Page 1 of Girl, Reformed

PROLOGUE

Ken Foley's feet slapped against thepavement as he traced the same route he did every morning. Another day, anothersoul-sucking slog. Pushing papers, crunching numbers, watching the clock tickdown to quittin' time. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum. The grind was enough tomake a man want to eat his own shoes.

Even on this brightmorning, the Missouri sunrise offered no comfort. Anemic light seeped acrossthe sky like a blood stain as the streets of Dover stretched out before him ina maze of cracked concrete and shuttered storefronts. A few cars rumbled past,headlights mingling with the morning glow. The city was just starting to wakeup, shaking off the cobwebs of the night.

Ken checked his watch.Six-thirty in the AM. Stupid o'clock, as his old man might say. He had half amind to turn around, crawl back into bed, and tell the world to go screwitself.

But the bills weren'tgoing to pay themselves, and the rent was due next week. So here he was,trudging towards another day of corporate drudgery like a good little cog inthe machine. It wasn’t much, but it was a life.

He came to a stop atthe entrance of Chautauqua Park, where the wrought iron gates loomed like thejaws of some great beast. The place was a postcard picture of serenity -sprawling green lawns, towering pines, a glassy lake that reflected the sunriselike a mirror. Ken had walked past it a thousand times on his way to work,never giving it a second glance.

But today, somethingmade him pause.

Maybe it was the waythe light hit the water. Maybe it was the sweet scent of pine that wafted onthe breeze, a break from the usual city stench of exhaust and stale coffee. Ormaybe he was just so desperate for something, anything, to break up the monotonyof his life that even a walk in the park seemed like an adventure.

‘Screw it,’ Kenmuttered and veered off the sidewalk. He was a few minutes ahead of schedule.Time to live a little.

The park was quietthis early, just a handful of diehards and masochists out and about. A fewjoggers in neon spandex, pounding the pavement like their lives depended on it.A couple of old-timers out for their morning constitutional, shuffling alongwith their hands clasped behind their backs. And the obligatory gaggle of dogwalkers, letting their mutts violate every tree in sight.

But compared to theusual crowds that swarmed the place on weekends, it was practically a ghosttown. Ken liked it that way. He could almost pretend he had the place tohimself. His private oasis in the middle of the urban jungle.

He walked along theedge of the lake, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his work trousers thatwere clearly one size too big, even to a fashion ignoramus like himself. Thewater was still as glass, broken only by the occasional ripple from a jumpingfish or a diving bird. Ken watched a pair of mallards glide across the surface,feathers shimmering in the early morning light. For a guy who spent most of histime trapped in a stuffy office, this was as close to nature as he got.

He found a benchoverlooking the water and settled onto it with a sigh. The wood was cool anddamp against his backside, but he didn't mind. It was a small price to pay fora moment of tranquillity before facing the daily grind. He tilted his headback, letting the first rays of sunlight warm his face. Maybe this littledetour wasn't such a bad idea after all.

But Ken's peace wasshattered by a shrill beeping. His eyes snapped open, darting around for thesource of the noise. It took him a second to realize it was coming from his owndamn wrist. His watch alarm, reminding him that he had exactly thirty minutesto haul ass across town and clock in.

He silenced it with afinger jab and heaved himself off the bench, knees popping like bubble wrap. Somuch for his moment of Zen. He gave the serene lake one last, wistful lookbefore turning to go. That's when something caught his eye.

A flash of movement inthe trees, there and gone again in an instant.

Ken froze, his heartdoing a funny little skip in his chest. He squinted into the shadows, trying tomake out what he'd seen. A deer, maybe? Or just a trick of the light? He took atentative step forward, then quickly decided this wasn’t an issue worth pursuing.He remembered the old saying about curiosity, and in a city like this, it wasnever truer.

Ken shook his head,chalking it up to an overactive imagination. Too many late-night horror flicks,not enough sleep.

He was about to turnaway when he heard it again.

A rustle in theunderbrush, followed by a muffled thump.

Ken's mouth went dry.That was no deer. Something – or someone – was definitely moving around inthose trees. A junkie looking for a secluded spot to shoot up? A pervert in atrench coat, waiting to flash some poor jogger?

Not his place toinvestigate, he reminded himself and continued en route.

But some stubborn,stupid part of him wanted to know what was out there. Needed to reassurehimself that it was all in his head. Ken took another step towards the trees,his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his molars.

That's when the screamsplit the air like a bolt of lightning.

For a second, Kenthought he must have imagined it. A trick of the mind, a waking nightmare bornof too much stress and not enough fiber in his diet.

But then he saw ajogger stumble to a halt. A pair of old timers frozen in their tracks. Even thedogs went still, ears perked and hackles raised.

It wasn’t hisimagination.

Another scream rangout, and this time there was no mistaking it.

Ken's gut clenched,his palms going clammy with sweat. He should call the cops, let theprofessionals handle it. He was just a regular schmo, an insurance drone with abeer gut and a receding hairline. He wasn't cut out for any hero business.

But even as thethought crossed his mind, Ken knew he couldn't just stand there with his thumbup his ass. If someone was in danger, if they needed help, he had to dosomething. He couldn't live with himself otherwise.

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