Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven.
—Luke 6:37
For my boys, Zack and Nick. I’m so proud of you and I’m so blessed to be your mom. I know your dad is watching over you, every bit as proud of you as I am.
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Roscoe’s fierce growl sent a chill skittering down Claire Mitchell’s spine. She slid back from the rickety table, bouncing to her feet as her dog continued to give his warning. It was gloomy in the old one-room hunting shack. A kerosene lantern cast a hazy glow over the notes she studied. She’d been on the run for weeks. From the outside, the shack should look unoccupied. The nights had become chilly but she hadn’t indulged in the luxury of a fire, too worried the smoke would give her away. There were only four windows in the small dwelling, one on each wall. She’d had to make do with what she’d been able to scrounge up. Threadbare bath towels had been tacked over each pane. They should block the minimal kerosene light, even in the evenings.
It wasn’t dark yet but would be soon. Her heart slammed against her rib cage, each thump pushing ice through her veins. She’d been telling herself if someone found her, she was prepared. She’d almost believed the lie.
She was a murder suspect.
But she was not a worthy adversary of Xavier Ambrose’s hired henchmen.
Roscoe growled again. Mild-mannered and loving most of the time, rottweilers were fiercely loyal protectors. Having his companionship and protection eased her mind, making it worth the extra trouble to keep him with her.
His sturdy body guarded the door, the only way in—or out—of the shack. His teeth were bared and his posture rigid. There was no need for her to try to peek outside to confirm that she was about to be ambushed. Roscoe’s change in demeanor made it clear.
“Hush!” She hissed the word under her breath. She was grateful the dog was well-trained, courtesy of Alex Vasquez, her ex-fiancé. He wouldn’t bark, giving away the fact that she wasn’t alone in the shack. She couldn’t chance the intruders hearing him growl, either. Roscoe was her best chance at escape.
With trembling hands Claire shoved the notes she’d been working on into the backpack that rested at the center of the table. It cost her precious seconds, but the contents were even more precious. She slipped the backpack over her shoulders. She tugged at the cord around her neck, finding her poor excuse for a weapon at the end of it. Palming the vial of pepper spray, she snuffed out the flame in the lantern.
Roscoe huffed, his huge body nimbly pacing back and forth in front of the doorway.
Claire darted over to him. She pressed herself against the rough plank wall of the shack. Not for the first time she futilely wished the place had another escape route. The windows were small and simple, nothing more than single panes of glass built into the frames. They would need to be shattered because they couldn’t be wedged open. She wouldn’t risk the noise announcing an escape attempt, nor would she risk being sliced to ribbons trying to squeeze through the small space.
“Heel.” The command was barely a whisper. Roscoe gave her a bewildered look before he complied.
The doorknob jiggled. It sounded like a cannon against the silence.
She had been under no illusion that she would be safe here indefinitely. That hadn’t stopped her from hoping for more time. With limited
