Matt pushed the buzzer for Sarah’s apartment a third time, then checked his watch. He had hoped to arrive early enough that she wouldn’t be already sleeping, but apparently, he’d been wrong. Still, even knowing she was sleeping, he didn’t have a choice. The only reason she would have left a message at the station for him to call would be because she’d seen something she considered important, even urgent.
    The second he got her message, he’d sent a question out on the radio to ask what the word was on Kincaid and his current dealings. He’d received many private answers on the computer, plus he’d brought the topic up at a recent debriefing. He didn’t like the answer.
    Not only was Kincaid out of jail, he was definitely back in active ‘duty’ on the streets. Only this time, he’d gotten smarter. Short of a 24-hour surveillance, they couldn’t determine exactly what he was doing, or who he was dealing with. They only knew that Blair Kincaid was up to no good because suddenly he had money, and as usual, no job to go with it.
    Finally, Sarah’s voice blared through the speaker. “Matt! Come right up!” The buzzer sounded.
    He opened his mouth, almost saying his usual ‘16Bravo4 copy’ but he caught himself. He smiled, and pulled the door open.
    As he walked through the lobby to the elevator, a man and a woman appeared from the hallway. Their eyes widened, and they slowed their pace to watch Matt as he continued walking toward the elevator. Knowing they were watching, Matt reached up to touch the brim of his hat, and gave them a smile and a brief nod. They gave him a nervous smile in return, then walked faster until they were behind Matt, and he couldn’t see them anymore.
    Matt pushed the button for the elevator and waited, not turning around while the couple exited the building.
    He’d been an RCMP member for eight years. After all that time he should have been used to people staring at him, but sometimes it still bothered him. He knew he was intruding on those peoples’ homes by being in their apartment block, but he wasn’t the bad guy. He was an officer of the law. It was his job to help people. He told himself the reason these people were staring was because, in their minds, seeing him inside their building could only mean that something was wrong.
    In a way, they were right. Something was wrong. Blair Kincaid was back on the streets. Maybe not in their neighborhood, but he was definitely back. The key to getting him off the streets and back into jail, unfortunately, lay with Sarah.
    Once inside the elevator, Matt watched the lights above the door change as he ascended to the sixth floor. As the door opened, Sarah became visible inch by inch. He had barely taken his first step out of the elevator, when she launched herself at him. Instinctively, his hand wrapped around the handle of his gun while Sarah’s arms wrapped around him.
    “Matt! I’m so glad you’re here! I’m so scared!”
    Matt didn’t move as the elevator door swooshed closed behind him. Very slowly, he relaxed his grip on the gun. Even more slowly, he moved his hands to Sarah’s back. Instead of relaxing once his arms were around her, she tightened her grip on him.
    He couldn’t help himself. Even though he was on duty, and even though Sarah was a potential witness and informant, he moved his arms, shuffled his feet, and embraced her fully.
    She fit just right in his arms, and it felt good to hold her. She was soft, and warm, and the steadfastness of her grip around his back told him that she needed him.
    It had been a long time since he felt needed by any one person in particular. The force needed him, but he was just one of many uniforms, following the strict code of law enforcement rules to preserve right versus wrong and help the good guy win once in a while.
    But Sarah didn’t want just any officer. She wanted him. She could have told her story to anyone at the station; he’d even told her to do so if the shiftwork made seeing him difficult when something finally broke. Instead, she’d left the message only for him.

   Carla Wainwright stood in the middle of the empty lot, not far from the grand old pecan tree. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply while the wind tousled her hair.
    If her calculations were correct, very soon this would be her living room. Here, she would be stretched out on the couch, enjoying a cup of warm herbal tea, and reading a good book.
    But first, she had to build the house.
    She opened her eyes and pressed her finger onto the blueprints for the cute little two-bedroom home she had selected. The house wasn’t big or fancy, and it only had one story, but it would be hers, and hers alone-her refuge and her fortress-and no one could ever take this victory from her.
    At the sound of a vehicle approaching, Carla stopped dreaming and turned her head.
    A rusty, red pickup truck that had seen better days pulled up to the curb and stopped. A man wearing well-worn jeans and a light jacket slid out and began walking toward her. His slightly uneven gait told her he was the man she had been expecting.
    While he walked, Carla studied him. He looked to be about thirty years old. His dark brown hair appeared neat, although a bit too long.
    As he approached, Carla’s breath caught. Ellen hadn’t warned her about his height. At five feet four inches Carla considered herself average, yet he towered above her by a foot. The girth of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms made her think of Paul Bunyan. She’d never met anyone so large in her life.
    “You must be Carla Wainwright.” He extended one hand and waited.
    Carla gathered her nerve and returned his handshake. His large hand completely swallowed hers. “You must be Jack Dugan.”
    He nodded. “I understand you want to build a house.”
    Carla nodded. “Yes. Ellen recommended you highly. But if you don’t mind, I have a few questions.”
    “Of course. Ask away.”
    Carla’s carefully rehearsed speech deserted her when she looked up into his eyes. She’d never seen eyes so green, or so beautiful. Even more striking than the deep sea color, his eyes seemed to bore into her, stalling her thought processes.
    Carla sucked in a deep breath and stiffened her back to make herself as tall as possible. She couldn’t let him make her nervous. She was here only to interview him for a job she needed done.
    “Ellen said you were just getting back to work after an accident and might be available to start right away. I’m going to be blunt. This may not be a big, executive home, but I need a commitment that you won’t divide your time with other projects and that you’ll do my house as quickly as possible.”
    His face tightened and he cleared his throat. “I don’t know what Ellen told you, but the reason I’m not working now is because I’m caught in the middle of a gray zone technicality. Worker’s Compensation says my claim is up and I should be back to work, but Rick, the main guy I work for, doesn’t think I’m ready. Basically, we parted with a ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ Therefore, my schedule is open.”
    Carla gasped. “I thought by law an employer was obligated to take someone back after an accident.”
    Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m different because I’m considered self-employed. Technically, Rick subcontracts me separately for each job. Sometimes it’s for just one portion of a single home, sometimes it’s overseeing a whole subdivision, or anything in between. Legally, he doesn’t offer any guarantees because I’m a subcontractor, not an employee. In this business, word travels. No one else is hiring me while Rick considers me a liability. Being self-employed, I don’t qualify for unemployment insurance, so I’m actively looking for something to start on right away, or I don’t eat. That may sound harsh, but that’s the reality of it. So, if you have a house to build, I’m available.”
    Carla clenched her jaw and swallowed hard. She didn’t want Jack to do her house as a last resort because he was desperate, but his current situation suited her needs.
    Jack came highly recommended. He’d done an excellent job renovating Ellen’s basement. Likewise, Ellen promised that Jack would give her an honest quote and build her house at the best value for her money without compromising quality or taking shortcuts. She also said Jack was a good and honorable Christian man. Not that Carla would trust him because of his claim to faith. She only trusted him because Ellen did.
    Carla stiffened her back and cleared her throat. “Are you sure you’re ready to take on a whole house? I don’t want you to discover halfway through it was too much for you, and then have to find someone else.”
    He shook his head. “I assure you that even though I’m not going to be dancing on the rooftops for awhile, I’m more than ready and capable to get back to work. Building houses is what I do.”
    Ellen’s assurances echoed through her head. If Ellen said Jack was the best, she would take Ellen’s word for it and ignore the fact that no one else would hire him.
    “Okay. I guess you’re hired. The first thing we should agree on is the cost for labor and materials and exactly what it is you’ll do.”
    He let out his breath in a deep whoosh of air. “Ellen told me a bit about your house. How about if we go sit down somewhere and we’ll talk. My truck isn’t exactly an office, but I’ve got a calculator, my laptop, and a thermos of good, strong coffee, if you’re interested.”
    Carla sucked in a deep breath, repositioned her purse strap on her shoulder, and rolled the blueprints into a tube.
    This was it. There was no turning back. Through diligence and hard work, and a lot of help from God, she had overcome what for so long had held her down. She could move forward with confidence and determination, and not look back. Building her house was the start of her new beginning.
    “I’m interested. Let’s go.”

    Because they had to go to the diner first, which was in the opposite direction as the airport, Chantelle could tell Uncle Joe was rushing far too much. She didn’t have to check the speedometer to know he was speeding. Before she knew it, they were at the diner. She ran in with Uncle Joe for the laptop and the huge box of receipts. In far less time than she had ever taken to travel that distance, they were at the airport. Chantelle thought it only by good fortune that Uncle Joe made it without a ticket.
    Chantelle carried the laptop and Uncle Joe carried the box as they hurried into the main terminal, catching up to Mark just as he was collecting his boarding pass. “Here’s your laptop. I guess you’ll want to check this box.”
    “Yes. They now have restrictions as to how much you can carry on. I’m certainly not checking my laptop.”
    Uncle Joe thunked the heavy box onto the scale. The clerk tagged it, and sent it on its way down the conveyor belt.
    “You can go to the boarding area now. They’ll be calling for final boarding for your flight in about half an hour. Have a pleasant flight, and thank you for flying with us.”
    Mark tucked the boarding pass into his shirt pocket. “Let’s go have a coffee. We’ll just have to listen carefully for the last boarding call and keep an eye on the time so I can run in at the last minute.”
    When everyone stepped toward the cafeteria, Chantelle turned around to ask if anyone knew the way to the ladies’ room. At the same time she opened her mouth to speak, Uncle Joe’s footsteps faltered. He reached out and touched Aunt Ellen’s arm, causing her to stop as well.
    “It’s so hot in here,” he mumbled, swiping at his brow with his forearm.
    Chantelle glanced to the windows, and the warm sunshine outside. The afternoon had been hot, but it was now after six and not as stifling as it had been earlier. Inside, the airport’s air conditioning made it much cooler than outside. And for a man who thought it was hot, Uncle Joe’s face was alarmingly pale.
    Chantelle stopped walking and faced her uncle. “Uncle Joe? Are you okay?”
    Everyone in their group slowly shuffled to a halt and also turned when Uncle Joe stopped walking.
    “I’m fine,” he said, but his voice came out strained. “Maybe I need to sit dow--”
    His voice trailed off as his face paled even more. Both eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he pressed both hands to his chest. Instead of gasping for air, Uncle Joe stiffened, and then crumpled to the floor, knocking down a number of the chrome posts as he fell.
    Mark thrust his laptop at Chantelle, letting go before she had a chance to grab it properly. While she stood in one spot fumbling with Mark’s laptop, Mark ran to her uncle and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees.
    “Joe!” he called out as he pressed his fingers into his throat. “Can you respond? Say something!”
    He waited for only two seconds, but they were the longest two seconds of Chantelle’s life.
    Uncle Joe didn’t move. He’d paled even more; his skin was a ghastly shade of pale grey.
    Mark lifted his head. “Call 9-1-1, and page a doctor!” he called out to the woman at the check-in counter. “I think he’s having a heart attack!”
    Chantelle watched as time moved in slow motion. She forced herself to breathe as she stood, her feet frozen to the floor.
    Mark raised his head, keeping his fingertips pressed to Uncle Joe’s throat. “Does anyone know CPR?”
    Everyone around them stood stiff, not even moving enough to shake their heads.
    “I hope I’m doing this right,” Mark muttered. “God, help me.”
    Mark tilted Uncle Joe’s head back, and pinched his nose. He breathed into Uncle Joe’s mouth, backed off enough to quickly inhale another rush of air, then blew into Uncle Joe’s mouth a second time.
    Remaining on his knees, Mark shuffled a few inches down, flattened his palms on Uncle Joe’s chest, and with straight arms, pushed down onto Uncle Joe’s chest. He pumped rapidly ten times, counting as he pumped, blew two more puffs into Uncle Joe’s mouth, and pumped again.
    Uncle Joe’s body twitched slightly, causing Mark to stop. “Joe!” Mark called into his face, but when no response or further movement happened, Mark continued with the artificial respiration, followed by more pumping.
    A woman wearing jeans and a tie-dyed t-shirt covered in paint ran up to Mark. She tossed her purse to the side, and dropped to her knees on the opposite side of Uncle Joe from Mark. “I’m a doctor. Heart attack? Has someone called an ambulance?”
    “Yes, someone’s called.”
    The woman felt for a pulse. “Nothing,” she muttered. She tipped Uncle Joe’s head back a little more and pinched his nose. “I’ll do mouth-to-mouth, you keep pumping.”
    “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how many times.”
    The woman blew two times into Uncle Joe’s mouth. “Two breaths, fifteen pumps. Quickly. Now.”
    They continued two more repetitions. Halfway through the third repetition, Mark stopped abruptly. His face visibly paled. “I heard a snap. I think I broke something.”
    Chantelle’s stomach churned and she felt faint. If she thought she could get her feet to move, she would have sat down. Instead, she remained where she was, her heart pounding, her head swimming, wondering if she was going to be the next to fall down. “God, please, don’t let him die,” she whimpered, clutching onto Mark’s laptop like a life preserver.
    “Don’t stop,” the doctor said firmly, but gently. “Right now a cracked rib is the least of his problems.”
    Even from where she was, Chantelle could see Mark’s hands shaking as he once more pressed down onto Uncle Joe’s chest and continued, counting from eight to fifteen. As soon as he stopped, the woman blew two more breaths. Mark was just about to resume when suddenly, Uncle Joe sputtered. His whole body jerked, and he began to cough. The woman quickly reached to his throat.    
    “We have a pulse!”

    The door to the first office she passed was closed and had Barnabas’ name on it. Tasha slowed her pace, and checked the door across the hall, which had Connor’s name on it, and was also closed. The next door had Steve’s name on it and it was wide open.

    Tasha didn’t hear any sound emanating from the room, so instead of walking straight in, she stopped and peeked her head in first. The small room barely housed two desks. The larger desk faced the wall at an open window overlooking the courtyard, and a smaller desk was bunted up beside it, with the front of the small desk facing the side of the larger desk.

    The smaller desk was vacant, but a man sat working at the larger desk. With his back to her, Tasha had the opportunity to see Steve before he could see her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her words caught in her throat at the sight before her.

    Unlike Steve’s pristine work and study habits that she’d witnessed at university, both desks were piled with stacks and stacks of papers so high and so jumbled she couldn’t see the surface of either desk. The larger desk was worse, with the only low spot of the mountain of papers around the mousepad, which was crooked, and if she wasn’t mistaken, marred by a coffee stain. Scribbled sticky notes surrounded the computer monitor. A stack of papers had obviously overflowed the desk and lay littered about the floor.

    Tasha wondered if maybe she had the wrong office. She glanced quickly back to the sign on the door, which definitely stated ‘Steve Harrigan’. Again, she studied the man behind the desk. Even though she couldn’t see his face, Tasha recognized Steve’s sun-streaked brown hair.

    A breeze wafting through the window swiped a paper from the top of one of many piles to the floor. Tasha watched as Steve slouched so far forward that his forehead pressed into the stack of papers closest to the edge of the desk. With one arm extended, he slowly reached down and groped in the air toward the paper now laying on the floor. At the same time, his other hand reached for and connected with the handle of a large coffee mug with his name on it, which was sitting on the corner of the desk, half way onto the mousepad, which explained the coffee stain.

    From the back, she could see Steve’s whole body sag as he let out a huge sigh. He didn’t move, but remained rooted with his forehead on the desk. Instead of picking up the fallen paperwork, his arm went limp, dangling aimlessly with his fingertips dragging on the floor. His other hand remained fixed on the handle of his mug.

    She didn’t know what had happened to the Steve she knew, but one thing she did know. His brother was right. This Steve certainly could use a break.

    Tasha cleared her throat. “Steve?”