Dawn's Light by Terri Blackstock

to—the one in Magnolia Park—she saw it. A fresh handwritten flyer with an old snapshot stapled to it and the word Missing at the top of the page. It was the first man she had seen shot in the thunderstorm—the one on his knees. Her heart pounded as she read his name—Blake Tomlin. He was twenty-eight and he lived in Magnolia subdivision—the neighborhood adjacent to the park.
    She pulled a pen out of her pocket and wrote the address on the palm of her hand. The flyer said he was twenty-eight years old, married with one son, age two. Her heart dove to her stomach. Had his wife thought he'd taken off like Amber Rowe's husband, overcome by responsibility and high on the cash he'd just withdrawn from the bank? She must be crying her eyes out, and that poor baby was probably wondering where his daddy had gone.
    And his parents—what were they thinking? Were they angry at him for abandoning his family, or did they even know he was missing yet? What if they lived far away, like her grandparents, and hoped to see him when they had a car running again?
    She got back on her bike and looked up the street, trying to figure out where the missing man's house was. She spotted it just a little way down, easily visible from the park.
    Instead of turning back onto the road beside the park, busy with carriages and bicycles and horses pulling wagons, she rode toward Blake Tomlin's house, then slowed as she rode past it.
    It was a nice house in a quiet neighborhood. The garage door was closed, and there was no activity in the yard. Tears burned in Beth's eyes. She should go to the door right now and tell Blake Tomlin's wife that her husband had been shot in the Cracker Barrel parking lot, the day before yesterday.
    She thought of how tragic that would be for his wife. But it could be just as tragic for Beth's own family. She had to keep quiet, to keep anyone else from getting killed. Besides, no one would believe her without the bodies. All she knew of the killer was that he had a goatee. He'd been wearing that hood, so she didn't even know what color his hair was.
    If she told them anything, a gang of police would descend on her, insisting on the whole story. And it wouldn't bring Blake Tomlin or the homeless man back.
    She went back to the park. Setting her kickstand, she left her bike and sat on the swing. She could see the Tomlin house clearly from here.
    A few children played around her, swinging and sliding, their parents watching from benches. Minutes ticked by, and she knew she should get back to the warehouse and reload for her last few racks. But she couldn't seem to tear herself away.
    After fifteen minutes or so, she saw the Tomlin garage door roll open. She stopped swinging and held her breath as a young woman a few years older than Deni walked out with a broom and began sweeping. Beth's throat grew thick, and she swallowed. When she got to the end of the driveway, the woman stopped and looked toward the intersection.
    She was watching for her husband to come home, Beth thought. Just like Amber Rowe, wondering how her marriage had gone so terribly wrong.
    But Mrs. Tomlin's husband hadn't abandoned her like Amber's had. The poor woman had no clue that her husband lay dead.
    A boy of about two toddled down the driveway to join his mother. Beth's hand came to her chest, as if it could calm her pounding heart. The little boy would never know what had happened to his dad. He would grow up thinking his father didn't love him, that he had just walked away.
    Beth was going to cry, and that would call attention to herself, so she got back on her bike and rode away. Wiping her eyes, she glanced around to make sure no one was following her. It was time to go back to the warehouse and reload. She had a few more boxes to fill, and then she could go home.
    On her way back, she found herself just blocks from the Cracker Barrel, where it had all started. Curiosity and horror drew her back to the site. She rode past it without stopping, but