A Fatal Frame of Mind

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There had to be a way out of this. Shawn was only eleven years old. His life couldn’t be over already. There was so much he hadn’t done yet. He hadn’t even kissed a girl. Not that he felt any sense of loss over that particular nonexperience, but it was only one of a million things he’d been told he’d get to do “when he got older.”

That was back in a more innocent time, when he could peer into the future and see something other than four blank walls and a barred door.

Shawn rolled off his bed and went to the window. Cracking open the blinds, he peered out.

The man in the gray suit was still standing in front of the house. His government-issued sedan was still parked across the street. His jacket still bulged with the outline of his gun. There was no way Shawn could get past him.

And now Shawn’s life was about to get even worse. Because his father’s truck had just turned the corner and was pulling into the garage. In a couple of seconds Henry Spencer would walk to his front steps, and he would stop to talk to the man in the gray suit. If he had been a kind father, a considerate father, a loving father, he would have simply ignored the fact that a federal agent was standing guard over their house until Shawn had had a chance to explain. But Henry was a cop long before he was a dad, and Shawn knew that the law enforcement officer part of him would always take over in moments of crisis.

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