The first chapter

Rushville could be a street you'd find in any other small suburban neighborhood. This one, however, boasted the sounds and songs of the ocean waves. If you listened closely, particularly at 4:00 a.m., the tide insisted you take notice. Distant, rhythmic, a light timpani drum lasting about three seconds. Skyler usually did notice, but not tonight. Her thoughts tumbled into dreams plagued with loss and loneliness. Awake after hours of restlessness, she turned to nestle a bit with the warm fur belonging to Mousse, her black Labrador snoring lightly next to her.

Maybe a walk would help.

Lumbering from semi-sleep, Skyler glanced at the clock. She grabbed the clothes strewn across the bureau. Another night without sleep and replaying scenes of an unchanging past and its consequences. This isn't what I thought life would be at this stage.

Mousse roused, jumped down with attention, and was ready for the next adventure, no matter what time it was. She smiled at the inquisitive, golden-eyed creature of love, so glad he was here with her. Pushing into her sneakers, a lightweight jacket in tow, she latched on his leash. She stood outside on the small porch, breathing in the crisp air. They were both quietly gazing, she at the puff clouds lazily drifting across the night sky, illuminated partially by the half moon, and Mousse, just gazing and waiting for what a dog's mind could only imagine.

One of the few things that calmed her was walking, deep breathing, sky gazing, and not thinking. It was her secret, these night walks in this neighborhood of closely aligned homes and neighbors who seemed to want to know more. They were friendly enough, but she was not ready to make those connections. Her limbs moved slowly through the fatigue and into the night. Grief walked alongside her, taunting her thoughts that swirled with images of Tim and the life she'd had. She was captive to the night, the blackness, the void. Daylight only reminded her that she was living a reclusive life, and she wasn't sure how to change that.

They walked straight to the ocean, a few blocks in a gentle slope westward. A light Santa Ana breeze hailed the early fall. In Southern California, this meant the perfect temperatures night or day, along with a warm, dry wind at your back. Skyler welcomed this change from the seasonal fluctuations in North Carolina, where she grew up. She'd come to the West Coast to find her "creative self." She wanted to escape the twelve-hour-work-to-live mentality for a life of creativity, balance, and meaning.

She was lucky to find a career in journalism and specifically feature writing. She always loved to write, but her shyness kept her away from the more gregarious, fact-finding, extroverted reporter world. Instead, she wrote about lives that she might never experience but desired, the human interest stories that usually had happy endings and were inspiring. In these years, it provided an escape from the present.

Her steps were deliberate, and Mousse kept pace. He sought her eyes at intervals and offered his vigorous tail wags, slapping back and forth at everything in its path. It was his dog swagger. Reaching the ocean, she grabbed a nearby bench, and Mousse jumped up quietly beside her, nestling his head in her lap. Skyler stretched out her feet, crossed them, and closed her eyes. She placed her hands gently on the dog's head and took some deep breaths, trying to release her troubling thoughts. She imagined them tumbling through the waves, disappearing into the foam. This hour alone with the ocean was her refuge, her slice of peace in this haven she now called home.

Skyler had always been introspective and shy. She grieved the loss of Tim. Thoughts of her absentee family and the lack of her mother's love pushed her from introspection to isolation and deep loneliness. Before her time with Tim, the last time she really laughed, totally let go of what people thought and enjoyed herself, was college in her early 20s. She escaped the world of her family in those early days, but the wounds of a little girl never really healed. She knew those wounds were hidden deep inside. They were the reason depression took a seat in her home during the last few years as an uninvited guest. She could name what was right in her life but knew there could be a whole lot more, if only she knew how to get there.

It was a quiet walk back up the hill toward the small, cottage-like home that was now hers alone. She found herself imagining the lives inside the modern, often quaint, and numerous cottage homes, each with neat yards of drought-resistant plants or small yards with snippets of grass. Are they happy?

Then she heard the noise. A human cry? A moan? A howling animal? It was high-pitched and irregular, but which house? She turned up a new block, and the sound intensified. "He... help!" she could barely make out a voice in the darkness. "Oh my god," she realized, "someone is crying for help." She stopped and listened again. She wasn't automatically the first one to help others. She was the cautious one, waiting to see if someone else would step in and do the rescuing. She stood there, then started rocking on her feet, still afraid to move. A tightness gripped her in the gut, and she bit her lip, tasting the blood inside her mouth. Her breathing became shallow as scenarios rolled around in her head. A break-in? A robbery? Maybe domestic violence?

She found herself in the middle of the block with three homes on the right side and one large mansion on the left. All were completely black, and the street, half-lit by a distant lamppost, seemed eerily quiet with a foreboding stillness. Mousse tugged at the leash.

Skyler fought her inner instincts to run home and forget all about it. She heard a crack, something breaking, shattering glass perhaps. Listening with heightened intensity, she heard it, a discernible but feeble voice. "Help me." Skyler quickened her steps, walking past the first home. Then she saw a faint light coming from a downstairs window of the second house. What was it? She needed to know, and this need battled with her instincts to leave. Somewhere deep down, she knew she could not walk away. Skyler looked in all directions again. No one is here. No one.

Cautiously, she crept across the lawn of the first house, facing the light, and turned the corner. She pressed her hands back and head against the side of the house. Mousse was restless. She pulled up on the leash, giving the signal to sit, and the dog obeyed. Now she couldn't turn back. "What am I getting myself into?"

The light from the kitchen stove caught her eye, followed by a shadow, a man in a hooded sweatshirt. She gasped and wanted to run, but fear kept her rooted in place. Skyler's breath became shallow as her longtime asthma gripped her chest. Wheezing, she reached for her emergency inhaler inside her jacket and waited for relief. Her labored breathing seemed to worsen, but she couldn't look away. Beads of sweat formed on her temples and traveled quickly down her cheeks. Her pulse quickened. She clutched her chest in response. Frozen, she watched and waited. A flash of light hit the knife blade at just the right moment. A woman barely visible grabbed the edge of the countertop, slid downward, and then was gone from view. The assailant turned toward the light, stared down at the floor, and then glanced out the window. Skyler got a good look at the face of a murderer and committed it to memory: male with black curly hair. Time slowed as she watched him move, his muscular right arm bearing a tattoo that appeared to be an eagle. He took the knife and vanished into another room.

Mousse erupted with barking and pulled hard on the leash, unhappy with being restrained and picking up on her anxiety. The male figure appeared in another window, staring directly where she was standing, and then disappeared a split second later. He must have seen me.

Panicked, she bolted but tripped as she turned the corner of the house. Mousse's leash had wrapped around her like a snake. Struggling in what seemed like an interminable minute, she unwrapped the leash and ran for her life. She heard a door slam behind her but kept running toward a side alley behind the homes.

Crouching behind trash cans, she hugged the dog by his torso. "Quiet, boy," she whispered into his ears, and he leaned into her body, giving her his full attention. Skyler's entire body shivered from her clothes, soaked in sweat. Her chest pounded. She tried to catch her breath as seconds passed, and then her foot slipped on a small twig that snapped lightly. She righted herself and felt a jolt of adrenaline as she pressed her weight against the trash can for balance, staring at Mousse. The dog's head lifted up, his eyes alert.

"Shh," she whispered, and he became still. She heard footsteps and saw his shadow a few feet away. He stopped. She prayed and covered the dog's eyes with her other hand. "Please God, save us." She heard a few more steps, as if he was crossing to the middle of the alley, and held her breath. A cat bolted from behind a parked car. Skyler peered out just as a motion-sensor light lit up his face. He jerked back and then stared in their direction. Mousse's ears perked up, but his eyes were still covered. "Shh, please, Mousse, for once, please be quiet." And he obeyed. Finally, the man retreated, his quick footsteps echoing down the alley. He was walking away. She was safe, but what about the woman? Her hands were shaking, and her chest wheezed slightly.

She listened for a few more minutes and then grabbed her cell phone. She could barely see the phone app with the sweat that blurred her eyes and coursed down her face. After several tries, she finally was able to dial 911. Her voice wobbly and her sobs coming in waves, she gave the information but could not answer the question. "Do you know if the woman is still alive?"

"I don't know," she gasped. "I just saw her drop down and out of view." Then she gave directions to the house on Waverly Street.

"We're on our way. Stay on the phone with me," said the dispatcher, but Skyler had already hung up the phone, her mind on the woman who was attacked. Was she dead? "Mousse, we have to go back. We have to go. She might be alive." Skyler broke into a run, and Mousse kept pace. "Please be alive. Please be alive."

She reached the house in less than a minute and heard the siren in the distance. Bolting through the open front door, she held Mousse close to her side in the darkened entrance. She heard a feeble voice. "Ah, help. Ah." A faint sound became a low groan. She ran toward the kitchen to find the woman's crumpled body on the floor, her white bathrobe drenched in blood. Kneeling down, she felt for a pulse. Remembering some rudimentary first aid, she could see a slight movement of her chest. "She's alive!" Grabbing a dishtowel, she applied some pressure to an abdominal wound.

"You're safe. I called 911. They're almost here." The woman in a semi-conscious state was mouthing something. Skyler leaned down. "He stabbed me." Still barely breathing, the woman's head moved to one side. The next minute, paramedics were behind Skyler. She moved aside as they took control, vital signs, wound care, oxygen. Within minutes, they had the woman on a stretcher and out the door.

Sitting on the floor, Skyler stared at her hand coated with blood, noticing Mousse's bloodied paws and his startled eyes. "It's okay, boy. It's all over now," she whispered as she stood up and tried to steady herself. She grabbed the side of the wall, holding Mousse tightly to her side.

"You're Skyler Bennett? You made the 911 call?" A tall police officer startled her with his stern voice and bigger-than-life persona. She looked down at Mousse and then up again. He was standing right next to her, but she never saw him approach. "I'm Officer Connors. What can you tell us?" He pulled out a small notebook and pen, stood under the light, and studied her for a few seconds with a stoic expression.

"Yes, I'm Skyler. I made the call." She took a deep breath and then continued. "I was taking a walk in the neighborhood and heard a wailing sound. As I got closer to the sound, I walked across the lawn to the house next door to this one. Then I heard the sound again, looked over toward this house, and saw him through the window." She stopped to gather her breath and looked down to see her hands shaking. "He was standing in the kitchen holding a knife. I saw the woman slouch down. I thought she was dead. Then I think he heard my dog bark, and he saw me standing there. I ran, and he chased me. I thought he was going to kill me. I hid in the alley, and he finally ran away."

They were interrupted as an officer with two German shepherds bolted past her into the house, and one more police car pulled into the driveway. Several more officers moved quickly from the car to the front and back of the house with searchlights. In seconds, they were headed down the street. She heard voices and the clicking of cameras as the crime scene tape was secured. They ushered her down the porch steps and then turned her attention back to the officer.

"Do you think you could identify him?" he asked.

"Yes, I saw his face for a few seconds. He had a tattoo of an eagle on his right arm."

"We'll need to ask you to come down to the station and work with our sketch artist tomorrow. Anything more you can tell us now?"

"Medium height, dark curly hair, muscular build. But there is one more thing." She paused to recall the exact words. "She said, 'He stabbed me' before she passed out."

"Skyler, you're now a material witness to a crime, so your name will not be released to the press. We'll be in close contact with you. Now let's get you back home. If he's around, we don't want him to see you, and your neighborhood is waking up. I'm sure you don't want their questions. We'll be sending an unmarked car in your neighborhood later tonight as well."

She nodded. An officer led her around the back of the house as a precaution and then to her back door. They both looked up, surprised to see a low-flying helicopter circling with a blaring announcement that a criminal was loose in the area. Thanking the officer, she pulled Mousse inside, ran toward the bathroom, and collapsed against the wall. She sobbed, choking on tears and gasping for air as a torrent of emotions was finally released. She cried for the woman she never knew, her neighbor. She cried about what she witnessed, the knife, the blood, the man. Finally, she cried because through it all, she had no one to comfort her. Mousse curled in her lap, sensed it all. She pulled him close, hands, blood, fur, and tears.

The sun rose, and light filled the space where a woman and her dog grieved the events of the night. Soon that grief was mixed with the events of her life.