Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas: Protecting Virginia

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Protecting Virginia (#ulink_925463e2-cb99-5d7c-8214-839f46a91d38)

Shirlee McCoy

To my Monday morning breakfast buddy.

Thanks for always making time for me, Ms. Marge!

You will keep in perfect peace all who trust in you,

all whose thoughts are fixed on you.

—Isaiah 26:3

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The house looked exactly the way Virginia Johnson remembered it—a hulking Victorian with a wraparound porch and gingerbread trim. The once-lush lawn had died, the wrought iron fence that separated the yard from the sidewalk was leaning inward, but the ancient oak still stood at the right corner of the property, a tire swing hanging listlessly from its branches.

Even with dead grass and darkened windows, the property was impressive, the beautiful details of the house highlighted by bright winter sun. Most people would have been thrilled to inherit a place like this.

Virginia was horrified.

She walked up the driveway, her throat tight with a hundred memories that she’d rather forget, her hand clamped around the key that had come in the mail three weeks ago. It had been in a package with a letter from a lawyer who’d been trying to reach her for two months, a check for more money than she knew what to do with and the deed to the house.

She hadn’t wanted any of it.

She’d torn up the check, tossed the deed and the key in the trash. Would have gone on with her life and pretended her grandmother-in-law, Laurel, hadn’t left her everything the Johnson family owned. Except that kids were nosy, and Virginia’s job as assistant housemother at All Our Kids Foster Home meant that she lived and worked with children all the time.

Most days, she loved her job. The day little Tommy Benson had taken the letter, torn-up check, key and deed out of the trashcan and delivered them to Virginia’s boss, Cassie McCord, Virginia found herself wishing that she worked in a tiny little cubicle in a sales department somewhere. Because Cassie wasn’t one to let things go. She couldn’t understand why Virginia would let a beautiful home rot.

If you don’t want it, why not sell it? she’d asked. You haven’t had any time off in three years. Take a couple of weeks off, contact an auction house. Have them auction what you don’t want to keep, then you can put the house on the market. Imagine what you could do with the money, how many kids you could help.

The last part had been the catalyst that had changed Virginia’s mind. She could do a lot with the money from the estate. She could open another foster home. She could help hundreds of children.

And maybe...just maybe...going back to the place where she’d nearly died, the place where every one of her dreams had turned into a nightmare, would help her conquer the anxiety and fear that seemed to have taken over her life.

If it didn’t kill her first.

She shivered, the late November air cutting through her coat and chilling her to the bone. Her legs felt stiff as she walked up the porch steps. It had been eight years since she’d seen the property, but it hadn’t changed much. The door was still brick red, the porch and railing crisp white. The flowered welcome mat had been replaced by a plain black one. If she lifted it, would she see bloodstains on the porch boards?

She gagged at the thought, her hand shaking as she shoved the key in the lock. The door swung open before she could turn the knob, and she jumped back, startled, afraid.

Of what? her rational self whispered. He’s not here. Won’t ever be here again.

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, stood there in the foyer the way she had the very first time she’d seen the property. Kevin had been beside her, proud of what he had to offer the woman he’d said he loved.

She gagged again, the scent of blood filling her nose. Only there was no blood. Not on the foyer floor. Not on the cream-colored walls. Someone had washed things down, painted them over, hidden the horror that had happened in a house that should have been filled with love.

“Just get it over with,” she muttered, forcing herself to walk down the long hall and into the kitchen. She’d start her itemized list there.

The house had been in the Johnson family for five generations. It was filled to the brim with things that had been passed down from one family member to the next. The line had ended with Kevin’s death. There were probably cousins of cousins somewhere, and Virginia wished her grandmother-in-law had found one of them to hand the property and the money over to. Instead, Laurel had passed the property on to Virginia. A guilt offering? It didn’t matter. All Virginia wanted to do was get rid of it as quickly as possible.

A floorboard above her head creaked, and she froze, her hand on an old pitcher and bowl set that dated back to the nineteenth century.

“The house settling,” she said aloud, the words echoing hollowly in the quiet room.

She knew the old house well, had lived in it for two long years. It creaked. It groaned. It protested its age loudly. Especially in the winter. She knew it, but she was still terrified, her hand shaking as she set the pitcher down.

The floor creaked again, and every fear that haunted her dreams, every terror that woke her from sound sleep, filled her mind. She inhaled. Exhaled. Told herself that she had nothing to be afraid of.