Cold Hearts. Sharon Sala

out to reheat. Trey loves beef-and-barley soup.”

      Dallas smiled and kept stirring. When Trey walked into the kitchen he went straight to her.

      “Hey, honey, thanks for coming over,” he said softly, and kissed the back of her neck.

      Dallas nodded and then glanced toward Betsy, who was already getting out the ingredients to make grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the soup.

      “Something sure smells good,” Trey said. “I hope you made enough for me.”

      “Always,” Betsy said. “One sandwich or two?”

      Trey kissed her cheek and smiled. “One is enough, thanks. What can I do to help?”

      “You can set the table. You know where everything is, right?”

      “Sure,” Trey said. He began getting plates and bowls from the cabinet, and flatware from a drawer.

      “Can you talk about the case?” Dallas asked.

      Trey shrugged. “Not much to tell right now. It was a bad scene. Mack is in about the same shape you were when I called you.”

      Dallas sighed. “I am so sorry. This is just a horrible thing to have happened.”

      Trey glanced at his mother. She was far too cheerful. “Mom?”

      Betsy flipped the two sandwiches on the grill and then looked up. “What, honey?”

      Trey stopped what he was doing and walked over to the stove, took the spatula from her hand and then wiped away the tears running down her face.

      “Come sit. I’ll do the last sandwich,” he said.

      Betsy complied without comment.

      Dallas turned off the heat under the soup.

      “Should I dish up the soup or wait?” she asked.

      “Wait until I get the last sandwich grilled,” Trey said as he took the finished sandwiches off the grill and put on the last one.

      “Betsy, honey, would you like a cup of coffee?” Dallas asked.

      Betsy wrapped her arms around herself and began rocking in her chair.

      “Does it feel cold in here to you? For some reason I’m freezing,” she said.

      “I’ll turn up the heat,” Dallas said, and headed for the thermostat in the hall.

      Trey glanced toward the table. His mom had lost all color in her face.

      “Mom?”

      Betsy looked up. “Hmm?”

      “What’s happening?”

      She shivered again. “I don’t know, Trey, but I think I’m losing my mind.”

      Trey flipped the sandwich and turned off the grill, then handed Dallas the spatula as she walked back into the kitchen.

      She moved to the grill as Trey sat down beside his mother and took her hands. Her skin was clammy, and he could feel the tremor in her muscles.

      “Talk to me, Mama. You told Dallas you threw up in the floorboard of a car.”

      Betsy touched the scar again. “I just dreamed that, didn’t I?”

      Trey shrugged. “I don’t know. Was it a dream, or were you remembering something that already happened?”

      Betsy pulled her hands away and covered her face. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

      He’d never seen her like this, but she seemed so fragile, he was afraid to push her.

      “Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

      Betsy swiped the tears off her cheeks, took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose as she stood. “It’s time to put the bread in the oven.”

      “And lunch is ready,” Dallas said as she carried the sandwiches to the table.

      “I’ll pour the coffee,” Trey said.

      “I’ll dish up the soup,” Dallas added. She headed back to the stove while Betsy set the timer for the bread.

      “That bread is going to smell so good,” Betsy said.

      Trey watched her turn back into the mother he knew and felt a chill run up his spine. He didn’t know what had happened the night she graduated, but he would bet his retirement that they’d either been a part of something illegal or they’d witnessed something bad. What he couldn’t figure out was why they were being eliminated now. What was happening that made getting rid of them so important? If his theory about these deaths was correct, she would be next, and he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to find that old accident report. Maybe there was something in it that would help him make sense of all this.

      * * *

      Mack had gone through the desk, the computer files, the old lockbox his dad kept in the back of the closet, the shoe boxes full of old income tax papers and every place he could think of looking for anything resembling a journal or a diary. If there was nothing wrong with the lift, then they needed answers to this nightmare, but he couldn’t find a thing.

      He sat down on the corner of his dad’s bed and closed his eyes. The faint scent of diesel, probably from an old pair of his dad’s work shoes, coupled with some manly aftershave, was so reminiscent of his father that he kept thinking the man was going to walk in at any moment. Mack took a deep breath, choking back tears, but before he could gather his thoughts, someone was knocking at the front door.

      He got up with a heavy heart, and when he saw one of the ladies from his dad’s church on the porch holding a covered dish, he sighed.

      Feeding the grief stricken had begun.

      * * *

      Lissa, standing in the hall outside her bedroom, was bordering on what felt like a full-blown panic attack. The thunder of her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that at first she didn’t hear her cell phone ringing. By the time it dawned on her what was happening the call had gone to voice mail. Since she didn’t want to talk to anyone, she didn’t bother checking to see who it had been.

      The only person she needed to talk to was God. She mouthed the proper words, and then cried until her eyes were so swollen it hurt to blink before she dropped to her knees. Despair was heavy, weighing her down as she stared at the floor in disbelief.

      Why had this happened?

      She felt like she was being punished, and yet Paul Jackson was the one who had died. So was it his punishment and she’d just become the tool, or was it hers and his life was gone because of it?

      Sick at heart and too exhausted to get up, she slid forward, stretching out facedown on the cold hardwood floor, and closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear forever.

      * * *

      Along about 6:00 p.m. Jim Farley, the pastor from Paul Jackson’s church, stopped by to express his condolences. By Mack’s count he was visitor number seven, and when this one left, Mack was leaving, too. He couldn’t take any more well-wishers and didn’t want anyone else to pray for him. He didn’t want prayers. He wanted answers.

      Mack took a deep breath, bracing himself for yet another painful conversation. “Pastor Farley, thank you for coming,” he said.

      The little man smiled, which made the scar across his upper lip—the result of a hockey puck gone wild during his youth—pull sideways just the tiniest bit.

      “Good afternoon, Mack. I came without calling. I hope that’s all right,” Farley said.

      “Of course it’s all right. No one stands on ceremony here,” Mack said, as he led the way to the living room.

      The pastor took a seat in the recliner as Mack said, “I have coffee. Would you like a cup?”