3:15 p.m.
Peony Park HyVee

Grace Wenninghoff wrinkled her nose as Emily dropped the Hostess Cupcakes into their shopping cart.

“Emily…”

“They’re so yummy. And you said—”

“I said you could have them as long as you picked out some fruit, too.”

She pointed to the produce section, expecting a protest. The truth was, Grace probably would have given in without her daughter’s compliance. She was feeling enough guilt to let Emily have a whole carton of Hostess Cupcakes. In the last month Emily had been a trouper, adjusting to their crosstown move better than either Grace or Vince. And now her dad was gone for over a week.

Grace had left work early and picked up Emily from Grandma Wenny’s in the hopes that the two of them could spend some girl time together. Something they hadn’t done much of since the move. Maybe Grace needed a break from their routine, an escape from the stress, more than Emily did. In fact, Emily had taken everything all in stride. She had made a fort out of the boxes in her room and decorated the antique dresser and mirror left by the previous owner with pictures of Disney characters. She had even created a new imaginary friend to share the adventure with.

“Bitsy likes Hostess Cupcakes, too,” Emily said, mentioning her imaginary friend as though she had read Grace’s mind.

At first Grace hadn’t liked the idea of her daughter spending so much time and effort with someone who didn’t exist. It seemed a bit odd. She worried Emily wouldn’t be able to relate to real kids after spending so much time with one who did and said anything she wanted. However, Vince insisted that make-believe friends for four-year-olds were just a normal part of growing up. It had certainly not been a part of Grace’s childhood. She tried to imagine what her logical and practical Grandma Wenny would have said had Grace dared to introduce an invisible friend. She probably would have blamed it on Grace’s addiction to Nancy Drew novels and Batman comic books.

Vince, on the other hand, claimed to have spent a good portion of kindergarten with an imaginary friend named Rocco. It still made Grace smile just thinking about it. Leave it to the scrawny Italian kid to invent some little mafioso to protect him. Sometimes she looked at pictures of him as a child and saw Emily, tiny and so vulnerable looking but with a spirit as tough as nails.

“What are these, Mommy?” Emily had picked up a kiwi in each of her small hands and was trying to hold them carefully without squeezing.

“They’re called kiwi. They’re sweet and good. You wanna try ’em?”

Emily looked them over, turning them first one way then another, gently rubbing her fingers over their fuzzy surface. Then, with a serious, furrowed look, she shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so. They look like monkey heads.”

“Monkey heads?” Grace laughed.

“Little green monkey heads.” And Emily began giggling, too. She was soon laughing so hard that, when she went to put the two kiwis back on top of the stack, she set off an avalanche. “Oh, no, there go all the monkey heads.”

Emily stood still, watching helplessly, her lower lip starting to pucker in what Grace recognized as a four-year-old’s fine line of not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“Come on, Em. Help me pick up these monkey heads before we both get into trouble.”

The two of them began scrambling to pick up the rolling fruit. Soon Emily was giggling again. Grace’s arms were full of kiwi when she noticed Emily on her hands and knees, staring at the last kiwi captured under the toe of a scuffed tennis shoe.

Grace looked up and almost dropped the fruit in her arms. Jared Barnett smiled down at her, his dark eyes like hollow-point bullets, empty but dangerous. He stood there with his toe holding the last piece of fruit hostage, as if there was nothing unusual about him being here, as if it were a mere coincidence.

“I didn’t know you had such a beautiful little girl, Counselor,” he said casually, but his tone injected ice-cold liquid into her veins.

“Emily, come here.” Grace kept her own voice calm, trying not to alarm her daughter, yet unable to move. Somehow her knees had decided to go spongy. Emily, however, was focused on retrieving the last kiwi, waiting with fingers ready to grab it when the shoe was lifted.

“Emily.” This time it sounded like a scold and she regretted it even before Barnett grinned. He stooped down and retrieved the fruit himself, handing it to Emily.

Grace held her breath, wanting to tell her child not to take it, not to touch it. As if to do so would contaminate her, would burn her with his evil. But, instead, she waited while Emily took the last kiwi and put it on the pile. Then Grace grabbed Emily’s hand and shoved the shopping cart forward, moving them away from Jared Barnett as quickly as she could, feeling his stare like pinpricks on the back of her neck.

“Who is that man, Mommy? Do I know him?”

“No. He’s nobody.” She pushed the cart to a free checkout counter. “Why don’t you watch the man bag our groceries. You like doing that, right?” Grace helped her squeeze past the cart to the end of the conveyor belt, and immediately Emily’s attention transferred to the boy carelessly tossing items into the plastic bags.

Grace glanced around the store, checking to see where he might be, then pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number, needing to redo it because her fingers kept hitting the wrong numbers.

“Pakula here.”

“I just ran into him again.” She tried to whisper but the anger made her sound a little like Elmer Fudd.

“Is he still hanging around the courthouse?”

“No, the produce department here at HyVee.”

The elderly woman in line behind Grace perused the tabloid magazines, but Grace knew from the woman’s frown and sideway glances that she was listening to her conversation. Grace turned her back to her and kept an eye on Emily, who was now instructing the teenage boy how to bag groceries.

“Could it be a coincidence?”

“You think he just happens to shop at the same fucking store I do?”

Grace ignored the cashier’s admonishing look. She didn’t care what some twenty-year-old college kid thought. She had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that a man she had prosecuted five years ago for murder, a man who she had argued should be sentenced to death, was now free. Free and shopping at the grocery store she just happened to frequent.

Grace scanned the store again, startled when she heard Pakula. She’d forgotten she was still on her cell phone. “Grace, you okay? You want I can send a black and white to follow you home.”

“What good would that do? I can’t have a black and white with me everywhere I go. Besides, Barnett’s not the first asshole to think he can scare me. And I’m not about to give him the pleasure of thinking he can.”

“Barnett’s not any old asshole,” Pakula reminded her.

She saw Barnett, two check-out lanes over. He looked up, and as their eyes met, instead of looking away, he smiled again. That’s when she heard Pakula say, “He’s just gotten away with murder. Don’t think for a minute that son of a bitch isn’t thinking he’s invincible right about now.”