Page 1 of Her Protective Lumberjack

1

CHLOE

My stomach churnswith nerves as I give myself one last look in the mirror. I’ve spent all morning agonizing over what to wear, finally settling on a simple white blouse and corduroy pants. The giant pimple on my chin, which sprouted overnight just to spite me, still looks like an angry volcano beneath my concealer. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. It’s after seven, and if anything could be worse than a giant zit, it’s being late for my first day at work.

“You’re cutting it close, Coco.”

I catch sight of my dad in the mirror behind me, a slice of toast in his hand. He’s wearing his police uniform—blue shirt, silver badge, black gun on his hip—his brow furrowed as he looks at me.

“I’m ready,” I tell him, taking a deep breath. “How do I look? Professional?”

“Sure. You look great.” He tilts his head toward the front door. “Now move it, kiddo.”

I suck in a breath, nodding. “Okay. I’m going.”

My heart is beating like a jackhammer, and I try to mentally pull myself together.

It’s just a receptionist job. You’re not performing brain surgery.

When I graduated from art school in June, I immediately started looking for work. I was hoping to launch a career in graphic design, but the industry is competitive as heck, so when I came across the school receptionist job, I took it. Sure, I’d rather spend my time painting, but I just turned twenty-two, and I need to start adulting for real. My dad does so much for me. He busts his ass as a cop, keeping the streets of Phoenix safe. I want to do my part and contribute to our ever-growing list of bills, even if it means putting my dreams on hold.

Dad ruffles my hair, smiling encouragingly beneath his beard. “You got this. Knock ‘em dead, Coco.”

Despite the nausea squeezing my gut, I can’t help smiling at the familiar nickname. He’s been calling me Coco for as long as I can remember.

“Thanks, Dad.”

I follow him to the front door, which he opens. Then he stops in his tracks so suddenly that I almost walk into the back of him. A moment passes, but he still doesn’t move. He’s frozen, looking down at something on the doormat. I try to peer past him, but he’s a big guy, his body filling out the doorway.

“Dad?” I say, panic rising when I check the time on my phone. “I need to go, I’m going to be l?—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence. Dad reaches down to grab something off the mat and thrusts it roughly into his pocket. Then he pushes me back inside the house. The wild look in his eyes makes the words dry up in my throat as he slams the door closed. I’ve never seen him look scared before, and it triggers a deep, primal fear in me, something far more terrifying than being late for work.

“D-dad?” I ask, shaking as he practically carries me into the basement, his breathing shallow. He forces me to sit down onthe couch and rests his hands on my shoulders, his expression so serious that it feels like a bucket of ice water crashing over me.

“Listen to me, Coco,” he says. “Stay here and don’t move, understand me?”

“What’s happening?”

His face falls, contorting like he’s in pain. “I’ll explain everything real soon. I promise. But right now, I need to make a very important call to an old friend.” He lets out a deep breath. “You just sit tight.”

My heart is in my throat as he gives me one last look and races up the basement steps. As he runs, a crumpled piece of paper flies out of his back pocket, tumbling down toward me. Dad doesn’t notice. He shuts the basement door, and a few moments later, I hear the muffled sound of his voice, frantic and hurried as he talks to someone on the phone. I can’t make out the words. The crumpled paper is still sitting at the foot of the stairs, and I ease myself off the couch as quietly as possible, my hand trembling slightly as I reach out to pick it up.

This must be what was on the doormat.

The thing that terrified my dad.

My mouth goes dry as I carefully flatten the paper, trying not to make a sound. I read the scrawl of black writing, and a spasm of fear twists inside my gut.

END THIS INVESTIGATION NOW

OR WE’LL END YOUR DAUGHTER’S LIFE

“Goddammit,you weren’t supposed to see that,” my dad mutters darkly, his hands clenching the steering wheel.

We’re on the highway. A few minutes after I read the note down in the basement, Dad came to get me, insisting we leave immediately. I threw a bunch of things into a suitcase, and now we’re barreling out of Phoenix. It wasn’t until we left the city limits that I mustered the courage to admit I saw the note.

“I couldn’t help it,” I say, wringing my hands. “It was just…there, at the bottom of the stairs. I’m sorry.”

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