Plain Protector. Alison Stone
work with single mothers—not necessarily Amish—to help them access programs and—”
“You mentioned that before. But why here? Why Apple Creek?” Nick glanced at her quickly, then back at the road.
“Why not?” Her words came out clipped despite her efforts to keep her tone even.
“Seems like a remote place. Most newcomers to Apple Creek nowadays are the Amish folk. Do you have ties to the area? Family?”
She crossed her ankles, then uncrossed them when she thought about the possibility of being in an accident and having her legs pinned against the dash in a contorted position. Sarah had a knack for worrying about everything.
She cleared her throat. “The Amish are an underserved area. Many young adults are afraid to reveal their problems, substance abuse or otherwise, to their own community for fear of punishment from the church. At least with me, I can help them work through their issues without the added burden of feeling like they’ve let down their parents or the church. My hope is to help my clients be the best person they can be, whether they decide to stay in the community or not. No judgment on my part.”
“How does that go over with the Amish community?” His tone reminded her of when people asked, “How’s that working for ya?” when it obviously wasn’t working at all.
“I want to believe most Amish people appreciate my efforts, even if they won’t publicly acknowledge what I’m doing. I can respect that. The Amish are a humble people who prefer to remain true to their own community.” She wanted, no she needed, to work under the radar. Nick didn’t need to know that. The fewer people who knew her predicament, the less likely she’d be discovered. “If I can help someone who is struggling with drugs or alcohol, everyone benefits.” Sarah let out a long sigh. Her own father had been killed by a drunk driver. Sarah had heard more than once that social workers tended to come out of the ranks of individuals who needed some fixing in their own lives. If only the person who’d decided to drink and drive the day her father had been killed had chosen a different path. Had chosen to get help. How different her life might have been.
“Do you think the person who threw the rock tonight was someone from your group meeting? Or maybe an angry family member who doesn’t appreciate what they might consider outside interference?”
“I don’t want to believe one of the people I’m trying to help did this.” A chill skittered up her spine. Actually, Deputy Jennings, I think it was my crazy ex-boyfriend, but I don’t know how he would have found me. Sarah had taken tremendous pains to keep her location secret. The only ones who knew her background were the pastor and his wife. And Sarah trusted them completely.
Of course, her mom back in Buffalo knew where her daughter was, but was careful to only contact her through her pastor, who would relay the message to Pastor Mike here in Apple Creek.
Sarah’s life had become a tangled web of carefully crafted half-truths and secrets. The more she talked, the greater chance she had of being discovered. That’s why outside of work she had primarily kept to herself since she arrived in Apple Creek six months ago.
“Most of my clients’ names are kept confidential.” Even as the words slipped from her mouth, she knew that wasn’t foolproof for confidentiality. Trust was the foundation of her group meetings. She couldn’t control what clients revealed about themselves or others once they left.
Being a social worker, regardless of the community, had inherent risks: unstable patients, angry relatives and venturing into unsavory neighborhoods. But her need to help others—provide hope—trumped any threat to her personal safety. She took precautions. She wasn’t stupid.
Nick made a noncommittal sound and slowed the vehicle, turning into the parking lot of a nondescript building. A lonely sedan with a dent in the back panel sat in the parking lot. “Good, we caught her.”
Her, no doubt, being his sister. The physician.
Sarah’s mouth went dry. “I can’t. I won’t get out of the car.”
“My sister’s a great doctor. Don’t worry.”
Sarah glanced around the empty parking lot. The lonely country road beyond that. Her stomach knotted.
Suddenly, she was irrationally angry at this man who, on the surface, only wanted to help her.
“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” she bit out.
Under the white glow from the spotlights illuminating the building and parking lot, a flash of something raced across his features. For the second time since she had met him earlier tonight, she noticed the vulnerability in his face. He turned to her, a look of apology in his eyes. “Let my sister take a look. Just a look. If after that you want to go home, I’ll take you. No questions asked.” He cracked his door and the dome light popped on.
Nodding, Sarah squinted against the brightness. Her stomach felt queasy.
The first rule of disappearing—her personal rule—was not to get involved with anyone. Nick Jennings looked a lot like someone who might be worth breaking a rule for.
If only he weren’t a police officer.
Sarah knew more than anyone that sometimes even the guys who were supposed to be good weren’t.
Jimmy Braeden, her stalker ex-boyfriend, was a prime example. Her ex was a cop. And if tonight was any indication, he may have finally found her.
Goose bumps raced across her arms and she shuddered. She turned and saw her hollow eyes in the reflection of the passenger window.
“Okay,” she said, part agreement, part sigh, “I’ll let your sister take a look.” Her acquiescence was mostly to get inside, out of the open. Away from the crosshairs of an abusive man who threatened he’d kill her before he’d ever let her go.
Sarah’s vision narrowed tunnellike as she climbed out of the deputy’s vehicle in the parking lot of the health-care clinic. In a flash, Nick moved next to her and grabbed her arm. Her first instinct was to pull away.
Run.
She blinked up at him.
“Are you okay? Here, sit.” His words sounded distant, jumbled in her ears. She was only partially aware of him yanking open the car door she had just slammed shut and ushering her to a seated position inside his vehicle. He crouched down in front of her and studied her eyes. “Are you dizzy?”
“I stood up too fast.” She had learned to make excuses to cover her panic attacks. It was less embarrassing this way. Her feelings were irrational, self-created, yet she couldn’t always control them.
“You’ve had a head injury.”
Sarah absentmindedly reached up and touched her head and pulled her fingers away, sticky with her own blood. Her stomach lurched and she shoved back a million memories of another time her head had been bleeding. Back then, the man with her hadn’t offered to help. No, it took several hours and a heaping dose of remorse before he came back to her, pleading for forgiveness with a promise to never lift a hand to her again.
Until the next time.
“Do you think you can make it into the clinic? If not, I can get a wheelchair from inside.”
Embarrassment edged out her feelings of anxiety, two emotions that twined around her lungs and made it difficult to breathe. “I can walk in.” One thing her ex-boyfriend had taught her was to pretend to be tough.
She had gotten good at pretending. At a lot of things.
Sarah stood and the officer hung close by her side, holding her elbow. He obviously wasn’t convinced. When they reached the door of the health-care clinic, it was locked. He buzzed the intercom and a crackling voice responded. “Who is it?”
“Christina,