Security Measures. Sara K. Parker

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       ONE

      Gravestones lined both sides of the cobblestone path and dotted the acreage beyond. The cemetery was a patchwork of narrow footpaths, ancient trees and wrought-iron garden benches. Wind chimes hung from tree branches, their sorrowful melodies echoing through the graveyard. A couple of months ago, Triss Everett might have found the place charming, even beautiful. Today, after attending a funeral for the fourth time in three weeks, she couldn’t escape soon enough. Her black boots crunched through piles of autumn leaves, the wind whipping her long black hair as more foliage swirled from the wooded canopy. Unfamiliar heat stung her eyes, tears threatening as the cemetery blurred around her.

      She sucked in a sharp breath of chilly air and focused on the parking lot ahead. She’d learned after the first funeral to park in the overflow lot. No one parked there, and she could avoid the dreaded lingering that happened after the burial—the hugs and tears and words that could do nothing to ease anyone’s suffering.

      Maybe she should have expected this when she’d signed a twelve-month graduate-student housing contract with the Harmony Senior Living Community in August. But she hadn’t. And she certainly hadn’t expected to forge friendships with the residents. Warm, deep, meaningful friendships. She’d spent years pouring her energy into work and school, too busy and driven to invest in friendship. But the pace was slower at Harmony, where she and four other graduate students had embarked on a pilot program in which they received room and board in exchange for volunteer hours and companionship with the residents. There, friendships had formed as she spent her contracted volunteer hours partaking in chair fitness, bingo and weekly outings with the residents. Soon, she’d found herself taking on extra hours to sit with her new friends at hair appointments, mealtimes and dialysis sessions. She couldn’t help but care about them as she grew to know their personalities and histories, their hobbies and families.

      A tear escaped and she swiped it away, hurting. Angry. If she had known she’d get so attached, she never would have signed the agreement.

      Her little black Mustang sat alone at the edge of the lot, and she hurried to it, determined to get a handle on her emotions. It had been nearly six years since she’d let herself cry. All other pain had paled in comparison to that cold November day, until now. Forcing away the tears, she unlocked her car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She turned the key in the ignition СКАЧАТЬ