Sara’s emotionally abusive husband dies unexpectedly. She’s struggling to reclaim the intelligent, independent person she was before she married. She vows never to let a man take over her life again. Now she’s part of a special team, training to help other women.
Mac is has been responsible for training women in special ops techniques so they are prepared when they are challenged to save other women. When he meets Sara sparks fly between them. He wants her to quit the training and let him take care of her.
Sara graduates and now she and her team have to save Sara’s daughter from a serial killer. Can Mac step back and trust her in a dangerous situation? Can Sara and Mac resolve their issues, or will they go in opposite directions?



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“Maybe I’ll stay for a few minutes.” Julie Ann sat down, closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. She’d listened to that harmonica for a lot of years growing up. 

She drifted off. It had been a long day. 

Julie Ann jerked awake. “Sorry, guys, I’m almost asleep. I really have to get to bed. Thanks for dinner Savannah and the after-dinner music Charlie. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“You be careful now. We still don’t know why Perrine was killed. You’re at risk too. You see or hear anything you high tail it over here.”

“I will.” She headed out the door and checked carefully before she crossed the street.

She opened the creaky gate and stopped. The curtains in Perrine’s living room moved. A shiver proceeded down Julie Ann’s spine. She should have left a light on.

Was there someone in the house? Was she in danger? Maybe it was Mom? 


* * * 


Julie Ann glanced over her shoulder to Savannah’s house. She debated going back but decided to go inside, carefully. She inserted the key in the lock and waited. Nothing. She turned the doorknob. No visions. 

Julie Ann cautiously stepped to one side and pushed open the door. It swung back. She stepped into the room, turned on the light and looked around. No one appeared to have been there. She closed the door, locked it and dropped the key into her bag. She checked that the back door was locked, then picked up the voodoo doll she’d brought back home and climbed up the stairs to her old room. 

Her bag still over her shoulder she opened the third bedroom door. It was her room. She scanned the room. The single wooden bed, with another homemade patchwork quilt, still stood against the wall. The battered, second-hand desk with the straight back wooden chair and the hand-painted yellow dresser all brought back memories. Memories of her and Mom painting the dresser sunshine yellow, Mom reading her bedtime stories every night and Mom trying to help her with her homework at the battered desk, bubbled up inside her. 

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