Unseen. Nancy Bush

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      She had never played soccer herself. That had not been the kind of childhood she’d experienced. Mostly she’d plotted and dreamed of escape. Sometimes she had thought of murder.

      Now she waited until another crush of people arrived—more vans spilling kids and equipment onto the pavement—then hurried back, blending in with the other moms, sliding into her silver car. Letton was too enthralled by the bounty of adolescent flesh to even notice her. She was pretty sure he was jacking off in the driver’s seat.

      The teams began to gather in groups, readying for play. Every group was a tight, wiggling pack, like a hive of bees on the move.

      And then a young girl, ponytail bobbing, broke free, running across the fields toward the parking lot, her gait stuttering a bit as her cleats hit the pavement. What worked on grass didn’t offer the same kind of purchase on asphalt. She was clomping toward the portable bathrooms, passing directly in front of Edward Letton’s van. He called to her. Lucky had rolled her own window down and now she turned on the engine and slipped the car into gear, foot light on the brake.

      “Hey, you’re with the Hornets, right?” Letton called to the girl, climbing from his seat. He was obviously quoting from the back of their jerseys, which displayed their teams’ names in block letters. He left the door ajar for a quick getaway. She could hear the thrum of excitement in his voice as he headed toward the side door of the van, sliding it open. His pants were still unzipped.

      “Yeah?” the girl said warily.

      “I’ve got those extra balls your coach wanted. Let me get ’em. Maybe you could take some back.”

      “I’m going to the bathroom.”

      But Letton was already reaching into the van. The girl hesitated. A soccer ball rolled out and started heading toward her. She automatically went after it, the movement drawing her closer to the van. She picked it up and said, “I can’t take it now, I’ll come back for it,” reaching toward him, intending to hand it to him. He didn’t make a move to meet her, just waited for her to approach.

      Don’t go, Lucky thought, foot off the brake. Stay back.

      The girl hesitated. Lucky could practically feel when she made the decision that Letton was “with” their team.

      Before the girl could take another step forward Lucky smashed her foot down on the accelerator and jammed the horn with her fist. The car leapt forward like a runner at the gate. The girl jumped back, startled. Edward Letton forgot himself and lurched for the girl, but she’d automatically moved out of range of the silver car shooting down on them, running for the safety of the soccer fields. Letton glanced up darkly, his plan foiled, glaring murderously at Lucky. His mouth open to…what? Berate her for unsafe driving? He looked mad enough to kill.

      She slammed into him at thirty and climbing. Threw him skyward. Threw herself forward. The steering wheel jumped from her hands. The sedan’s grill grazed the back bumper of the van. Someone screamed. She grabbed the wheel hard, turning, both arms straining, sensing calamity. Then she spun past the van, tires squealing. Letton’s flying body thunked off the roof of her car and bounced onto the asphalt, an acrobat without a net. He lay still.

      In her rearview mirror Lucky stared hard at Letton’s body. She drove away with controlled speed, slowing through a tangle of neighborhoods, weaving her way, heart slamming hot and fast in her chest, zigzagging toward Highway 26. She had to get this car out of the area and fast.

      It was only when she was safely away, heading west, keeping up with fast-moving traffic, that she saw the blood on her steering wheel.

      A glance in the rearview. Her face was covered with blood. The impact had smacked her face into the steering wheel. Her left eye was closing. She hadn’t even noticed.

      There was Windex in the back. Rags. Bleach. She would wipe up the evidence, clean herself and the car. All she had to do now was keep the growing pain and swelling under control. Her vision blurred.

      She had to get to an off road near Carl’s Automotive, one of the myriads of turn-outs on this winding highway through the Coast Range. Later tonight she would sneak the car back onto the weed-choked gravel lot and hope that the front grill, lights, and body weren’t too damaged. The vehicle needed to stay undiscovered at the Hunk O’Junks lot for a long time.

      She swiped at the blood running down her forehead, blinding her.

      Not good. Not good at all.

      But she was lucky. She would get away with it. She would…

      She just hoped to hell she’d killed him.

      Chapter Two

      Surfacing from a yawning pit of blackness, her eyes adjusted to an unfamiliar room: cream vertical blinds, cream walls, television on a shelf bolted high on the wall, blankets covering what must be her feet, wood veneer footboard.

      A hospital room.

      Her heart clutched. She thought of surgery. Pain. Inside her head was a long, silent scream.

      Automatically, her hand flew up and touched the bandage wrapped around her head. One eye was covered. She didn’t know why, but it wasn’t the first time she’d blacked out. Far from it. But this time she’d hurt herself, maybe badly. What had happened?

      She had a terrible moment of not knowing who she was.

      Then she remembered.

      I’m lucky, she thought, memory slipping back to her, amorphous, hard to grasp, but at least it was there. At least some of it was there.

      And she was angry. Hot fury sang through her veins, though she couldn’t immediately identify the source of her rage. But someone had to pay. She knew that.

      A nurse was adjusting a monitor that was spitting out paper in a long, running stream. Red squiggles wove over the paper’s lined grid. Her heartbeat. Respiration, maybe? She closed her eye and pretended to be sleeping. She wasn’t ready for the inquisition, yet. Wasn’t ready to find out the whys and wherefores of how she’d come to be at this hospital.

      She heard the squeak of the nurse’s crepe soles head toward the door. A soft whoosh of air, barely discernible, said the silent door had been opened. Not hearing it close, she carefully lifted her eyelid. As suspected, the wheelchair-wide door was ajar. Anyone could push inside and stare at her, which consumed her with worry. She had to stay awake.

      The last vestiges of what seemed to be a dream tugged at her consciousness and she fought to hang on to the remnants but they were slippery and insubstantial, spider threads. She was left merely with the sensation that she was heading for a showdown, some distant and unwelcome Armageddon that was going to shatter and rearrange her world. Maybe not for the better.

      But then she always felt that. Always awoke with that low-grade dread which followed the gaps in her memory. Maybe someday she would wake up and not know who she was at all. Maybe her memory would be gone for good.

      What would happen then?

      The door swung in noiselessly and a man in a light-tan uniform entered the room. He was with the county sheriff’s department and, seeing her looking at him, he said, “Hello, ma’am. I’m Detective Will Tanninger with the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department.”

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