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By Root 774 0

the significance of what she saw. Her entire collection of earthenware destroyed. She walked through puddles of glass, thankful she was wearing sneakers instead of flip-flops. Stooping, she picked up several shards of red clay. There were no words. Numb, she walked across the room, hoping against hope that the three pieces she hadn’t quite completed were still on the shelf where she’d left them. No, they were gone as well. Every single piece destroyed. She took in the shattered red earthenware. Months of work, ruined. She needed to call Alex, possibly the police. She walked across the room, her sneakers crunching on the debris as she made her way to the phone.

She dialed Gertie’s number.

“Damn.” Kate thought for sure that Alex and the girls were at Gertie’s. Gertie wasn’t answering the phone. She always picked up when she was at home. Kate wound her way through the glass. She gave a last look before heading to the kennel. She was at a loss. Who would do something like this? And more so, why? It wasn’t as though she had competitors at the exhibition. All the artisans were excited about their work, but there wasn’t one of them who would go to such lengths to sabotage her work. Again, there was no reason.

Kate entered the kennel, straining to hear Alex or the girls. Nothing, except the sweet sound of puppies at play. They must be at the house. Kate looked at her watch. She’d only left the house ten minutes ago. Surely she would’ve passed them had they been leaving Gertie’s or the kennel. The path from the kitchen led to both the kennel and the cottage.

Kate raced back to the house. “Alex, Gertie. Anybody here?” She waited. Nothing.

She went upstairs just to make sure. “Alex?” No answer.

Her hands shaking, she went to the kitchen to use the phone. She called the police to report the break-in at her studio.

“Is this an emergency?” the female operator asked.

Kate shook her head, “Uh, no, I don’t think it is. But yes, wait. I can’t find Alex or the girls.” She ran her fingers through her hair, suddenly alarmed even more. “No, I can’t find my husband, or the kids. They . . . He must’ve taken them. Oh God!”

“Calm down, ma’am,” the voice encouraged.

Kate shouted into the receiver, “Just send the police, hurry!” She slammed the phone down. Did whoever broke into her studio have Alex and the girls? And Gertie, too? Were they still at the kennel, waiting for her? Maybe they were still inside her studio. She had a small bathroom near the back. She hadn’t thought of going inside. There was no reason. Until now. She looked around the kitchen. She needed a weapon. She snatched a Henckels butcher knife lying on the countertop. Funny, when she’d used it that morning, she never thought she would have to treat it as a weapon. She gripped the knife in her right hand, careful to keep the blade downward. She raced out the back door, then slowed as she approached her studio. She was about to push the door open when she heard sirens in the distance. Thank God. Now, if she could find Alex and the girls. Deciding to wait for the police, she jogged down the footpath to the winding road that led up to the house. Three police cars raced up the drive.

“Here!” She waved at them, then remembered the knife in her hand. She hung on to it, just in case.

A tall, broad-shouldered officer got out of the car. He had close-cropped hair and dark, piercing eyes and wore his uniform as though it were made by a top-notch designer, exclusively for him. “I’m Officer Furdell, ma’am,” he said by way of greeting. “I was the first to get the call.”

“Someone broke into my studio. My husband is missing, and so are the kids. I was about to go back inside my studio, there’s a bathroom, thought they were hiding . . .” Kate saw the police officer’s eyes lower to the knife at her side. “I thought I might need a weapon. I went back to the house searching for Alex, and, well, I called . . .”

“Slow down, ma’am. Let us have a look around first.”

Kate nodded, “Of course.”

“Stay here by the vehicle.”

“Okay.”

Two more officers, both as large as Officer Furdell, sprang