Her sister had made this cherished keepsake, to remind Kathryn Marie that her dream of painting was worthwhile. Brenda had been the first to believe, and had stood strong by her side ever since. Even her parents had eventually come around, especially when they began to see the acclaim from the public.

Her cell phone vibrated with messages. At least fifty calls this morning, but none of them buzzed with Brenda's ringtone. Billy Joel's “Just The Way You Are” was her sister's favorite song and unless that rang through, Kathryn Marie wasn't answering.

People had even come to the door, but she didn't want to see anyone. It was part of her process and there were times that she tuned out the world. No one was allowed through-not a neighbor, a cop, or anyone else-except her sister.

She frowned. Where was Bren? Why hadn't she returned any of the phone calls from yesterday or the day before? Almost Christmas and it was so unlike her sister to be out of touch this long. They hadn't even made plans for the holidays yet. It was impossible to escape an ever-increasing feeling that something was wrong. Kathryn Marie wasn't psychic or given to precognition or premonition, but something was seriously wrong when her only blood didn't call back. She loved Brenda. A sister was forever.

Stroking a hand over the soft wood, she allowed herself the peacefulness that came from admiring the Chippendale desk upon which the plaque was set. This heirloom furniture piece, overloved with use, had come from her great-grandmother. It had several deep scratches-love notes from her great-grandfather-and had decades of protective polish.

Add in her three oriental rugs and a small porcelain statue, and these were the items that had a family vibe and remembrance to them. Everything else here, the paintings on the walls, the couch, table, chairs, and bed, had been her doing. Choices made years ago when she was in college. Now, living in San Diego, across the country from her only other family member on the face of this earth, she considered picking up and moving. What was here for her? No boyfriend, a few acquaintances… though, she enjoyed the gallery she worked with in La Jolla and she adored painting. The manager, LuJean, was always kind and welcoming, and he got a terrific price for her work.

She sighed. Okay, she liked the weather, too. It was relaxing to be able to put on a bathing suit almost any day of the year and swim or kayak in the ocean. Other than missing her family, specifically her older sister, she was pretty much at ease in her world. Surrounded by paints, canvas, paper, and water. Life and the leading of it were of her own making, and these choices had been deliberate. What she made, if she liked it, carried forth into the world and if it didn't, then she destroyed it or threw it away. She was the creator, and she had control. She liked having control over her life.

Songs from “Winter Solstice” issued from the radio like a sea-salt bath for the nerves. She relaxed into the instrumental harmonies and let the music sweep her away.

Kathryn Marie wet the lapis block on her plastic pallet with a dab of water from the fan-shaped, synthetic bristle brush. The watercolor became a small pool of wet potency. Dipping her brush, she lifted it to the paper and drew a feathery stroke across the paper. The white space filled with shapes making the picture transform. The page filled with a bold and wild seascape.

Waves crashed, and the scene was tumultuous and harsh. White crests flooded over rocks and the beach, drowning the plants and covering the small caves inset in the cliffs.

The violence was intense. Something was wrong. She could feel it, and her painting showed it.

She painted nonstop, tears streaming down her cheeks as her chest heaved. Her breath hurt as she drew it in and forced it out.

"What's wrong with me?” Taking a break, she turned the radio off and walked to the TV switching it on.

Visuals assaulted her immediately. Sound in a jumbled cacophony accompanied the graphic awfulness.

Emotion poured out in a scream. Kathryn Marie saw a picture of her sister's building plastered on screen behind the announcer. “Brenda!"

The news played in the background. “This is CNN. Our lead story, the bomb that threatened to devastate several Washington, D.C. blocks close to the White House has been disarmed. It's been six hours now, and we have more information. The bomb was considered a handmade device, and happily authorities have recently given an all-clear status for the area. Residents will be able to return to their homes and offices tomorrow morning. Unfortunately…"

Kathryn Marie gulped, trying to make the air stay inside of her body. Suddenly, too much breath poured out. But her heart and lungs squeezed so tight she could barely take the pain.

Her mind screamed… no, no, no.

An aerial view of her sister's building flashed on the screen as the announcer continued. “… In late breaking news, the body of a prominent psychiatrist, well known in governmental circles and within homeland security for her work on stress recognition and hypnotherapy, was discovered in the Dumpster behind the building. The bomb had been planted in the eighth floor office by an unknown source. Authorities are still trying to contact the family of the victim.” Her phone went off again jarring her nerves.

"The private residence hotel housed several doctors’ offices as well as serving as short- and long-term housing to many government officials. No other deaths have been reported at this time. Stay tuned to CNN for more details or check our website, CNN.com."

She knew. It was her sister who had been killed.

Walking over to the vibrating phone, she dialed her voice mail and listened. Her vision was blurred by tears and breathing felt foreign. The police. And so many more individuals wanted to speak with her. Closing the phone did not end the deluge.

The news played over and over. Rage and pain poured through Kathryn Marie as it cycled again and again.

How could she go on! How was she supposed to survive the death of her sister?

The West Coast suited him. In less than ten hours since he'd defused the bomb, Devin was back on home base.

His best friend would tease him that there were advantages to playing badly with others. He was just lucky there had been no TV cameras to capture his behavior. If there had, life would be pretty different right now.

Getting a verbal berating was the worst of it, and he was grateful for that. He knew he wouldn't be so glib in the future. If it ever happened again, that he had to work with Blicksen, he'd follow the appropriate channels for reporting the guy. That was how the bureaucracy worked.

Bright sunshine warmed his skin. He grinned as he pulled his dolphin gray Porsche into the parking lot of the VONS grocery store on Orange Avenue in Coronado, California.

Checking the time on his heirloom Rolex, he noted he still had two hours before he had to be at the EOD training facility. His temporary change of assignment was going to be superb. Working at the Amphibian Base, teaching the ins and outs of EOD was right up his alley. He preferred it to the political pussyfooting he had to do when he worked with D.C. agencies. Courses on ‘getting along’ and diplomacy weren't his cup of tea.

The thought made him chuckle. He preferred coffee or beer-in other words, locating the source of the issue, taking care of it, and moving on. That was his forte. With the other agencies-anything that wasn't Navy-he had to share info, play nice, and be polite. He wasn't thrilled with the “I know, you know” concept. From his training, he'd learned “keep the Intel close.” This concept saved lives. He would gladly leave the issues up to his CO.