She missed Granddad.
Trying not to think about his scratchy whiskers and his big laugh and the way he called her his brave little soldier, she rubbed her legs, which felt funny from sitting too long. She stood up and wobbled over to the cans and aimed the light, but she didn’t have to look inside them to know her food was gone. Like the batteries, she’d tried to make the beans last. Whenever she’d woken from a long sleep, she’d made herself eat from only one can—no matter how loudly her stomach growled. This past wake-up, she’d eaten from the very last can, and she’d cut her finger when she’d dipped it inside to get the juice.
That hurt, but she hadn’t cried because brave little soldiers don’t cry over cuts and scrapes. Now, there was crusted blood on her hand, and her finger felt raw and sore, but she didn’t care.
Where was Mommy?
If only Mia could go back to sleep and not wake up again until Mommy opened the door. But Mia couldn’t fall asleep because her tummy was empty, and she was very, very thirsty.
Like the cans, her water feeder was empty.
She pressed her palms against her hot eyes and hoped as hard as she could that Mommy was coming for her right this minute.
Then her flashlight flickered out.
The beans were gone—all eight cans.
The water, too, and Mommy had filled the big feeder jar clear up to the top.
Mia had taken so many long sleeps.
Her chest suddenly felt tight, like she’d outgrown her shirt. It was hard to breathe. Her legs shook.
Even if Mommy had been too scared to tell Arnie the truth, she would never leave Mia this long. Something was very wrong.
Mommy’s hurt!
It was time to stop wishing.
It was time to do something.
Mia crept around the shed, trying not to bump into things, until she came to the group of cardboard boxes she’d been searching for. She didn’t like to touch them because they had bugs and spiders inside. Shaking out her hands, she gulped before thrusting her arms deep into one box and then another, checking for anything that might help her, but all she found were rags and old clothes.
What if Mommy had been saucing it up and hit her head again, like the time Mia had to call 911? What if she was sick with a cough like Granddad?
Mia heard whooshing in her ears, tried to take a deep breath, and noticed her chest fighting against her again.
I have to help Mommy.
But there was no way to do that while she was trapped in this shed.
Do not make a peep!
Mommy made her promise. And Mia had kept that promise. Though many times she’d wanted to cry out, she never did. But what was the point of being a good little girl if she couldn’t help her mother?
She raised her fist to her mouth and bit down hard.
Then she tossed away the dead flashlight, straining her ears as it rattled across the dirt floor. Careful not to cut her finger again on the jagged metal top, she grabbed an empty can and squatted. Propping one shoulder against the cool, splintery wall of the shed, she ground the can’s sharp edge into the dirt, then scooped up as much as she could, dumped it out and did it again… and again… and again.
She could no longer stop the tears from rushing out of her eyes and dripping onto her shirt, but so what? Being a brave little soldier hadn’t helped any more than being a good girl.
Gritting her teeth, she kept working.
She’d promised her mother not to scream… but she hadn’t promised not to dig.
One
Present day
San Diego, California
Mia Thornton wasn’t a ghost, but people so rarely noticed her she was often tempted to rattle a picture on the wall or creak open a door just to make her presence known.
However, tonight was not one of those occasions.
Seated alone at her table, on a Friday night, she stuck out like a bruise on the tender white throat of a lily. The Piano Man, one of the Gaslamp Quarter’s trendiest establishments, had a reputation for fine cuisine and an ambience that practically guaranteed a happy ending. Here was where a man brought a woman for a third date, an anniversary, or after he’d taken her for granted once too often. The dining room, as advertised, boasted a piano man as well as low lighting and ubiquitous handholding. On the patio, multiple fire pits and an hors d’oeuvre and cocktails bar lured both romantic pairs and singles. But the singles, too, came in multiples—gangs of friends ready to mix and mingle.
Are you celebrating a special occasion? Had been the host’s question before guiding her to a table reserved for two in the dining room.
She’d told him no, but that had been a lie. When Ruth Hudson had invited her to dinner—and at such a nice place—her heart had galloped into her throat. Tonight was to have marked the beginning of a new friendship, and in Mia’s world that definitely qualified as a special occasion.
In preparation for this evening, she’d brushed her medium-length brown hair until it gleamed and applied red lipstick—a color she never wore. She’d only purchased the shade because a clerk at the MAC store suggested she could use a little more pizzazz. But she’d never called Siren Red into service until this evening. After trying on and discarding half her wardrobe, she’d eventually settled on a pretty blue dress and bone-colored pumps.
She checked her watch.
It had now been forty minutes and two chardonnays since the waiter had pulled out her chair. Her mouth felt cottony,
