The Buchanons

Someone tapped on the exam room door. “Gena?”

“Come on in.” She glanced up.

Alabama Watts, both nurse and friend, poked her head around the door edge. “Mr. Chard in room three and little Clara Jameson in five are both ready. And Dr. Ramos wants you to take his patients for the next couple of hours. He had an emergency at the hospital.”

Gena shut off the water and reached for a paper towel.

She was needed here. Badly.

“Who’s first?”

“Mr. Chard. I set up a suture tray. His hand is wrapped in a towel but bleeding through. Chain saw bit him, he said.”

“Ouch. Let’s go see.”

The rest of her day was wildly busy, so by the time she arrived home, the sun had set. She parked the SUV under the carport and opened the side entry door, frowning to see no light glowing from Derrick’s room. The bus ran by the house around four. He should have been home three hours ago.

“Derrick?” She tossed her keys and bag on the kitchen counter and went to his room.

The door was shut. She tapped. “Derrick, honey. I’m home.”

Nothing.

“Are you hungry?” Wasn’t he always?

Still no answer, so she tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. With a deep breath, she stepped into his bedroom. It was empty. His laptop was open and on but dark. His books had been dumped on his unmade bed. If he had homework, he’d likely not done it.

With an exasperated growl, she knew where he’d gone. Quinn’s. The kittens.

Wearily, she rubbed at her temples.

She’d been foolish to believe she could avoid anyone in a town this small. Derrick’s blatant disregard for her rules meant he was sure to do exactly what she forbade.

As she started out, some gut instinct stopped her. She stared at Derrick’s laptop.

She’d not checked his history in a while, and from his weariness this morning, she suspected he’d stayed up late last night trolling the internet. With him out of the house, it was a good time to have a look at his search history without starting another war.

She tapped the touch pad and the screen lit up.

Facebook. Dandy. He wasn’t old enough to have an account. But when had she been able to stop Derrick from doing something he wanted to do?

She stared at the selfies of the handsome young boy with the sullen mouth and that blasted black hoodie pulled low over his eyes.

With a tap, she refreshed the screen and scrolled, checking out his friends and messages.

The more she read, the colder she got. One “friend” flashed gang signs and puffed on something that looked suspiciously like a marijuana joint. One urged him to hitch his way back to Houston. Another bragged about a “piece” he’d stolen from his old man.

A piece? As in a gun?

“Oh no. Not guns and drugs.” She’d thought the shoplifting episode was scary. “He’s not even twelve!”

But the young and angry, she knew from her clinic experience in the inner city, were prime targets for gangs and trouble. Derrick was both.

Holding her stomach, she closed the laptop and left the room, reeling. What if he’d read the messages and run away? Houston was miles and miles from Gabriel’s Crossing.

Frightened now, Gena grabbed her keys and loped for the Xterra, praying he was at Quinn’s place with the kittens. Even there was better than on the road to Houston.

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