Page 81 of Lethal Threat
His chest heaves against me. Those deadly eyes of his narrow on me. Through gritted teeth, he says, “Hate me if you want. You’re not winning this argument, Sierra. You’re not ready to know.”
He suddenly steps back. But the electricity between us still crackles around my skin. I don’t turn to watch himleave, but I know he’s going out when I hear the keys jangle as he picks them off the hall table.
The mudroom door opens and closes as my heart pounds a war march in my ears.
* * *
If he won’t tell me, I’m going to find out. Flipping open Cole’s laptop, I take matters into my own hands. I’m getting my life back on track. No matter how bad the history behind me is.
The steady chop of an axe on wood tells me what he’s doing to relieve his anger. Chopping firewood out back.
Which is good. It gives me time to get online. Fortunately, Cole told me his password earlier so I could do some online shopping. But the only thing I want now is information.
The laptop hums as I hurry to type words in the Google search bar. “Murder-suicide, Sierra Lynn Owens.”
Nothing.
I try some other combinations.
A handful of results come up, a mishmash of unrelated names included. None of them are old enough to be the right story. None of them involve parents who left behind orphaned children.
I jam my hand into my hair. Frustration makes my neck ache.
Thewhapof axe against wood outside the window continues. Hard. Fast. Angry.
Finally, I give up on the murder-suicide and turn to the obvious searches.Sierra Owens, pilot, Air Force.
Ninety-one results appear.
Clicking on the first link brings up a profile on the Air Force website.
My breath stills. A chill hits my skin.
The first listing is a highlight about women pilots. Hair tucked neatly in a bun, I’m wearing a flight suit. I press play on a video link in the story.
“I’m Lieutenant Sierra Owens, Call sign Stinger. I’m an Air Force fighter pilot. I have the best job in the world because I love the thrill of flying and love knowing I’m helping to keep people safe around the world.”
Tears rise to my eyes as I watch the video again.
Wow. That’s me.
My voice sounds so foreign to my own ears. The void in my memory feels extra big after listening to myself.
After the stunned feeling wears off, I dig in a little deeper and search the words Sierra Owens, accident. No results.
Sierra Owens, missing. No results.
Hm. Maybe they didn’t release my name.
I key in: woman found, boating accident, Virginia, November.
Four news stories appear. Two of them are brief news clips from television.
A serious-looking woman on the screen says, “A female Air Force officer was found unconscious in the bay today after a boating accident. Initially, she was admitted to a local hospital as a Jane Doe, and later identified by her commanders as a missing person when she didn’t report for duty. Additional information will be shared as investigators uncover the details.Andnow, for the weather.”
The chill on my skin seeps into the pit of my stomach. My body sways. The memory of salt-water in my mouth makes me queasy.
Clicking on the second story, I get only one additional detail. “A witness reported seeing a similar boat with two passengers earlier that day. However, the thirty-four-year-old woman was the only one found at the accident scene. Authorities are searching for additional information.”
