grant managed to get a grip, before he did real damage on his body.
     So Grant would attend the stupid program, go to counseling, anger management class, make like a good boy and do what he was told. Act like his wife’s death was what caused him to have that “psychotic episode.” Get that discharge status changed and get his life back on track. Start working as a real police officer, not a rent-a-cop, and be able to look his dad in the eye again.      Get himself into a special unit and fight those fucking terrorists.
     Not so tough. Other, less disciplined men had done it; he sure the hell could, too, because he was hard-core, and hard-core didn’t quit.
 
Friday
 
     Zoe stood outside the door to the room and inhaled a deep breath. Sit through the stupid meeting, keep my mouth shut, and don’t start trouble. Be like a chameleon and blend into the background. Piece of cake. She coughed on the exhale.
     Why did these recreation centers always smell like disinfectant? Couldn’t the anger management people find a better place to hold meetings? Probably cheap rent in this building was why. Attending court-ordered classes wasn’t supposed to be fun.
Enough stalling. She pushed the door open and strode into the room, fake smile plastered on her face. And tripped, barely catching her balance before she hit the floor. Four sets of eyes turned her way as the occupants of the room stared at her.
     “You’re late, Miss Atlanta.” One of the seated men addressed her. “Please take a seat.” He indicated a metal folding chair.
Her smile faded. Well hell, who would have thought this group would start on time? “It’s Altiera, and I’m sorry I’m late.”
     “Be on time in the future. Don’t hold the rest of us up.”
     The man speaking appeared to be the group leader. Middle-aged, slightly bald, with huge glasses that made him look like a screech owl. He held a paper notepad on his lap and had one ankle resting on the other thigh to form a makeshift table. The other three people, all men, sat in a circle facing him and, after their initial glance at her, returned their attention back to their phones.
     Except one guy. His gaze followed her as she plopped down in the open folding chair next to him. She ignored him, pulling her phone from her pocket and turning down the volume. As the group leader scribbled on his pad, she quickly surveyed the men. Two men appeared to be in their early twenties, but the guy staring at her seemed about her age, mid- to late thirties. Cute. But watching her with sharp blue eyes that held a touch of that anger they were here to manage.
     “Welcome, everyone. I’m Dr. Samuel Hemingway. You can call me Dr. H.” He removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. “You’re all here because our judicial system feels you would benefit from anger management group therapy. Let’s introduce ourselves. Eric,” he glanced down at his notes, then looked up at one of the young men. “You got fired from your job as a chef after you threw knives and pinned your supervisor to the wall by his jacket, is that correct?”
     “Yep, that’s right.” Eric continued to tap his phone.
     “Electronic devices away, please,” Dr. Hemingway said. “Kelsey, you were doing a tattoo on a woman and wrote ‘I’m a super bitch’ instead of ‘Fairy Magic’ as she requested, correct?”
     “Yeah, sure did.” Kelsey grinned.
     Dr. Hemingway frowned at him, but Kelsey kept smiling.
     “Grant.” The doctor shuffled papers. “You were in army training, and you attacked your platoon sergeant. Broke several bones.”
     “Yes, that’s right.”
     Zoe’s heart lurched. Holy hell. That voice. It couldn’t be.
     “Zoe, you beat a man with a tire iron after he ran over a cat, correct?”
     “Sort of,” she mumbled, turning her head and letting her hair fall over her face.
     From behind the curtain of hair, she saw Grant snap his head in her direction.
     “You.” The single word cracked like a bullet. “I know you. You’re the woman from last night. At the school.”
     “What?” Zoe scooted her chair away from him. “You’re wrong.” She angled to face the doctor. “It wasn’t a cat, it was a squirrel he ran over. And I didn’t beat the guy, I just smacked him once with the tire iron. Not even very hard.”
     More writing on the pad of paper. “We’ll start with you. How has that affected your life?” Dr. Hemingway asked.
     “I lost my job. Temporarily,” Zoe answered, keeping her body pointed away from Grant. No, no, no. How could this happen? She could not be in class with a guy she’d kneed in the nuts.
     “And how else? How does it make you feel, knowing you lost your temper and hurt another human being?”
     “Um, bad?” From the corner of her eye, Zoe saw Grant still glaring at her. Damned if she would look back.
     “What do you mean, exactly?”
     What the hell did he think she meant?
     Tell the guy what he wants to hear. Don’t get smart. “I, uh, feel sorry for hitting the asshole. I mean, the guy. I shouldn’t have hit him so hard. At all. I shouldn’t have hit him at all. But I’m Italian, and we’re excitable.”
     “And that’s a good reason to physically attack a person?”
     “Life wasn’t going so well for me then. I was stressed. And studies show, men who abuse animals often hurt the humans in their lives. I put him on the law enforcement radar, might have helped save the life of the asshole’s, I mean the guy’s wife or girlfriend. Don’t you agree?”
     “That’s not relevant to your treatment. Let’s move on.” Dr. Hemingway frowned and scribbled. “Who wants to share more about their story? What they’ve learned? Eric, what would you do differently if you could go back in time?”
     “I’d make sure I hit the fucker with my knives instead of pinning his coat.” Eric didn’t look up from his lap, where he still fiddled with his phone.
     “I would have done the tattoo on the bitch’s face instead.” Kelsey also directed his attention to his phone.
     “Both of you. Phones off, eyes up here. We’re at this meeting to work, not play.”
     The young men shot sullen looks at the doctor but put their phones down and looked up.
     “Grant, how about you? What do you regret?”
     Grant. She’d seen a badge on his uniform last night but didn’t see the name. It was dark the previous evening, and she hadn’t got a good look at his face, but his voice was a dead giveaway. Low, kind of husky, a tiny bit of Southern twang. It was him. Grant was the security guard at the school.
     Did he recognize her? He’d shone that flashlight in her face, but he couldn’t have really seen her all that well. Could he? It was dark where they’d been standing, and she had her hair pulled back.
     Zoe stared straight ahead, aware he was still looking at her.
     “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Should have had better control. There was no reason to react as strongly as I did.”
Dr. Hemingway clapped his hands and beamed. “Yes. Excellent. That’s why we’re here. To learn control. To let our anger and negativity go, and focus on the positive. Good job, Grant.”
     Zoe sat back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. Suck-up. But Grant was the smart one, giving the doc the answer he wanted. Eric and Kelsey looked like a couple of pouting children, with their lower lips stuck out far enough to trip over, and her challenging the doctor wasn’t a smart move.
     Don’t screw up the first meeting. The whole point of attending this class was to convince the judge she’d mended her ways and wouldn’t go off on another rampage.
     “Me too,” Zoe said. “I think I’ve already learned to control my temper better. In fact, just being here, I feel really calm.” If Grant could lay on the bullshit, so could she.
     “I’m happy to hear that. You and Grant will make a good team for your first assignment.” Dr. H. gave her a shark smile. Lots of teeth, little warmth.
     Team? With Grant? Oh, hell, no.
     Dr. H. reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and scribbled on the back. “Go to this address tomorrow and clean up the exterior.”
     “Excuse me?” Zoe took the card he handed her.
     “I said, go to that building and clean up. Pick up the trash, and the grounds need to be weeded and the bushes trimmed.” He looked at Grant. “One of you has lawn maintenance equipment, I hope?”
     “I don’t see what this has to do with anger management,” Grant said, staring at the doctor with those sharp, blue eyes.
     The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s about getting along together, with a stranger, and accomplishing a mission. I call it the Love Your Neighbor technique.” Dr. H. re-crossed his legs and sat up straighter. “I plan to write a paper on the results, so I’ll want detailed reports from you all. When we meet again, we’ll find out what you’ve learned from the experience. Now you two.” Dr. H. scribbled on another card, then turned to Eric and Kelsey. “Go to this private residence and power wash the driveway and sidewalk. The equipment will be in the shed.”
     “But … ” Eric began.
     Dr. H. raised his hand. “These chores should only take a few hours. Performing them satisfactorily is part of your therapy, so make sure you’re finished by our next session. I’ll have your new assignments ready for you then. Remember, you have fifty-two hours to complete in this program. You can call me at my office if you have any questions. The number is on my card. Leave a message. I don’t answer the phone. Are there any questions today?”
     “This is it? This is our therapy?” Kelsey stood.
     Dr. H. rose also. “You have your homework. Good evening, everyone.” He picked up his notepad and strode from the room.
     “Man, this a bunch of shit. I’m not power washing some driveway.” Eric got to his feet.
     “Look, let’s just do what the guy says, get it over with,” Kelsey said. “The sooner we get done with this class the better. I’d rather wash a driveway than sit around and talk about how to get in touch with my feelings. I could do it tomorrow.”
     “My car’s in the shop,” Eric said. “Had to borrow my sister’s to get here, and she works tomorrow.”
     “I’ll pick you up. We’ll get there early, knock it out, be done and over with. Give me your address.” Kelsey and Eric walked out together, keying into their phones as they did.
     Too late, Zoe realized she and Grant were alone in the room. She picked up her purse and turned to leave, but Grant grabbed her arm.
     “You still smell like some kind of flower. I got a whiff of it last night, right before you racked my balls.”
     And he smelled like man-sweat, with a hint of spice. Her arm warmed where he held it and her pulse sped up. “Get your hands off me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tugged, trying to escape his grip.
     “That was you at the school yesterday. Don’t deny it. Are you a liar and a thief?”
     “You’re wacko. Whatever happened to you and your balls last night, I wasn’t involved. I’ll be at this building tomorrow morning, with trash bags and hedge trimmers.” She jerked her arm away and waved the card Dr. H. had handed her. “You better be there too.”
     Grant snatched it from her hand, pulled out his phone and tapped it. “I’ll be there.” He handed the card back. “And you can tell me why you tried to break into a school.”
     Zoe looked at Grant full-on for the first time. Good-looking. Medium height, taller than her. Trim and fit, like he worked at it. Short hair, five o’clock shadow dusting his face now, making him look fierce. Those blue eyes held intelligence and now shot daggers at her. Pissing him off wouldn’t be in her best interest. Time to switch tactics.
     She gave him a smile, one that generally worked to enchant men into compliance. “Look, whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken.” She willed her right eyelid to stop twitching, like it did whenever she lied. “I have one of those faces that looks like a lot of people. Let’s do this job, get it over with, and make the best of our situation. What do you say?”
     “Fine by me. Keep your knees to yourself. I’ll be there with a weed whacker and a mower. See you tomorrow.”

 
 
Chapter Two
 
     Seated in her car, Zoe blew out a breath and rested her head on the steering wheel. Of all the stupid luck. Having that idiot guard in her anger management class and being assigned to work with him. Karma had a wicked sense of humor.
     Chill out. Not a big deal. All she had to do was spend a few hours with the guy. They’d get this assignment done, move on to whatever else Dr. Hemingway threw at them, and finish the program. Keep their interaction to a minimum. Sitting up straight, she started the car and drove. Grant could make all the accusations he wanted, but he couldn’t prove she’d been at H.E.L.P.         She’d be fine if she just ignored him.
     At her house, Zoe dug around in the garage until she located a rusty pair of trimmers. Her mom and aunts had hired a service to mow and do the yard work, so Zoe didn’t have a reason to use lawn tools. She found a can of lubricant, sprayed the trimmers, snipped a weed on the side of the house. They’d do.
     Clean up a yard. That would be easy compared with what she’d been wading in at Aunt Becky’s house, and it’d feel good to get outside in the fresh air and soak up a few rays.
     Zoe rooted around in the refrigerator. Still nothing. She’d forgotten her leftover container at Mario’s. Sudden tears flooded her eyes.
     Meals used to mean grass-fed beef, organic fruits and veggies. Nothing but the best. She and Dean would plan their menu together, shop, pick out the perfect wines, and set the table with hand-made pottery plates they bought from local artists.
     She might have lost her cute condo, her furniture, and most everything else, but she kept the special plates. Dean had asked about them once, after he told her they were through. Said he wanted her to ship him one that he really liked, a hibiscus flower.      She’d told him to stick it up his ass, then took the hibiscus plate and smashed it on the ground.
     Sniffing, she pushed back the tears. Fierce badgers did not cry. She grabbed a bag of pretzels and flipped open her laptop. Keep looking forward. Not only was she required to attend the anger management course, she had to visit a mental health counselor. Might as well get that over with.
     Seated at her dining room table, she munched the pretzels and scrolled through the list of names the judge gave her. Sanela Foster. Licensed mental health counselor, specializing in behavioral change. Lived in Rache, so she couldn’t be too far away. Sounded good. Zoe shot her an email, explaining her situation as briefly as possible.
     Hello. I recently had an altercation with a man and have been ordered by the court to attend anger management classes and to receive therapy. Your name is on the list of providers. I work various day and evening hours, so if you have an opening in your schedule to see me, please call. Thank you.
     Zoe added her phone number and hit the send button. There. She’d go into the details when she talked to the woman over the phone. Much as she wanted to get the therapy over and done with, if this Sanela rubbed her the wrong way, she’d move on to the next name. Bad enough she had to confide in a stranger. No way would she pour out her history to a stranger she didn’t like.
Vinnie wobbled his way into the kitchen, and after feeding him, Zoe headed to the drawing desk she’d set up in the living room.     
     Her mother had given it to her as a gift when she’d graduated college, and Zoe bought a top-of-the-line drafting stool to go with the desk. Both pieces of furniture had been loaded first on the truck when she moved into Becky’s house, and she’d cleared a special spot for them near the window.
     What she should do was finish the artwork she’d promised Mario for his menus. He wanted a new design, and she told him she could come up with something gorgeous.
     She sat on the awesome stool and picked up a watercolor pencil, opened the pad of paper, and ran her hand along the empty page. Pressing the point to the paper, she forced her hand to move. A scribble to start, to warm up. Sketch a little, get the creative juices flowing. Call up her muse.
     Draw something, anything, an instructor once told her. Look at the first object you see and get inspired. Vinnie sitting on the couch, licking his butt. Perfect. Zoe sketched his form, catching his lifted leg, the point of his one ear. She added a little color to fill it in.
     Sweet. She smiled and blew the cat a kiss.
     Now, to reach into her imagination and come up with a design for a menu. Pasta, wine, grapes. Nothing came to her. She stood, took her data board and plugged it into a speaker. Classical music would inspire her muse. Closing her eyes, she let the notes roll over her and pictured sitting on a balcony, in Italy, in a fine restaurant. The scent of garlic and tomato wafted her way, and men and women laughed. Happiness filled the air. The feel of that place was what she needed to invoke, and put that joy on paper.
     She opened her eyes and stared at her hand, but it was no use. Her mind simply wouldn’t cooperate. Instead of the bright colors and warmth that usually wrapped around her when she began a project, darkness descended. Sweat beaded under her arms, and her fingers trembled. The pencil slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. This time when the tears poked, she couldn’t stop them. Drops fell onto the sketch of Vinnie, running the colors.
     Damn it to hell and back. Zoe ripped the paper from the pad and smashed it into a ball. Why couldn’t she focus? Why couldn’t she call up her magic muse that allowed her to make the art she loved?
     And worse, why couldn’t she see her attacker’s face? Her beautiful, brilliant brain was betraying her. She should remember, shouldn’t be a spineless wimp who cowered at conflict. It was Shitwad’s fault she couldn’t create anymore.
     Don’t quit. Try again. Something different.
     The art contest. Zoe went to the back bedroom and shoved boxes out of the way to dig out a large canvas, her easel and paints. She set up in the living room, changed the classical to heavy metal, and began to sketch. Fuck joy and happy. Let the darkness take over.
      “Let’s do a Virgo, what do you say, Vinnie?”
     The cat twitched his tail agreeably.
     “We’ll make her a warrior, one who doesn’t take any shit.”
      Vinnie meowed and settled in to watch.
     Thirty minutes later, the ringing of her phone made her jump. Damn, she’d been deep in the project. She blew out a breath, stepping back to look at the canvas. Not bad. Her phone sounded again and she glanced at the screen. No name showed, and she debated answering but tapped the phone anyway.
     “Hello?”
     “Hello, is this Zoe Altiera?”
     “Yes. Who’s this?”
     “It’s Sanela Foster, the therapist. You sent me an email.”
     “Yes, I did.”
     “Is this the Zoe that lives on Berkeley Street in Rache?”
     “Maybe.” Zoe gritted her teeth in annoyance.
     Since the government took control of the country, computer modems were provided for citizens free of charge, but all internet traffic was monitored. Privacy was gone. Did this woman work for the government?
     “You live in Becky Folcarilli’s house. I brought you a pie when you moved in, remember?”
     Zoe flashed on a brief visit from a woman who said she lived down the road and had been friends with Aunt Becky. Zoe had been so overwhelmed at the time, she didn’t recall much of anything that happened those first few days.
     But she did remember eating a cherry pie for breakfast with her coffee and having a mini mouth orgasm, it was so good. She also remembered crying a few tears at the kindness of a stranger.
      “I gave you a note with my phone number, inside the bag I brought. Did you get that?”
     “No,” Zoe lied. There had been a piece of paper tucked in the bag. She’d scanned it, then tossed it away, not ready for human contact. “I was in bad shape when I moved into Aunt Becky’s house. I’m sorry if I seemed unfriendly.”
      “That’s okay. I figured you were upset about your aunt’s death. Could you turn down the music, please?”
     “Sorry.” Zoe adjusted the volume.
      “So, you have court mandated therapy to do. I live close to you, at the end of Berkeley Street, if you’d like to come here.”
     “You don’t mind me coming to your house?”
     “I allow people I know and trust to come here. I have a small space set up in my home that I use as an office. I’ve got Myoitis, so I don’t go out much.”
      “How do you do therapy with people you don’t know and trust, if you don’t leave your house?” None of her business, but Zoe, ever curious, asked anyway.
      “Over the phone, or Vidseetalk.”
      “I’m good with Vidseetalk.”
     “Give me your court record number. Let me look at your file.”
     Zoe scanned her laptop, found the number and read it to Sanela.
     “No, sorry, says here you have to do your therapy in person,” Sanela said. “My space is very nice, and we’ll keep our session professional, I promise.”
     If by professional Sanela meant not prying deep into business that didn’t concern her, Zoe was down with that.
     “You don’t go out at all? You came here, to my house, to give me that pie.” Really, she should stop talking. Look who was prying into someone’s business.
     “Mostly, I stay inside, but I make myself walk around now and then. I liked Becky and wanted to pay my respects to her family. In addition to my physical issues, I’ve got insomnia and a slight case of arachnophobia too. There are lots of spiders in these woods, so if I can stay on the sidewalks, I’m all right.”
     Great. A therapist with more problems than her.
     Sanela laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. What a messed-up counselor. But having these conditions gives me empathy for others and won’t stop me from helping you.”
     Zoe had no plans to actually receive help, just get through the mandatory counseling. Sanela sounded nice enough. Couldn’t beat the convenience of down the road, and why not get the session over with?
     “Let me tell you a little about my therapy. Are you at your computer?”
     “Yes.”
     Sanela rattled off her website, and Zoe pulled it up.
     “For anger management, I use a technique called Stepping Stones. Whenever you feel angry, you visualize yourself on a path with many stones. See that picture on my website, with the large rocks forming a path?”
      “Uh, yeah.”
      “The technique uses stones as a guide, to show us that any change can be accomplished with small increments. At the first stone, you acknowledge the feeling of anger. Then, picture yourself stepping to the next stone. There, you make a physical change, like taking deep breaths or unclenching your fists or even walking away from a trigger. Are you with me?”
     “Sure.” Zoe tapped on her keyboard, perusing Sanela’s website.
      “The next stone is to replace anger with another emotion. We can’t just tell ourselves to stop feeling. We have to … ”
     “Hypnosis!”
     “What?”
     “You do hypnosis for memory loss?”
     “Yes.”
     “Like, if something happened, and I can’t remember the details, could you make me remember?”
     “Possibly. I could attempt to get your mind to recall them. But that’s not the course of action I’d use in your case. Unless it has to do with your anger issues.”
     “Oh, it sure does.”
     Zoe tapped her foot with sudden excitement. Why hadn’t she thought of hypnosis to help her remember the face of the man who attacked her last November?
     Not totally her beautiful, brilliant brain’s fault. She’d been drugged. Most likely. Even though a tox screen showed nothing in her system, drugs were the only explanation for why she’d blacked out that night.
     If she could just pull up a facial memory, even a partial recollection, and then get her hands on the list of conference vendors, she could identify Shitwad.
      “So, you can dig out a memory, even if, um, if drugs were involved?”
     “I might be able to. The brain is an amazing structure. We put up walls and barriers to protect ourselves, but with the proper encouragement, those can come down. It’s painful, sometimes, so you have to be prepared to deal with a level of discomfort.”
     Blah-blah. More therapy jargon. Zoe rolled her eyes. She’d had enough therapy babble from Dr. Hemingway. She’d better get used to it for the next, jeez, how long would it take to complete fifty-two hours of anger management?
     But this was different. If Sanela could unlock her memory, she’d listen to whatever the woman wanted to say.
     “Yes, I need hypnosis. Along with the other stuff, the rock thing.”
     “We can incorporate hypnosis, if it’s necessary. Let’s have a meeting and discuss your issues.”
     “Let me contact my boss, get my schedule for work and I’ll call you back. I need to do this now.”
     “Tuesday would be the earliest I can see you.”
     Zoe glanced at the calendar again. The conference started the coming weekend. “Okay, the sooner the better.”
     Zoe disconnected. Finally. A break. A decent therapist to fulfill that part of her program, and a possible lead to help her identify Shitwad. She’d get Sanela to prod her faulty memory, find her attacker’s face.
     She exhaled with relief, but when her gaze fell on the hedge trimmers by the front door, her chest tightened again with the thought of her Saturday activities. Working with Grant.
     Keep quiet. Deny all accusations. He couldn’t prove a damn thing. She’d keep her energy focused on the mission and not let distractions interfere.
     Zoe cranked the music again, picked up her paintbrush and lost herself in the bliss of painting for another hour.
 
Saturday
 
     Grant took a sip of coffee and watched Zoe from his car. She sat on the ground, pulling weeds and throwing them into a bucket. She wore ear buds and must have had her music up loud, because she didn’t look his way when he pulled into a parking spot.
     Kind of cute, in a girl-next-door way, but not his type. He preferred tall blondes with long legs and a tight ass, not short, curly-haired brunettes. Though something about Zoe made his cock stir. Sitting in class the night before, giving that line of bullshit to the doc—she cracked him up. Smart, funny women turned him on. But sneaky thieves who lied did not.
     Was that her, at the school on Thursday night? Had to be. Of course she would deny being there. Probably afraid he’d turn her in or slap her for racking his balls. Which he wouldn’t. He had no proof it was her at the school and had never life hit a woman in his life. Grant slid out of the car and slammed the door loud, to get Zoe’s attention. She glanced up, watching as he walked toward her.
     “About time you got here. I thought you were going to pull a no-show.” Zoe studied him briefly, then turned back to her chore.
     “I said I’d be here. What did you do, start at the crack of dawn?” Grant nudged a full trash bag with his foot.
     “Sort of. Figured I might as well get going. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. I don’t sleep a lot some nights.” She turned to face him again and ran a gloved hand across her face, smearing a glob of dirt onto her nose.
     “Me neither.” He yawned. Since his return from the military, dark dreams kept him awake, and his body still hadn’t adjusted to night shifts with the security job. At eight o’clock in the morning, he should be in bed.
     “What’s going on here?” He looked around at the yard and building. “Any idea what this place is?”
     “Nope. I checked it out. No signs on the building. I can’t see inside; there are blinds in the windows.”
     “You didn’t try to break in?” Grant folded his arms across his chest.
     She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Bending back to her weeds, she continued yanking.
     A medium-size one-story structure and a small parking area took up most of the lot. The property, located on the outskirts of Rache, was in the upscale part of town. But this building and lot fell short of the ritzy standards, obviously neglected for some time. Foliage grew wild, the building needed a coat of paint and the parking lot was due for resurfacing. The surrounding grounds, the area they were to clean, didn’t look too trashy, though no telling what Zoe had filled the bag with already.
     “I picked up some trash, not that much, and started clearing this patch. I brought hedge trimmers and a rake.” She pointed to her car. “It’s not too hideous. If we work fast, we can finish in a couple of hours.”
     “Fine by me.” He yawned. Damn, he had to wake up.
     “I brought an extra coffee too, if you want some. It’s in the front of my car. I made it at home. It’s not that crappy store-bought sludge. I put a hit of cinnamon in it to jazz it up.”
     Gardening must agree with Zoe’s disposition. She was far more cheerful today than during their meeting yesterday. Maybe her perky attitude and coffee offering was her saying sorry for the knee to the groin. Or maybe she wanted to distract him from finding out more about her. Not going to work. He planned to grill her like a shrimp on the barbie.
     But he would take her up on that offer of coffee.
     Opening the door and retrieving the drink, Grant perused the inside of her car but saw nothing unusual. He considered a quick snoop through her glove box but decided against it. She’d given him access to her vehicle; she wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave evidence of her trespassing inside.
     Grabbing the trimmers from the back seat, he walked to the end of a row of bushes. Zoe had moved to different spot, and he watched her dig for another moment. She attacked the weeds with a methodical determination, like they’d offended her and she’d made it her mission to strike them down. Though he wanted to question her further, he decided to wait. Let her work, tire out. At the pace she was moving, she’d be exhausted soon. He’d strike when her defenses were low.
     He began on the bushes, his muscles enjoying the activity and his mind wandering. Zoe was the woman who broke into the school. Her voice, the brief glimpse he’d had of her face, the scent of flower, honeysuckle maybe, he smelled at the meeting last night and caught again now. It had to be her.
     But he’d been mistaken more than once in his life, and anyway, if it was her, what the hell could he do about it? Even if she admitted to being there, it wasn’t like he planned to turn her in to the cops. All she’d done was cut the fence so yeah, he could get her for destroying property, but the fencing was temporary and the construction guys already repaired the hole. No big deal.      If she got in trouble with the law, she might get kicked out of anger management class.
     Dr. Hemingway said this was their first assignment, so there’d be more. If Zoe left, he’d likely get stuck working with the other two idiots in their class.
     “Here, I’ll hold the bag. You scoop up the crap off the ground.”
     Grant started. He hadn’t even noticed Zoe approach. The girl moved quietly.
     He scooped up a pile of the hedge trimmings. “I know that was you at the school.” Shit. He should keep his mouth shut. Wait till later, like he planned. “I’m not going to report you to anybody. Just tell me what you were doing there and promise not to come back. Not on my shift, anyway.”
     She stood, blew out a breath and looked him straight in the eye. Opened her mouth, then closed it and compressed her lips.        “Nope. Not me, not there.”
     “Why do you keep lying?” Damn, let it go.
     “Why do most people lie? To protect themselves. Not that I am. Lying, that is.” She rattled the bag. “Scoop.”
     He scooped. “All right, fine, it wasn’t you. Tell me about yourself.”
     She said nothing for a few moments while he shoved in an armful of greenery, then she pulled the bag away and shook it to settle the contents. “Not much to tell. I’m a server at Mario’s Italian restaurant. I’ve got a cat. Pretty boring.”
     “Tell me about the squirrel incident that landed you in anger management class.”
     “Why? So you can make fun of me?”
     “Chill. I’m not going to make fun of you. I want to hear what happened, compare notes.”
     “You go first. What’s your story? You punched your platoon leader and now you feel all sorry about it?”
     “Yeah, real sorry. Sorry I didn’t knock the bastard’s head off.”
     “So all that repentant stuff, you were just sucking up to Dr. H, right?” She smiled and wiped her hand across her nose again, trailing the dirt further.
     Should he tell her about the smudge? Nah. She’d catch it, be a typical girl and look in the mirror first thing when she got in the car.
     “I wouldn’t call it sucking up. More like strategic planning. I want to finish the class, not make waves. Get my job back.”
     “Yeah, me too.” Zoe dropped the bag and scratched her neck, sending her scent his way again. Definitely honeysuckle, mixed with girl sweat. “What did you used to do?”
     “I was a soldier, training for military police, going to be a cop. Your turn. What happened with the squirrel?”
     “None of your business.”
     “Hey, I told you mine, you said you’d tell me yours.”
     “I never said that.” She grinned, her eyes wicked. “I don’t share that story with anyone.”
     “Fine.” He wouldn’t beg. Didn’t really care anyway. “Tell me something else interesting about you.”
     Zoe looked at him for a moment, then the side of her mouth turned up into a bitter smile. “I told you, I’m boring. You don’t want to know about me. I serve pasta. Nothing exciting.”
     Why was he pumping her for information? She was going to keep lying about being at the school, and he didn’t want to know her. At all. He’d sworn off women and definitely off lying women. And that frizzy hair. Heat and humidity must be turning it into that mess of curls. Hadn’t she heard of conditioner?
     “Fine.” He bent to pick up the trimmers. End of conversation. “I’m going to get the weed whacker from my truck. I’ll put your trimmers back by your car.”
     “Hey, how about a break.” She shook the gloves off her hands. “I could use a soda. Isn’t that a machine in the plaza across the street?” She shaded her eyes with her hand and glanced in the opposite direction.
     “Looks like it.”
     “I’ll fly if you’ll buy. I don’t have my Identcard on me. I think that’s the only thing the new machines take.”
     “You’re not supposed to leave the house without your card.”
     “Yeah, well, when you’re a cop, you can arrest me. Right now you’re just a security … ” She clamped a hand across her mouth.
     “Ha! That’s right, say it. A security guard. You know that because it was you at the school.” Grant pushed her shoulder.
     “Uh-uh.” She shoved back at his. “Dr. Hemingway mentioned it at our meeting.”
     “Bullshit. He did not.”
     “Whatever. I’m not going to argue with you. You want a soda or not?”
     “Yes. We’ll both go. I’m not giving you my card.”
     “Fine.” She spun around and marched away.
     Busted. Lying little bitch. She might never admit it, but he knew. Problem was, now Grant wanted to know why she’d been trying to break into the school. Zoe had a story, and for some stupid reason, he wanted to find out more. That curiosity would get him in trouble, his mother used to say. It would make him a good detective, Grant figured.
     Walking across the street, he scanned the area by habit. This early, the shops had started to open, but there wasn’t much traffic. An ideal time of day. The mountains in the background still had wisps of the spectacular “smoke” that gave them their name, and the weather this June was damn near perfect, going from a slightly chill fifty-five degrees at night to a mild eighty during the day.
     He should be hiking or biking one of the trails in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, enjoying the waterfalls and the scenic views, pushing himself to sweat, not raking fucking leaves.
     Gonna get there. Keep working on it.
     The beverage machine sat in front of a store called Laur Instrument Repair. The sign had a picture of a violin and a guitar. Huh. Was there really enough musical instrument repair business to pay the rent on a shop in this neighborhood? The whole strip looked classy and expensive. A jewelry store, a salon, some boutique kind of place. Trendy businesses for a wealthy part of town.
     “Get whatever you want.” Grant slid his card into the machine and punched a button for an orange juice.
     Zoe chose a soda. “I’m going to explore. I don’t get out this way much.” She walked down the sidewalk.
     Grant turned to head back to their work site. Window shopping didn’t interest him. Getting the work done did. The sudden blare of an alarm made him turn back in time to see the door to the music store fly open and a figure dressed in black hurtle out and run down the sidewalk.
     Before he could stop himself, Grant’s instincts kicked in, and he sent a blast of power to the fleeing man. The figure rose off his feet and smashed into Zoe, knocking them both to the ground.
     Holy fuck, no, not again.
     Grant sprinted toward them in time to see the man grab a case he’d been carrying that had been knocked from his hands and scramble to his feet. He pointed something at Grant, and the next second, a bolt of heat seared through Grant, sending him down to one knee. The man knelt, reached into his pocket and then turned to face Zoe. Grant rose, hissed with pain, went back down.  Fucker shot some kind of electric current at him. Like an amped-up stun gun, making his muscles cramp and burn.
     Pushing past the agony, he stood upright. “Get away from her, and keep your ass right there, you motherfucker.” Staggering forward on legs turned to concrete, Grant tried to move.
     The man stood, continuing to face away from Grant, then charged across the road and kept running.
     Cursing, Grant lurched down the sidewalk to Zoe and knelt where she lay on the ground, eyes closed, head turned to one side, arms and legs sprawled on the sidewalk. He put his fingers on her neck and sighed with relief when he felt a pulse.
     “Zoe, you okay?” He gently patted her cheek.
     Please, let her be okay.
     She opened her eyes.
     Thank God.
     “What happened?” She blinked, but her eyes looked focused.
     “You got run over by some guy. Are you in pain? Is anything hurt?”
     “Don’t think so.” She eased herself up to sitting. “But I don’t feel right.”
     “Stay still. I’ll call an ambulance.”
     Several people had stepped out of their shops and come toward them, and Grant turned to the closest one. “Call the cops and an ambulance. There’s been a robbery, and a woman is injured.”
     “Cameras picked up the action. They’re on the way.”
     Grant normally despised the cameras that were positioned all over and watched every move. But today, he gave thanks for the intrusive spies.
     Fuck. He’d done it again. Let that damn power he couldn’t control fly away. But Zoe wasn’t injured, at least not bad, and the other guy wasn’t damaged either. Not the way he took off running.
     “I’m not hurt.” Zoe tried to stand.
     “Stay still.” He gently pushed her back down. “What doesn’t feel right?”
     “My head. My brain. I don’t remember what just happened.” A look of fear clouded her eyes. “He drugged me. I can’t remember.” She struggled to get up again.
     “Don’t move. An ambulance is coming. What do you mean he drugged you?”
     “It’s like before. I know it. I have to get away.
     “No, you don’t.” Grant tightened his grip on her arms, afraid to hurt her but not about to let her stand. “The paramedics will check you out. I hear the siren now.”
     She continued to struggle against him, her breath coming fast and hard. “He’s going to hurt me again,” she whimpered.
     “No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.” Not knowing what else to do, Grant wrapped his arms around her, pulled her tight against his chest and spoke low into her ear. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ve got you. The docs will check you out, make sure you’re all right. They’re on the way now. Can you calm down, stop trying to get away? Please?” He stroked her back, slow and steady.
     Her breathing calmed, and though she didn’t totally relax, she quit writhing.
     “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
     “Okay. Okay. I’m fine. You can let go.”
     But he didn’t. His training in the military taught him traumatized people did crazy things. Injured themselves, injured others. Though Zoe had a reason to be upset, her reaction was out of proportion to what just happened. What did she mean, he’d hurt her again?
     “Ambulance is almost here. I’ll let you go then. You don’t remember a guy coming at you, knocking you down?”
     “Kind of, yes. He wore black, had a mask on.”
     “Yeah, that’s what I saw too. He, uh, ran right into you.”
     “His mask slipped. I saw his face. But I felt a sting. A needle. He stuck a needle in my arm, and now I can’t remember what he looked like.” She struggled against Grant again, trying to stand.
     “Stop. The paramedics will find out if he did. Hey guys, over here,” Grant called out to two men stepping out of the ambulance. “Hurry.”
     One trotted over. “What’s the situation?”
     “She said she was drugged by a guy. Looks like he robbed that music store, came running out, crashed into her.”
     “I can stand. Let go.” Zoe squirmed hard against him.
     Reluctantly, Grant released his grip, rose to his feet and put out his hand to Zoe. She took it and he pulled her up, but he steadied her with both hands on her shoulders. She swayed back and forth, and the medic stepped to her side.
     “We’ll bring the stretcher over, ma’am. Hold on.”
     “I don’t need a stretcher, and don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old. I can walk to the ambulance. I think I’ve been injected with a drug. My memory is off. Can you check?”
     “Yes ma’am, I mean, yes, we can. If you’ll wait, we’ll get that stretcher.”
     “No. I’m walking. Hold on to me.” She turned to Grant.
     Anger and terror battled in her eyes. Keeping his own expression as neutral as possible, he wrapped his arm around her waist. Zoe would not appreciate his pity, and he wouldn’t let her see his alarm.
     “We’ll walk,” he told the paramedic, and they shuffled toward the ambulance. The pain in his muscles had dimmed to a dull ache, and he was happy to take it slow.
     By the time they reached the vehicle, the police had arrived. Grant turned Zoe over to the paramedics and stood off to one side. Don’t get involved with the cops.
     “I was walking along the sidewalk and all of a sudden, someone came flying at me. Hard. Knocked me down.” Zoe spoke to the medic as he examined her, while an officer stood nearby. “I saw his face, but now I forgot what it looked like. He wore a mask, but it slipped. I remember a pain, like a needle stick. You have to find out what he gave me.”
     From his position, Grant could see into the ambulance and watched as Zoe tried to move from where the medic had her seated.
     “Whoa, settle down. We’ll check you out. Do you know where he stuck you?”
     “My arm. No, wait, my thigh. No. I’m not sure. Yes, my forearm. Here.” She rolled up her sleeve to her elbow.
     “We’ll take a blood sample, find out if there’s anything in your system.”
     “Then what happened?” Another voice, the cop.
     “I passed out, I guess, until Grant woke me up.”
     “So you don’t remember what the guy looks like.”
     “No.”
     “Maybe you didn’t really see his face.”
     “I did. I remember that his mask slipped and I saw him. But I can’t remember now. Ouch. Easy with that needle.”
     “Sounds like that new drug, Blackout,” the cop said.
     “We’ve heard about that too.” The paramedic taking her blood turned to the cop. “Thought it was a rumor. It’s for real? A drug that gives you temporary memory loss and doesn’t show up on a toxicology report?”
     “It’s for real. Just coming up on our radar. Depending on how strong a dose, the person getting it can forget for a short time or long periods. Guys are using it for date rape. When medics check the victims, it’s not in their bloodstream and they can’t identify their attacker.”
     “Then how do you know what it is, or that’s it’s been used?”
     Grant grinned. Smart-ass Zoe. But she had a point.
     “Some woman in D.C. grabbed a syringe from a guy who tried to use it on her. She brought it to the police. We busted a child porn ring in Houston and found a stash. A few other instances. Dosage can be controlled, apparently, for however long it’s required to last. Whoever injected you must have used a small amount. What else can you tell me about the guy?”
     “Nothing. I don’t remember anything. What about this drug, Blackout? What else does it do?”
     “DEA supposedly has a team analyzing it. All they told us is what I told you.”
     “Really? You don’t know anything else? What happened to the other women who got dosed?”
      “Afraid I can’t discuss that. It’s top secret. We’re hunting down a supplier; all information is restricted. If it turns up in your blood test, the medics will get back to you with more information.”
     “Hey, come on.”
     Grant recognized the tone as the one Zoe had used on him, and watched her smile a sweet smile, full of sunbeams and sparkles, turning on the charm.
     “I won’t say anything, I just need some information. Like what it does to the body, side effects, who has access to it.”
     “No side effects, what we’ve seen so far.”
     “What happened to the other women? How did they feel?”
     “Can’t discuss that.” He turned to the strip mall. “I need to talk to the store owner, look at the camera feeds. What else can you tell me?”
     “He had something in his hand. It got knocked away when he fell, but he picked it back up.” Grant stepped closer. “Looked like a case for a musical instrument. Must have stolen it from the music shop.”
     The cop pushed his hat back on his head and studied Grant. “Aren’t you Grant, Aaron Carmichael’s brother?”
     “Yeah, that’s me.” Shit. Should have kept his mouth shut. Figured he’d run into someone who knew his family. This guy, Becker, his badge said, was old enough to have been around a while. Knew his brother, probably his dad too. 
     “What are you doing here? I heard you were in the army. Going go to the academy when you finished.”
     Grant gritted his teeth. “I’m working on it.”
     “Saw Aaron the other day. He’s squad leader now, right? Jack must be real proud of that boy. Hell, Aaron’s going to make commander one day, betcha.”
     Forcing his jaw to loosen, Grant smiled. “Yeah, we’re all real proud.”
     He watched across the road as a woman with long, black hair held on to another woman who pushed a walker. They moved down the sidewalk and up a ramp into the music shop.
     A memory flashed of his mother, hunched over a walker in the same position, holding on to his sister and walking down the hallway in the hospital. Both of them ended up dying from the effects of the Malik virus.
     He clenched his jaw again against the rage that threatened to erupt like hot lava. Fucking criminals. Terrorists, thieves. Stealing, taking lives. He’d stop them all.
     “Hey.” Becker snapped his fingers in Grant’s face. “You still with us?” He held his police-issue data board. “Need to take your statements. What are you two doing here, anyway?”
     “Yard work,” Zoe said. “Across the street.”
     “Yard work? That’s your job now?” Becker turned to Grant, his mouth lifted in a faint sneer.
     Zoe looked at Grant, and he saw compassion in her eyes. Then, a spark of anger as she pressed her lips together. Just as quick, she switched the charm back on and turned to Becker, flashing that innocent smile again.
     “We’re doing charity work. To help out an elderly man who’s having a hard time. Broke his leg horseback riding. We belong to his church and volunteered to come out and clean up his place today.”
     Becker frowned. “That’s a vacant office building. Been empty a long time. What’s this elderly man planning to do with it?”
     “You work in the next county over.” Grant tipped his head to Becker’s car, which did not have the Rache seal on it. “What are you doing in this area?”
     Becker spread his feet in a tough-guy stance and narrowed his eyes at Grant. “I’m filling in for another officer. Working together for the betterment of mankind. Our national motto, remember? That’s what we do. If you were a police officer, you’d understand.”
     The betterment of mankind. The slogan of the Secure States of America since The Annihilation. Grant didn’t need that sorry piece of government propaganda thrown in his face, and he sure the hell didn’t need some dickhead cop riding his ass about his career.
     Pushing down his anger, Grant turned his back on Becker. “Zoe, I’m taking off. Can you drive? I’ll give you a ride home.”
     “You should have the medics take a look at you,” Zoe said. “Didn’t I see the robber point something at you? Knocked you down, right?”
     “I’m fine. Answer my question. Can you drive?”
     “I can drive.”
     “Can she drive?” Grant stuck his head in the ambulance and addressed the medic.
     “Her vitals are good. No bumps on the head. You should take it easy the rest of the day, make sure someone’s around to monitor you. Drink extra water. Get to a med unit if you have any problems. I’ve got this incident recorded in your file, so they’ll know what to do.”
     “When will you have the results back, of what that guy stuck in me?” Zoe asked.
     “We’ll have a report back in three to five days.”
     “Are you serious? Why so long? You guys are supposed to have super-fast, advanced equipment.” Zoe rolled her shirt sleeve down.
     “We do. We’re busy. Lots of people get sick and hurt.”
     “But if this is a new drug, don’t you want to know about it?”
     “I’m sure the docs do, so we might be calling you.”
     “Fine. I’ll give you my phone number.”
     “We took your prints. We got it.”
     “Of course you do.” Zoe hopped out of the ambulance. “How can I contact you for the results?”
     “Here.” The medic handed her a card. “That’s your case number. Go online.”
     Zoe turned to Becker. “Was there really a robbery? What was stolen from the music store?”
     “I can’t discuss that,” Becker said. “If you think of anything else, call me.” He handed her a card.
     “Sure will.” Zoe snatched the card and slid it into her back pocket. “You’ve been so informative, I’ll make sure to reciprocate.”
     Shit. Grant shook his head. Not a good idea to antagonize the cops, especially this one.
     “Don’t go getting smart with me.” Becker crossed his arms. “We don’t discuss confidential information with unauthorized citizens. Law enforcement work is mission critical. You two take care of your yard work. Leave the police business to us professionals.”
     “Mission critical? Look, buddy, your job is no more important than mine, or his.” Zoe pointed to Grant. “We’re all in this shit-mess together. That’s our second national motto.”
     Grant took hold of her upper arm and tugged. “Let’s go.”
     Before I deck this guy and really get my ass in trouble.
     “But … ”
     “Zoe.” He put every ounce of persuasion he had into his voice and stared at her hard. “Let’s go.”
     The rage simmered in him, coiled like a cobra ready to strike. In his mind, Grant saw Becker flying through the air and smashing against a light pole, knocking his arrogant ass to the ground. If he stuck around any longer, that vision would be reality.
     With a huff, Zoe shook his hand off her arm. “Fine.”
     They didn’t speak until they were back in the lot across the street.
     “That cop was full of crap. I’m a tax-paying citizen. He works for me. Why didn’t you let me give him a piece of my mind?” Zoe asked. “Why did you let him push you around like that?”
     “As much fun as it would have been to watch you express your opinion, you don’t argue with cops, especially not guys like him.”
     “Why not? You afraid?”
     “Not afraid. Smart enough to know when an argument won’t end well. You wind up someone like him, make him look bad, especially in public, he’s going to make sure you pay. How far away do you live? Can you get someone to get your car tomorrow?”
     “I don’t need a ride home. I don’t feel bad. Let’s finish up. Damn, I left my soda over there.” Zoe turned back to face the shops.
     Grant handed her his orange juice. “You want to finish this yard work?”
     “Yeah, I do. I’m not letting some idiot burglar chase me away. I want to get this done and over with.” She sucked down the remainder of his drink. “Don’t you?”
     “Yes. But not if it’s going to mess you up. Look, there’s not much left. I’ll do the weed whacking, scoop up the rest of the trimmings. That should be good. You go home.”
     “There’s only a little weeding left to do.” Zoe pointed to a spot near the front of the building. “I’ll finish that, take it slow.”
     He was about to argue but stopped. The girl wasn’t his problem, and he did want to get this part of the assignment done and over with.  “Fine. Don’t go passing out on me.”
     “I won’t. I told you, I feel okay, and I’m tougher than I look. But would you get me another soda?”
     Grant pulled his keys from his pocket. “I forgot to put gas in the weed whacker. I’m going to hit a gas station down the road, and I’ll get you a soda there and water. You heard the medic. Go easy out here; I’ll be right back.”
     Grant started his car with shaking hands and drove down the street. He had plenty of gas in the weed whacker. He needed to get away for a minute, calm his ass down. Between his complete loss of control on the burglar and listening to that asshole Becker, his heart raced like a speedboat running drugs.
     Damn it, how could he have let his rage loose like that? He’d been in tense situations before, hadn’t thrown a man down the sidewalk. It was Zoe’s fault, and Becker. If they hadn’t gotten him wound up …
     Grant parked the car in the gas station lot and leaned his head back on the seat. Couldn’t lay this one on either of them. He’d reacted to a threat using all means at his disposal, which included this fucked-up power, and he went too far.
     Like he did before.
     Four years after The Annihilation, Grant was in military training. Since the shield had been put around the Secure States of America, and only select citizens could leave the country, armed forces had been reduced. No need for troops overseas. But the government wanted soldiers at their disposal, so men and women were trained on a limited basis. Grant had been lucky to get a spot.
     His plan: Do two years in the Army, get out, go to the police academy, work his way up the ranks. With the military training, he’d get preference for promotions, get moved to detective with a special unit in no time. All was going according to plan, until one day, he’d been cleaning his weapon, and all of a sudden, his heart started racing. His vision blurred, and when he tried to stand up, he almost fell over.
     Fortunately, he’d been alone and no one saw his weird-ass attack. His heart rate returned to normal after a few minutes, and he decided the incident had been due to a bad taco.
     But later that night, they’d been playing cards and drinking beer and one of the guys made some dumb-ass remark about Grant’s mediocre performance on the shooting range, equating his rifle to his cock. Looking up from his poker hand, Grant meant to give the asshole a punch to the shoulder, but before he could touch him, the guy tumbled from his chair, falling hard to the floor.
     Everybody gave the dude shit about being a lightweight, but he insisted he wasn’t drunk. Said it felt like somebody shoved him. Grant kept his mouth shut, but he’d noticed a weird sensation pass through him, like an electrical current. Later that night he’d gone outside and focused on a rock, tried to make it move. Nothing happened at first, but then he closed his eyes and pushed. The rocked rolled a foot away.
     Freaked out, he didn’t do anything more for a week. But after seven days, he had to try again. He went off by himself in the woods, set up beer bottles on the ground and tried to make them move. When he concentrated, they did. It got easier as he practiced, and he could move them farther away each day.
     Not sure what to do, Grant knew he had to keep his power to himself. He watched and learned, trying to figure it out, studying what he could find on the internet. What he decided was, he’d developed telekinesis, the ability to move objects without the application of a physical force. His mind could cause the movement all on its own.
     Pretty cool, he decided, though what he’d do with this power he had no idea. And he didn’t have a clue where it came from. He thought back over the past weeks, trying to pinpoint any odd situations he’d been in that might have caused it, but nothing had happened. He hadn’t been in contact with chemicals or any potent substances, and he hadn’t hit his head or damaged his body.
     When he got out of training, he decided, he’d see a doctor, get checked out. Not going to see anyone while in the service; no privacy there. Of course, citizens didn’t have much privacy now anyway, but he’d find a doc who knew how to keep his mouth shut. Grant continued his training as usual, until that day his platoon sergeant found those pictures.
     Going there always caused rays of fury blasting through him, so Grant shifted his mind back to the present.
     So he sent a guy flying a few feet, no big deal. The dude wasn’t hurt, and no one else was either. Zoe was okay. He’d been taken by surprise and reacted, not overreacted. No one saw him; the situation was cool. And though he’d been close to losing it, he’d handled that asshole Becker without any trouble.
     But the cameras picked up the event. Even if there wasn’t visible evidence of Grant doing anything, he’d be tied to the scene. Couldn’t let that happen too often, or someone would be sticking their nose in his business.
     He’d have to practice control, have to learn to push the rage down. Maybe figure out how to get rid of the stupid force altogether. Or work out a way to use it for when he became a cop. A skill like that could be useful.
     No. Real men didn’t need super power to operate. He’d come up with a way to control it.
     For now, he was safe. Had to concentrate on finishing this assignment, that’s all. And to do that, he had to play nice with the weird woman he’d been assigned to work with, keep his head down and his mouth shut.
     Easy enough. Grant pulled in a long breath. Go in the store, buy Zoe her soda and water, finish up the day. At least she wasn’t a wimp. Girl had guts, to keep going after getting plowed down and drugged. Blackout. Great. Just what the world needed. Another tool for the scum to use. Date rape, and probably for other applications.
     He should insist Zoe have someone keep an eye on her the rest of the day, though he knew she’d blow off his concern.
Not my problem. I’ve got enough of my own.
     When Grant returned with the drinks, Zoe had almost finished weeding. He ran the weed whacker around the area, and they bagged up the rest of the clippings. Zoe kept looking across the street, her eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed.
     “Don’t suppose you saw a yard waste dumpster around here, did you?” Grant picked up one of the bags.
     “Nope. Just throw those in my car. I have yard waste pickup at my house.” Zoe stood, stretched and pulled off her gloves.
     “You should have someone keep an eye on you the rest of the day, make sure you’re okay.”
     “Don’t tell me what I should do.” She took a drink from the water bottle and turned toward the music shop.
     “Don’t be an idiot.” Grant picked up the bags and headed to her car. “You heard the paramedic. He said make sure someone’s around to monitor you.”
     “Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand.
     “Pop your trunk.”
     “Just put the bags in the back seat. Not like anything’s going to hurt that car. I’ll see you at our next meeting.”
     “Yep, see you then.” Grant loaded the bags into her car, shut the door.
     Zoe still stood, looking across the street.
     “You okay driving with those bags in the back? Looks like your vision is obstructed.”
     “I’ll be fine.” She tapped her foot.
     “You’re going over to the shop, aren’t you?”
     “Maybe. What’s it to you?”
     Most everyone had cleared the scene. Grant saw a television truck and one cop car, which drove away as he watched. “Why are you sticking your nose in something that’s none of your business?”
     “It is my business. I was involved in the robbery. I want to talk to the store owner, find out what the thief stole.”
     “Don’t you think the owner might be upset right now?”
     “Maybe I can help.”
     “Why, did you see something you didn’t share with the nice police officer?”
     “I didn’t actually see anything. I have a hunch and an idea.”
     “Oh, a hunch. People love to hear about hunches. Why didn’t you tell the officer?”
     “Because cops have the same pissy attitude as you. Women’s intuition doesn’t mean jack.”
     “Maybe because it’s bullshit?”
     “Screw you.” Zoe pivoted back to face him, eyes narrowed. “No one asked your opinion or permission. I’ll see you later.”      She wheeled around and stomped across the street. The scent of sweat, now stronger than the honeysuckle, lingered behind.
     Not my concern.
     But a nudge of desire licked at him, a feeling he hadn’t entertained for some time. Purposely hadn’t entertained. He didn’t want a woman messing with his mind, or his body. Most of all, not his heart.
     Not going to have it shattered again any time soon.