Free In Her Shadow by August McLaughlin

takes a sip. As he carries her back down the stairs toward the dungeon, she prays he won’t discover her secret.
    She has a weapon of her own now. From the looks of things, she’ll need to use it.
     

Chapter Seventeen
     
    “So what do you think? Is this more stress and paranoia?” Claire asks. She cradles her cell on her shoulder as she finishes giving Zola a much-needed bath in her tub.
    “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you these things, Doctor Fiksen?” Elle asks teasingly.
    Claire half-laughs. “Maybe. But like I said...therapists see therapists. And according to Dr. Marsha, they also need to lean on friends.”
    “Well that latter part I can handle. My unofficial diagnosis? I’d say that seeing a black SUV twice in one week doesn’t raise many red flags. At least not for me. Did you see the guy’s face? Any other signs he was actually watching you?”
    “No and...no. Unless you count my gut feelings, which I’m not entirely sure I can trust lately.”
    “What do you mean?” Elle asks.
    “I think I’ve been displacing my angst over my birthday and the whole decade anniversary thing. If I’d been talking more, opening up to you and Hank and Gramps, maybe I wouldn’t feel so frazzled. Dr. Marsha seems to think so.”
    “Hon... You can call me anytime. You know that, right? I had no idea you felt like you couldn’t.”
    See? Her point exactly. Claire’s instincts continually tell her that she and Elle are so close they don’t need to explain or confide—not trustable. “I do know that. I guess just haven’t been making much of an effort.”
    “Wanna talk now? I have an hour before yoga.”
    “Thanks, but I’m thinking of joining Gramps for church.”
    “Ah...fun fun. Catch a big one for me.” Elle knows as well as she does that Grandpa’s ‘church’ consists of fishing for several hours on Lake Isabelle.
    An hour later, Claire speeds down the open highway, grateful for Zola—her living, breathing, now clean, security blanket. Zola sits in the backseat, her nose fixated on the air breezing through the gap she left in the window. And no one is following us, she notes, aware that peeking at Zola is only one reason her eyes now frequent the rearview mirror.
    No red flags, Elle said. She’s probably right.
    Grandpa stands outside the house as they pull up, looking as though he’s been waiting for hours. Fishing poles stick up from his truck like crooked antennas, accentuating the lures that hang from the rim of his canvas fishing hat. Claire smiles as she notes his ancient, faded bumper sticker: I’d Rather Be Fishing.
    “That’s what you’re wearin’?” He stares at her as she slides out of her Camry.
    “What, not flashy enough?” She does a catwalk turn in her sweater, faded jeans and ratty old Converse. “You didn’t leave me much time for wardrobe planning.”
    “A fisherman is always prepared. We’re the Minutemen of the sea. Hop in.”
    She climbs into the passenger seat and Zola follows. The familiar smell of gasoline and Styrofoam cups of live worms and leeches feel oddly reassuring, reminders of the countless fishing adventures they’ve shared.
    “Remember the time I threw all the fish back in?” she asks.
    Grandpa shakes his head and chuckles. “Couldn’t figure out how they were all disappearin.’ We’d had half a bucket. I turned around and saw you holdin’ one and whisperin’ something, then ya tossed it back in.”
    “I had to apologize for piercing them.” She laughs out loud at the memory. At the time, she’d been watching news reports of an Alaskan oil spill and feared she was contributing to the extinction of the world’s fish by trawling for walleye.
    “Thank goodness you came to your senses. We have a fish fry this Friday and I’m providin.’ So none of those shenanigans, hear me?”
    He pulls the truck up near the dock and begins unloading their gear, then hauls it to the boat. Claire overloads her arms in hopes of reducing her grandfather’s