Page 17 of Dad Bods and Blizzards

I blink tears back, but I’m too late. One of them slides down my cheek and lands on the page, smearing the handwritten word in the corner:Nightingale.

My codename? Or did a childhood full of cartoons fill my head with fantasy?

I’m numb as I flip through more photos. More angles of my house. Me walking to my car. Entering the diner. Hanging out with friends. A floor plan with exterior walls numbered to match the exterior photos.

The room spins. I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself.

Griz, Tubs, and Woody have been spying on me?

My stomach lurches. What have I gotten myself into?

I remember my vow to myself. Make the most of my circumstances. I peek inside the next file—it’s focused on my father. Another file is a man I’ve seen my father doing business with. Another file details various gun shipments with dates and times matched by codename to my father and the other man.

Clamping my eyes shut, I wish I could make it all go away. I want to backtrack twenty-four hours to my blissfully ignorant life of hiding money from my father so I can move out on my own.

But more than that, I want to understand.

Crack!A loud thud on the roof, followed by a sliding sound, forces me to open my eyes. I’m not safe here. I peek out the window to see a large branch has fallen. That’s my best-guess detective work since it isn’t covered in snow.

The thing aboutScooby-Doois that once the crew solves the mystery, it’s never as big of a problem as it seemed at first.

But this isn’t a children’s cartoon. And I don’t have a crew. Not yet anyway. I run to the living room, rifle through my bag, and grab my phone.

Is this the right time to call Lazovski? No, he might be a part of this. I text a friend, asking if I can stay with her for a few days.

Thankfully, she agrees right away.

I rush back to the office, take pictures of a few pages so she doesn’t think I’m making this up, then grab my purse and overnight bag. They’re all I have to my name.

My heart sinks at the thought of returning home, but I can’t live off of one change of clothes and no money—surely my dad’s drained my account again.

Ready to write my own history, I hurry to the kitchen where I saw another set of keys on the counter.

My heart twinges a tiny bit that they don’t even have a fun keychain—just a metal ring with two keys. One looks like it’s for the house and the other seems to be a car key. At least that’s easy.

Time for a crash course on driving a snowplow.

Eleven

Griz

Tire tracks snake across the fresh snow as I turn onto our driveway. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Even you drive better than that, Griz.” Tubs leans forward over the bench seat, the concern in his voice more prominent than his playful jab.

Woody shifts in the passenger seat. “Only Lazovski knows Naomi’s here. Why would he—”

“He didn’t. There’s only one set of tracks… leading away.”

Rounding the corner, we all see it at the same time. Our plow is gone.

Our shared concern that Naomi left doesn’t have to be stated out loud. And if they’re as crushed as I am, they’re equally unable to talk or unwilling to admit we might have been played. We left her alone with confidential case information because our emotions clouded our judgment—and we didn’t know where else we could keep her safe.

Woody and Tubs are already bailing, heading for the front door as I hit the brakes too hard, and the truck slides on the snow and ice.

I enter the darkened house a few steps behind them. Occasional glimpses of orange glint in the embers of the fire. The blizzard blots out any chance of sunset adding a warm glow to the room.

“Little Lamb?” My voice echoes through the coldness. It’s not just the lack of decor. It’s the lack of her presence that leaves the cabin vacant—my life incomplete.

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