PROLOGUE
Caine Peterson kept a tight hold on the leash with one hand and held his father’s hand with the other. A few days ago, Christmas morning, his mom and dad surprised the heck out of him and gave him a black lab puppy.
He’d been begging them for a dog forever, but his mom kept saying she wanted to wait until Caine was a little older and had shown her and his dad that he was responsible enough to take care of a pet. He was seven now, and had been trying really hard to prove he was old enough to handle a pet. He made his bed every day—well, almost every day—he did his chores without having to be asked—most of the time—and he worked really really hard on his school work.
They’d let him name the dog, and he’d picked the name Webster, because he thought it sounded cool and it was a character from his favorite wizard book.
Webster loved to sleep with Caine every night, run around their small backyard, and he especially liked to dig holes. Really big holes.
“Hey, Dad, look.” He let out a long breath and watched as the fog rose from his mouth. “I can see my huh.”
“That’s pretty cool, bud.” His dad waggled his son’s hand.
It was cold outside, but the awesome new coat he got for Christmas and the warmth from his dad’s hand holding his kept the cold at bay.
“So, mom told me what happened to her rose bushes.” Dean Peterson, Caine’s dad, looked down at him.
“Yeah, I let Webster out ‘cause I thought he had to go potty.” Boy, had his mom been mad. “She was looking at him through the kitchen window then went running outside. She tried to shoo him away with her dish towel, but Webser thought she wanted to play and grabbed the end of it.”
They’d started a game of tug of war that ended with his mom on her bottom on the frozen grass. Of course, Webster thought she wanted to play some more, so he bounded over to her and jumped on her lap. She’d ended up covered with dirt, and scolded him, but she was laughing, at the same time.
Moms are weird sometimes.
“That explains the torn-up towel I saw in the garbage can.” His dad tried to look serious, but Caine could see him covering a smile with his hand.
His dad was a United States senator, so they lived close to Washington, DC part of the year. Sometimes he missed his friends in Florida, and being able to run outside to watch rockets taking off. Having two bedrooms was kinda neat though. His dad took his job very seriously because, he said, a bunch of people voted for him, and he owed it to them to do the best job possible.
His mom was a stay-at-home mom, and she homeschooled Caine. Otherwise, he would have to enroll in school back home in Florida, and that meant they wouldn’t see his dad very much. She just found out she was going to have a baby, but not for another seven months.
Caine loved them a whole lot, even if they did make him go to bed way too early. And he was kinda excited to be a big brother, too. He could tell his parents were excited for the baby, also.
“I hear you’re way ahead of schedule on your lessons.” His dad was looking around the way he always did whenever they were outside. “She said you’re already doing sixth-grade work. Impressive for a guy who’s only seven.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m supposed to be doing like second-grader work or something.” That stuff was so easy. “I especially like history and math.”
Caine loved learning about how people thought and lived hundreds of years ago.
“I always loved history,” his dad said.
“Yeah, mom told me.” That was another reason Caine studied history.
They spent the next several minutes stopping at bushes so Webster could mark his territory. At one point, the puppy plopped down on his belly, as if his little legs just couldn’t walk another step.
“Well, looks like we’re taking a little break.” His dad looked up at the townhouse closest to them. “Why don’t we sit here. I don’t think the Lattimers would mind if we rest on their front steps.”
Mr. and Mrs. Lattimer were friends with his parents. They would sometimes come over to Caine’s house for dinner or a barbecue in the backyard. After they ate, they would sit around and talk about dad’s work or what tricky surgeries Mr. Lattimer had done recently. He operated on people’s brains.
Caine would listen for a little while, then he’d get bored and go play in his room.
His dad sat on the second step, and Caine sat on the sidewalk next to his new best friend. The puppy rolled over onto his back.
“Looks like someone wants a tummy rub,” his dad said.
“Yeah, he likes it when I do that.” Caine patted Webster’s tummy and rubbed it.
They sat there for a few minutes until Webster popped up to stand on all fours.
“Guess he’s ready to head home.” His dad pushed up off the step, brushed off his bottom, and took Caine’s hand. “How about if I hold his leash for a bit?”
“Sure,” Caine’s arm had started getting tired from Webster pulling on it, so he gave his dad the leash.
They started back toward their townhouse and were just rounding the corner when they heard a rumbly engine coming toward them from a little way up the street.
Caine looked up and saw an old, light blue pick-up truck. The truck slowed down and the driver’s side window lowered as it got closer to them. He figured the guy was going to ask for directions or something.
“Get down!” His dad yelled and pushed Caine into the bushes.
“Oof.” He crashed through the bushes and landed in a heap behind them. “Dad, why did—”
BOOM! BOOM!
Caine jumped.
Tires squealed, and the sound of the loud, growly engine slowly faded as the truck disappeared down the street.
Then there was nothing but silence.
He peeked out from the bushes and saw his dad on his side on the ground; his hand was still looped through Webster’s leash. The puppy yelped and whined over and over and gave Caine the saddest look.
“DAD!” He bolted out of the bushes, ran over, and dropped to his knees next to him. “Dad?” He put his hands on his arm and shook him, but he didn’t move; he didn’t make a sound.
Caine lifted his hands, and they were covered with blood.
“HEELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!” He was crying, but yelled as loud as he could. “PLEEEEASE HELP ME!”
Webster whimpered and climbed into Caine’s lap and licked his chin.
A door opened behind him, and he heard footsteps running on the sidewalk.
“Oh, my God. Call 9-1-1!” a man shouted. “Senator Peterson’s been shot.”
Two hours later, his mom and he were sitting in the hospital emergency room waiting while his dad was in surgery.
Caine had tried to wash the blood from his hands—his father’s blood—but there was still some under his fingernails and on his new coat. Which he’d yanked off and thrown down on the floor as soon as he noticed the red smudges.
Finally, a doctor came out to talk to his mom. He said a whole bunch of stuff, but all Caine heard was that his father—the man he loved and respected, the man he wanted to be like when he grew up—was dead.
After that, the only thing he heard was the sound of his mother crying.
