Harriet never liked working late, but it was nearly eight o’clock and the sun was almost down as she crossed the parking lot to her car. The Department of Social Services, or DSS, was on the outskirts of town, tucked against the forest. The day’s heat radiated off the asphalt, the evening breeze stirred scents of pine, and the distant mountains blushed with alpenglow.

She didn’t like working late because she didn’t like being here alone. She was the last to leave and her vehicle was the only one left in the lot, so she hurried to it. Though Child Protective Services worked hard to keep families together, sometimes the children needed something better, and that could upset people, including the parents themselves. Threatening phone calls were not unheard of, and occasionally a disgruntled parent would show up at the clinic riding a wave of emotion.

She opened the door, flung her bag inside, and lowered herself into the driver’s seat. It was breathlessly hot inside and stinky, too – leftover coffee from that morning sat in the console, the milk soured. She started up the engine and cranked the AC.

She sat for a minute, catching her breath, letting the air get cool. It had been a while since she’d done this kind of direct casework, and she was no spring chicken; she felt tired in her bones. But she was grateful that little Grayson Fuller, just four years old and the child of drug addicts, was going to be spending the night in the home of a decent foster family.

Her husband Terry had been urging her to join him in retirement. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to spend a summer like this one on the back porch, playing with the dogs, watching the bugs dart over the dandelions.

The air sufficiently cooler, she reached for the shifter, but as she did, a hand clamped down on her arm.

Harriet sucked in a breath and tried to jerk away, but they were holding tight.

She saw the flash of a knife. In the next moment, she stared in shock and incomprehension as the blade sliced across her flesh.

Still stunned, she turned to look at her attacker. The knife slashed again, this time across her face. The sensation was so unexpected and strange, that when she recoiled she blurted, “What are you doing?”

The figure in the back seat was darkened by the sun setting behind him, just a pair of gleaming eyes.

Harriet screamed and fumbled with the door handle, smearing blood. She tried to pop the lever but her vision was blurry. Blood dripped onto her lap – it looked so wildly red. She kept blinking, groping blindly, her mind racing.

The pain took shape: Her sliced arm felt stung and heavy, her face turning numb save for the sensation of a hot slash. The blade struck again, a quick gash from her shoulder to her lower back, and she panicked. Couldn’t catch her breath. Finally, she got her fingers behind the lever and pulled.

The attacker grabbed her by the hair and yanked her against the seat. Harriet reached back, tried to free herself, but he dragged the blade across her armpit. She screamed, and kept screaming. The blood was everywhere now – a fine spray of it arcing out after her attacker went for her neck.

Her mind flooded with unexpected memories. She saw her son Victor as a little boy, perched on his tricycle, a smear of chocolate ice cream around his lips as he smiled.

“Stop,” she gasped. “Stop… why… what are you doing…?” Her words were just a whisper. The blood spurted; a bright splash across her white coffee cup. Each pulse of her heart jettisoned more.

The attacker reached for her head. Hands clamped over her mouth and she tasted oily leather. The life was draining from her; she could feel it going.

Then there was Terry, sitting on the porch with the warped floorboards. Little Victor would ride the tricycle over the floorboards, the sound like a drum roll. The dog back then was their husky, a female, and she would watch Victor, guard him like an angel. Terry liked to sit in the wicker rocker with the paper and his gold-rimmed glasses. He had that bend to his nose; he had that mustache for years until she asked him to shave it off and he did.

Her mother showed up next, wearing a white sundress, on the farm in Gloversville, and her father in his black suspenders, the two of them dressed like it was 100 years ago. They were standing with their backs to the sun, watching her as she struggled, as if waiting patiently for it to be over.

Rita, Terry whispered. He was in bed beside her. Rita, I love you.

The life drained, she blinked at the fluid in her eyes. Through the blood-splattered windshield she looked down the road leading away from the parking lot as a car rolled by at the far end, headed up toward River Street.

“Help…”

The car was gone.

There came a heavy longing – all the things left undone or unsaid. She tried to speak, to reason with her attacker, but her voice was now locked in her throat. The iron, musty smell of raw blood overwhelmed her.

He was still using the knife on her. He cut across her chest and stomach – she felt the blade slip over her thighs – but it was a distant sensation. There was no pain anymore, just the beat of her heart in her ears.

And it was slowing, it was slowing.