Blood Red by Wendy Corsi Staub
Dedication
For the Criscione,
Mackowiak and Gugino families, with cherished memories
of late night laughs, group vacations, Elks Club Christmas parties, and softball fields— and especially in loving memory of Janet, Bob and Louie,
hanging out with my mom at the great Card Club Picnic in the sky.
And for my guys:
Mark, Morgan, and Brody, with love.
Acknowledgments
With gratitude to my editor, Lucia Macro; her assistant, Nicole Fischer; publisher Liate Stehlik; and the many -people at Harper-Collins who played a role in bringing this book to print; to my literary agent, Laura Blake -Peterson, and my film agent, Holly Frederick, at Curtis Brown, Limited; to Shawn Nicholls and Dana Trombley; to publicists Lauren Jackson, Pamela Jaffee, Danielle Bartlett, Jessie Edwards, and Caroline Perny; to Carol Fitzgerald and the gang at Bookreporter; to Peter Meluso; to Gae Polisner, Alison Gaylin, Kelly Kennedy Spagnola, Bob Belinke, and Hank Phillippi Ryan; to booksellers, librarians, and readers everywhere; to Mark Staub and Morgan Staub for the manuscript feedback and marketing support; and above all to Brody Staub for putting -Mundy’s Landing on the map—-literally!
Prologue
March 22, 2015
Erie, Pennsylvania
She isn’t the first redhead to cross Casey’s path on this blustery Sunday evening. She’s not even the best fit.
Earlier, there was a woman in the frozen foods aisle who had exactly the right look. Her hair was, if not naturally red, then at least dyed the appropriate cinnamon shade. It was pulled into a ponytail, but if the elastic band were to be yanked away, it would undoubtedly fall in waves to the middle of her back.
Casey’s fingers clenched the metal hand bars of the crutches, itching to sink into that hair and pull hard so that her head jerked back and her neck arched, the creamy skin of her throat begging to be sliced open by a freshly honed blade. Her eyes were probably green, though she wasn’t standing close enough to be sure. Even if the pupils weren’t the distinct and exquisite blend of sage and olive that have always reminded Casey of military camouflage, the rest of her was dead--on.
She was petite, but not too skinny; fair--skinned at first glance. If it were summer, the faint scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones would be plainly visible, but in winter, you’d have to look hard to see them.
Yes, that first woman would have been perfect.
But she had a baby strapped across her chest in a sling and a toddler on board her shopping cart heaped high with boxes of diapers and cereal and cartons of milk and juice.
“Sierra, stop that,” she said patiently as the child in the cart threw a sippy cup onto the floor yet again, laughing gleefully each time the woman stooped to pick it up.
Casey sensed her glancing over as if hoping to exchange a kids--do--the--darnedest--things eye roll.
Sorry, sweetheart. You’re not going to get that from me.
Casey swung the crutches into motion and hobbled around the corner, leaving her behind. Clearly, she had her hands full already.
A little later, in the hardware section, there was another redhead. She was wandering up and down the aisles in search of something.
“Excuse me,” she said to Casey the second time they passed each other, “have you seen rock salt anywhere?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I bet they’re sold out, too. Every store is because of the ice storm, but someone told me they had it here. Oh well, thanks.”
“No problem.” Casey watched her wander away.
She had almost the right build, albeit a little too padded, but her coloring was off. A true ginger, she had wiry shoulder--length hair and a ruddy, speckled complexion.
Casey decided to keep her in mind and move on. If no one better came along, she would do in a pinch.
Someone better has come along.