Duty To Defend. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

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      During the drive to her apartment, her tired brain sorted through the results so far. Nate, who was swamped with starting a dentistry practice in Worcester, Massachusetts, and planning a wedding with his fiancé, had responded to her “thank you” text with a question mark and puzzlement emoji. She received a similar response during her afternoon break when she texted Noah, who was on a journalism assignment in London. She could cross them both off her list. If either brother had been behind the prank in person or by arrangement, he would have been proud to take credit and laugh at her scolding.

      She pulled into the carport of a large Victorian home converted to side-by-side apartments in the quiet Pine Point neighborhood. A chorus of greetings from the porch of the Victorian house next door met her ears as she exited her little VW. Daci waved at three mixed-age women, members of a group home for mentally challenged adults, who resided there.

      She’d been intrigued by the place when she’d moved in a week ago, and had gone over to meet the residents. In addition to rotating shifts of house mothers, there were six residents—two with Down syndrome, two with autism, one with fragile X syndrome and one with FASD. Their intellectual capacities varied from gifted in areas to slow across the board, but poor emotional and social skills guaranteed their need for a supervised environment for the rest of their lives. Once her life settled down a little, she might find time to go over and volunteer, but not today.

      “Have a good evening,” she called to her welcoming committee and trod up the three steps onto the porch. At least there were no more weird gifts awaiting her.

      Inside, she changed into comfy jeans and T-shirt, then picked up her phone to call her sisters, Amalie and Ava. She was about to peck the speed-dial button for Amalie when her screen lit up and her ringtone began. Am had beaten her to the call. Most likely Ava was present, too, since they shared an apartment near Dartmouth University in Hanover, New Hampshire. Only two years apart in age, the sisters enjoyed a close relationship, despite or maybe because of their differing personalities. Amalie, the elder, was on the serious side, introverted and cautious, while Ava was bubbly and outgoing.

      Daci answered and greeted her sister.

      “How was your day, Mamasis?” Amalie lilted.

      Warmth filled Daci at the familiar, affectionate nickname—though her sibs had sometimes changed it to “Nemesis” if they were at odds with her over some sort of growing pains.

      “I’m here, too,” Ava chimed in.

      “Can’t tell you the details,” Daci answered, “but I’ve been assigned a small role in a high-profile case.”

      Feminine squeals blended.

      “Awesome,” Ava said.

      “Does it involve danger?” Amalie’s tone went cautious.

      “No more than any law-enforcement assignment. Risk is part of the job.”

      Ava chuckled. “Our mamasis, the adventurer. I suppose you couldn’t bear any sort of mundane career after the supreme challenge of raising us.”

      They all laughed.

      “Which of you sent me the ‘welcome to your new life’ basket I found outside my door this morning?”

      For a beat, stone silence answered.

      “Must have been the neighborhood welcoming committee,” Amalie said.

      “Yeah, neither of us thought of doing anything that nice. Wish we had.”

      “What was in it?” Amalie was ever practical.

      “Small stuff. Pretty much useless for my current lifestyle.” If her sisters weren’t in on the joke, no way was she going to freak them out by detailing the basket’s contents.

      “Wasn’t there a card?” Am asked.

      “Nothing that identified the sender.”

      “Weird,” Ava said.

      The conversation veered off into other topics, like Amalie’s upcoming graduation with a major in archeology, followed by a summer internship at an ancient civilization site in New Mexico. Ava lamented the impending absence of her sister as she stayed behind at school, slaving toward her undergrad degree in Film and Media Studies. Daci alternately congratulated and commiserated. Twenty minutes passed quickly, and they ended the call.

      If the gift basket was not an off-the-wall inside joke from her often-wacky nearest and dearest, then who had left it for her and why? In light of the seriousness of the attempted hit-and-run, should she report the incident to her boss? To the local police? Unfortunately, she no longer possessed the physical evidence that might yield forensic clues. She’d chucked the gross object into a Dumpster at the nearest gas station.

      That night, such dilemmas, as well as flashbacks of the SUV bearing down on her and Jax, invaded her dreams. Her alarm clock’s blare rolled her out of bed, groaning and mumbling under her breath. It was a harsher joke than spoiled baby food that she had to dress civilian casual and leave her badge in her dresser drawer on just her second day of work.

      Her sidearm she put into a cloth bag to be taken into the day care director’s office and kept under lock and key. Not the best scenario if Liggett Naylor showed up, because she’d have to run to retrieve it. There had been a brief discussion with DC Reynolds about her wearing a small pistol strapped to her ankle, but they’d discarded the notion. Packing a gun while she cared for small children was unacceptable.

      Well before the seven o’clock opening time, Daci approached a squat brick building with a sign over the door that read Little Blessings Day Care. Judging by the name, this was a faith-based care center. Unusual choice for placement of a ward of the government, but Jax had said that, while not all pint-size clients here had special needs, this day care offered programs for those who did. Perhaps Chase’s mental and physical challenges were the deciding factor in placing him in this one.

      Daci paused inside the front door. The interior was brightly lit, revealing a foyer with a currently unmanned check-in desk standing outside a wall of glass that separated the foyer from a large open play area. Child-sized tables dotted a carpeted interior that featured separate sections for reading, crafts, toys and games. Doorways at the far end of the large room were labeled by age group.

      A few adult workers moved around the play area. Children wouldn’t start arriving for another twenty minutes. Daci had thought the environment would assail her with desperation to escape back into the adult world. Instead, the scents of wet wipes, spilled juice and small-child sweat drew a deep calm from her core. There was something to be said for familiarity. And nostalgia. It hadn’t always been easy caring for her siblings, but she had some great memories of them from when they were this small.

      A door to her left opened, and a petite, middle-aged woman with graying hair emerged, several file folders in the crook of one arm. According to the label on the door, this person was the director.

      “You must be Daci Marlowe,” the woman said, stretching out her free hand. “I’m Naomi Minch, and my staff graciously allows me to believe I run this joyful madhouse.”

      Daci smiled as she shook the director’s hand. She was well on her way to liking her temporary boss. This day was actually getting off to a good start.

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