Melissa Patterson’s ten-year wedding anniversary should have been a happy occasion, a milestone of marital bliss, not this soul-shattering death. She stood in her kitchen, gripping the stack of papers, and held back the tears as she stared at the top page.

Two simple scratches of ink were all it had taken to negate ten long years of marital terror.

Ten years ago, she’d been the proverbial blushing bride. The fairytale wedding had been the social event of the season. A perfect start to her first day in hell.

The divorce had been her lawyer’s idea, as if she could ever separate herself from Scott Patterson’s name. The world believed she’d been complicit in his crimes. Her lawyer said she deserved to be free.

Her shaky hand had scrawled a much less elegant mark than her husband’s. Even on death row, Scott lost none of his confidence. The elegance of his signature mocked her hurried scratches, precise and controlled like the killer inside. What had gone through his mind as he’d penned his name? She’d never know, and he’d die with his arrogance fully intact. Maybe then, she’d be free.

Melissa scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, glanced at the dirty dishes on the counter, the dried food needing to be scraped, the silverware cluttering the sink, and made the conscious decision to leave the mess for later. Scott would have never allowed such a thing, but this wasn’t his house, and she didn’t need to obey his rules. Not anymore.

A run would clear her mind. Melissa tossed the divorce papers onto the counter next to the dirty dishes and went to change into her running gear. Her pink and purple barefoot running shoes didn’t match the blue and yellow of her outfit, but she had long since abandoned the need to maintain a perfect appearance. Scott’s punishments were no longer something to fear, and after today, he would be gone for good. Her greatest fear was whether his harsh voice would still whisper admonishments in her head after his death. He’d done it from prison for the past three years, and she had no reason to believe that would change.

She yanked her hair into a lopsided scrunchy, and could almost hear Scott scolding her sloppiness. Gritting her teeth, she silenced his reprimand with a yank on her messy bun. Melissa grabbed her keys and locked the front door.

On the front porch, the headline of the morning newspaper screamed the top news:

Stay of Execution Denied for Fairytale Killer

With a swift kick, she sent the paper flying off her front porch where it splashed in a muddy puddle on the lawn, then she placed the key under the mat.

Gray clouds threatened. Maybe the rain would wash away the memories, drown out Scott’s incessant nattering in her head, or cleanse the ache in her heart. A storm would be a perfect match to her mood.

A 10K run should do the trick.

Two kilometers in, the acidic burn of a fast-paced run heated her muscles. Her chest expanded, pulling in air with every third strike of her foot. She’d taken up running during Scott’s trial, a long drawn out process lasting more than a year. Beating up her body had been exactly the therapy she had needed to endure the media circus imposed on her life. Every day of that year was a living hell. The two years with him on death row had been little better.

By the halfway mark, her legs ached and her breathing deepened. Endorphins flooded her body, the famous runner’s high achieved, and she relaxed into her stride.

Overhead, the gloomy sky darkened and dumped rain. One kilometer left. She welcomed the fat drops. The musty smell of the downpour invigorated her, even if the rain soaked her clothes. A thunderclap sounded overhead, a sharp sound, followed by a low, throaty rumble she felt more than heard.

Hail followed the thunder. A glance at the darkening clouds rewarded her with a bolt of lightning shattering the sky. The answering thunderclap followed a second later. The lightning was closer than was safe. She needed to get out of the weather.

The moist air ahead of the storm gave way to cooler temperatures, chilling her to the bone. Time to find shelter. Except for the trees, there was none to be found, and under a tree was the last place that was safe. Lightning crackled through the air, striking a tree across the park. Smoke spiraled into the sky as the tree sizzled.

Definitely, no trees!

Pea-sized pellets rained down from the heavily laden sky. Lightning flashed, syncing to the beat of a memory. Blinding pain when Scott struck with his belt. PTSD the therapist said. It would fade with time, he’d said. Her therapist said a lot of things Melissa didn’t believe.

Five bolts of lightning struck in quick succession accompanied by resounding peals of thunder, and reminded her of the whoosh that preceded the strike of Scott’s belt. Her heart skipped a beat, and the massive blast had her tripping over her feet.

Ten years of her life wasted. She screamed her frustration into the clouds, and ran as the force of Mother Nature answered her cry.

The jogging path met with a road a quarter mile down where the neighborhood park ended. She needed to get to one of the businesses on Main Street where she could wait out the storm. Time to pick up the pace.

The sky took on a greenish cast. Clouds dipped low, roiling as the storm whipped them to a froth. Wind beat at her, slamming hail into her from the right, then the left, swirling around as if unsure how to best launch its attack on her delicate flesh. Her heart rate spiked, not from running, but from the sickening hue cast in the sky. Tornados, while rare, weren’t unheard of in the small town of Fort Walton.

Melissa had never seen a tornado and didn’t want to start now.

She quickened her pace, muscles protesting and lungs burning. The storm raged, building around her as if feeding off her turbulent emotions. Like Scott had done too many times to count, the storm lashed out at her, furious and raw, beating her until her skin stung. She stumbled, afraid for her safety, and angry she’d been so foolish to go running during a storm.

She turned onto the sidewalk that edged the tree-lined Main Street. Down the road, through the sheets of driving rain, a coffee shop’s “Open” sign flashed a welcome beacon. She ducked her head and sprinted for safety.

Electricity filled the air and the tiny hairs on her arms lifted against her rain-drenched skin. A flash of molten light burned to her left. Her skin tingled. A concussive force slammed into her as she ran. She tumbled from the sidewalk into the street, arms and legs spinning in a wild tangle of limbs. Before her head hit the blacktop, twin headlights of a black SUV blazed in her eyes. The screech of tires had Melissa cringing for an impact which never came. Her vision dimmed, and she lost her fight to stay conscious.

* * *

A petite brunette launched herself into the street. CJ slammed the brakes of his rented SUV, tires squealing over the wet pavement. The windows of the car rattled with the storm, and his vision sparked with afterimages from a lightning strike.

He swerved, turning the wheel to avoid a spin. Steering through it, he tapped the brakes to regain traction. A large piece of hail landed on the front windshield, splintering the safety glass into a spider web of cracks.

“Fuck, fuck, and double fuck!”

He came to a stop and jammed the transmission into park. The woman was sprawled across the pavement. Had she been hit by that lightning? Was she dead? No way to know unless he got out of the car, but she wasn’t moving. Shit, what was that noise? Sounded like a freight train.

He glanced left, peering through the sleeting rain. A funnel cloud snaked toward the ground less than half a mile away.

“Shit!” He unbuckled and vaulted out of the car. Every nerve in his body came alive. Fear over whether the tornado would touch ground, and concern for the lifeless woman, spiked through his veins.

Thank God he’d stopped.

Sprinting to the unconscious woman, he knelt at her side and felt for a pulse. A faint beat trembled against the pad of his finger. Still alive then.

After he had checked for obvious injuries, CJ pulled her over his shoulder, praying she didn’t have a neck injury. He didn’t have time to stabilize her cervical spine, not with a whirling beast trying to touch down.

Time to move.

Racing back to the car, he opened the hatch, thinking there’d be more room there, and set her down with as much care as possible. With another curse, he shut the back hatch as the growl of the tornado approached. Dirt and debris spun in the air.

Too damn close.

He scrambled to the driver’s side and jumped inside. A roar filled the air as the tornado touched down and churned toward him.

With the windshield cracked into a thousand pieces, he couldn’t see shit. He leaned back and kicked at the window until the sheet of safety glass crumpled outward.

Debris lifted by the wind hit him in the face. They had little time. He slammed his foot down on the gas. The tires screeched on the wet blacktop, slipping for a heart-breaking moment before launching him and his unconscious passenger forward through the thickening cloud of grass, dirt, and other debris.

Across the street, most of the local businesses were closed. A face peered out the window of a coffee shop. He prayed the person in the coffee shop sought shelter somewhere in the interior of the brick and mortar façade. He was headed to a garage he’d passed a hundred yards back. It should provide more protection against a tornado than a building.

If memory served, the ramp angled down, going below ground. He shifted his foot, tapping the brake to spin the car in a 180-degree arc. The tornado ripped up the ground behind him, destroying the manicured park. It rumbled down the street, chasing him.

“Fuck!”

Rain blinded him through the missing windshield and twigs slapped at his face. He blew through a red light. Everyone except him, and the crazy lady out for a jog, had taken shelter.

Something big slammed into the back of the car, lifting the rear wheels and making him swerve.

He regained control, thankful he’d been hit in the back instead of on the side or front. If the airbags had deployed, he would’ve been toast.

The parking garage came into view. He skidded, drifting the curve, and pulled into the entrance.

Sticks turned into branches and tree trunks. An awning from a local business cartwheeled in the air.

He barely heard the squeal of the tires over the freight train of destruction hurtling down the street. Turning the corner, he headed down to the next level; his ears popped with a sudden pressure drop. He had only a passing glimpse of the funnel as it brushed past the entrance, sucking parked cars up into its vortex.

He stopped another level down, pulling into a vacant space. His breathing was ragged, and his pulse thrummed along at a steady clip.

Behind him, the woman moaned.

He sighed. On leave, and he was still saving lives.

At least this one had survived. The same couldn’t be said about his last mission. What a colossal cluster-fuck that had been. The paperwork still clogged his desk.

The storm continued to rage, but the tornado had moved on to play with other victims. CJ exited the vehicle to check on the woman’s injuries.

The rental was ruined. In addition to the missing windshield, dents littered the roof and hood, and flying objects had gouged scores into the quarter panels. Oh, and the rear bumper was missing.

He yanked on the back hatch, trying to open it. Whatever hit the car had twisted the frame. He tugged a few times, but it wouldn’t budge. Thank God he’d purchased the extra insurance the rental agency strong-armed him into buying.

He’d have to drop the back seat and pull her out of the car through the back door. Since he didn’t know how severe her injuries might be, he was a little reluctant to move her again. He fished out a flashlight from his luggage and climbed in the back.

Airway, breathing, and circulation intact, CJ moved to the secondary survey looking for other injuries. He ran his fingers through her matted hair. There was a lump beside the messiest ponytail he’d ever seen. Her hair was wet from the rain, but there didn’t seem to be any blood. Her relaxed features made her seem so fragile. Fuck, but she was breathtaking.

What the hell was he thinking? The woman was hurt and unconscious. And he was supposed to be a professional, but damn, he wasn’t dead.

She had a strong, steady pulse, and her chest rose and fell with an easy rhythm, both reassuring signs. The tight exercise clothes she wore distracted him. They clung too tight to her curves and pulled his eyes away from his professional assessment. Goosebumps prickled the skin of her arms.

Shit, the poor thing had to be freezing.

Her pained moan snapped him back to business.

Her left arm was bruised. No more lumps and no obvious broken bones. A medic by trade, he was suspicious of internal injuries. He continued with his assessment, lifting her shirt and lowering the waistband of her running pants. He grimaced at the deep bruising over the left side of her chest extending down to her hip. She might have cracked her ribs, but since her breathing wasn’t labored, he wasn’t concerned about damage to her lungs. Her abdomen, on the other hand, worried him.

He needed to call 911 but didn’t have reception. The chance ambulances were running was low, and to complicate matters, he didn’t know where the local hospitals were located. He needed to get to the street to make the call, maybe even Google hospital locations and take her himself.

She didn’t appear to be in immediate danger although the bruising on her side suggested internal injuries. He’d feel better if she woke up.

He pulled off his jacket and covered her to keep her warm. Sharing body heat would be more efficient, but he could only imagine what she’d think waking up in a stranger’s arms.

Instead, he made her as comfortable as possible. He crawled back over the folded rear seat and grabbed his duffle. He was cold too, drenched to the bone by the rain. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was fading, leaving him with shaky hands and chills.

Damn, the sleepy little town of Fort Walton was full of surprises. He came for an execution and now he’d survived his first tornado.

CJ stripped and changed into something dry.

While he waited, he pulled out the local daily paper and re-read the headline for the hundredth time:

Stay of Execution Denied for Fairytale Killer

He planned to watch a monster be put down. His sister would finally have justice, and he'd find peace.