by Hinze, Vicki
“Yes.”
“I found her,” he said. “I’m hoping she’ll want to marry me, but if she doesn’t, I’ll be looking to you to step in for her. And this time, I’m not teasing.”
Della smiled. “I have a feeling when things calm down that woman will be only too happy to marry you, Paul Mason.”
“Well, now.” He smiled and swung an arm over her shoulder. “I guess that lets you off the hook.”
“I guess it does.” Laughing, Della pecked a kiss to his cheek. “Unless I decide to keep you myself.”
“Mmm.” He paused at the top of the staircase and looked into her eyes. His twinkled. “That’d be...convenient.”
“That was my thinking.” They linked arms, walked down the stairs and out of the office.
Together they had survived the darkest night.
* * * * *
Don’t miss CHRISTMAS COUNTDOWN,
the next installment of LOST, INC.,
Vicki Hinze’s new miniseries for Love Inspired Suspense,
On sale December 2012!
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of Navy SEAL Rescuer by Shirlee McCoy!
Dear Reader,
I read a quote by Maltbie Davenport Babcock. It read: “Perfect sympathy cannot spring from the imagination. Only they who have suffered can really sympathize. I am sure you are saying, like the little child in the dark, ‘Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.’”
It stayed on my mind. At times, we all find ourselves in a dark hallway and we search and search but can’t find a door or see light at the end of the hall to get to the light, to life. We’re stuck in the dark, and we flounder. Sometimes we feel we deserve to be stuck in the dark, and sometimes we know we are victims but think if we weren’t supposed to be there, then we wouldn’t be. So we seek answers in the struggle. Why me, Lord? Why this?
When the struggle is one inflicted on us by another, it can still be hard not to feel responsible, and if that injury is inflicted on one we’re responsible for... Well, we can feel we don’t deserve anything good in our lives again. That’s what happens to Della Jackson in Survive the Night. My heart ached for her in her loss but also in her attempts to come to terms with a future she didn’t feel she deserved.
I had to write Della and Paul’s story. I had to know how she discovered the power of God’s grace. I was deeply touched by it, and I hope you will be, too.
Blessings,
Vicki Hinze
Questions for Discussion
Della feels responsible for an injury she didn’t inflict because it was her duty to protect the victim. She couldn’t, and as a result she feels she doesn’t deserve happiness or even small things. She doesn’t feel she deserves even comfort. Have you ever felt undeserving? As if good things were meant for others but not for you? How did you address those feelings? Did you blame God? Turn toward Him, or away from Him?
Paul fears getting close to anyone will put them in jeopardy. More than anything, he wants a family of his own—the family he was denied growing up. How do you feel your growing years impacted what you want as an adult? And have you had to forfeit what you want most for the greater good of another?
Della’s husband blamed her for the death of their son, though she was in a war zone far away at the time of his death. Her husband abandoned her, and she lost everything that most mattered to her. We often hear of couples who suffer the loss of a child and end up divorced. Why do you think that happens? What can be done to prevent the breakup of the marriage, too?
Paul’s parents were self-absorbed. They loved each other but made little room in their lives for their children. Paul took on the role of a parent to his younger sister, Maggie—so she would grow up knowing she was loved. Della wondered who had loved Paul, and discovered his uncle Warny discovered the way his parents treated Paul and Maggie and he became active in their lives. Do you think God compensates in such ways? Brings someone into our lives to fill a role that needs filling? Is there an uncle Warny in your life? Do you fill that role in someone else’s life?
A significant event happens to Della that changes her perspective and encourages her to open her heart spiritually and emotionally. After a traumatic event that forces a person to shut down, when that person reengages, as she does, do you think then that person is at peace with the past? Or do you think that bits and pieces of that past continue to influence them the rest of their lives? And is that influence constructive or destructive or both?
God gifted us with free will. So He can’t intercede unless we ask. Asking is difficult for Paul and Della and for many of us. Was learning that God stands waiting, eager to be involved in the details of our lives a surprise? Or have you been aware of it all along?
Paul, through his work at Vet Net, tries to help returning soldiers reintegrate into civilian life. He tries to make a difference, to make the soldiers’ lives better. That’s very important to Paul, who felt insignificant most of his life because of his parents’ treatment of him. Have you been around others who have made you feel insignificant? Have you made others feel insignificant? What did the firsthand experience teach you?
Della loved her husband and son unconditionally. When she lost them both, she was determined never to love again—her heart couldn’t stand that kind of pain twice in a lifetime. And yet love finds its way into her heart, and it terrifies her. Have you felt vulnerable or afraid to love or to care too much? If so, how did you work through it? What was the result? What would you do the same? Do differently?
Through no fault of her own, Della had to start over with everything she never wanted. She felt so lost and alone, and deemed that she deserved to be alone, doomed to suffer. Have you ever experienced that kind of loss? That level of isolation? Did you overcome it? How? What role did your spiritual life play in that journey?
It is said that best friends make good partners, and yet one must ask, “What if the partnership fails? Then I’ve lost it and my best friend.” That’s the situation for both Paul and Della. The risks are high. Are they too high to pay? Would you risk losing your best and only true friend on a partnership that might or might not work? Why? Why not?
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Suspense story.
You enjoy a dash of danger. Love Inspired Suspense stories feature strong heroes and heroines whose faith is central in solving mysteries and saving lives.
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ONE
MURDERER!
Red letters dripped like blood down the front of the freshly painted house.
Smaller letters marched across the newly whitewashed porch floor.
Murderer.
The painted words seemed to taunt Catherine Miller as she trudged to the back of the old farmhouse and grabbed two nearly empty paint cans from the dilapidated shed. Hopefully, she had enough to cover the vandalism. She snagged a couple of paint pans, tucked paint rollers under her arm and carried everything to the porch. Ten minutes, and she’d be done.
Good. Eileen would be finished with chemo in an hour, and Catherine didn’t want her grandmother waiting. She was too sick, too exhausted, too frail to be left sitting in a crowded hospital waiting room. At sixty-seven, Eileen’s clock was running down, and Catherine wished desperately that she could wind it back up again. She couldn’t, so she’d purposed to spend every moment she could making sure Eileen’s last weeks and months were comfortable and pleasant.
That meant getting rid of the vandalism before Eileen got home.
She touched a finger to the dry red paint. Not even tacky. Whoever had vandalized the house had done it soon after Ca
therine and Eileen had left for the hospital. Some punk kid. She was sure that was what the sheriff would say if she called.
She wouldn’t.
She’d put her grandmother through enough already. She wouldn’t bring her home to vandalism or to police poring over the property. She’d cover the paint and keep what had happened locked safely away with all the other things she couldn’t share.
The sun blazed from the blue summer sky, the breezeless air hot and arid. Sweat trickled down her temple and neck as she poured dove-gray paint into a pan. Whoosh. One letter gone. Swish. Another disappeared. She should have felt satisfaction, but she felt nothing. Not anger. Not irritation. Not dismay, disgust, horror.
Nothing.
She covered another letter and wiped sweat from her upper lip, surveying the fresh paint. Not even a shadow of red peeked out from under the gray. Perfect. Eileen would never know what had happened, and that was the only thing Catherine cared about. She dipped the roller in gray again, sweeping it over the E and R, the silence of the old farmstead only broken by the swishing of paint on wood. Nothing moved. Not the tall grass and weeds that pressed up against the perimeter of the yard. Not the leaves on the trees.
The stillness ate at Catherine as she worked, nudging at the back of her mind. Four years in the state prison had insulated her from the world, but not from people and life. There had been little silence in her cell block and even less time alone. Here, in the small town where she’d grown up, she seemed to always be alone and silent. Even when she was in a crowd. Even when Eileen was close by.
She grabbed a fresh roller, poured white paint into a clean pan and slicked it over the red letters on the porch. Almost done. There’d be plenty of time for the floor to dry before she picked Eileen up from chemotherapy.
Something rustled to her left, the tall weeds that edged the property swaying. No breeze to blow them, but they moved again, twitching to the left and right as she watched.
“Who’s there?” she asked, sure a bird would fly out of the overgrowth. Instead, soft laughter drifted from the weeds, the sound chilling her blood.
“I said, ‘who’s there?’”
“Murderer!” The taunt whispered out, and Catherine stiffened.
She’d been out of prison for two months, and in that time, vandals had broken a window, slashed her car tires and egged the house. The sheriff had been out three times, but he hadn’t been able to track down the perpetrators. Kids with too much time on their hands. That’s what he’d said, and Catherine had believed him, because she hadn’t wanted to believe an adult was trying to chase her out of town.
But, then, in Pine Bluff, just about anything seemed possible. Here, the guilty wandered free and the innocent rotted in jail.
Just once, her rational self said.
Just you.
The weeds rustled and a tall figure stepped out. Broad and muscular, he stood at the edge of the yard, a ski mask pulled over his face.
A kid?
Catherine didn’t think so, and she tensed, setting the paint roller in the pan without taking her eyes off the man. “Go home.”
“Go home,” he mocked, chuckling softly.
“I’m going to call the police,” she said, backing toward the front door.
“I don’t think so,” he responded and loped toward her.
She lunged for the door, yanking it open, terror squeezing the breath from her lungs as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand slapped over her mouth.
“Let’s go inside.” He pressed her toward the yawning doorway, and she shoved back, raking her hand down his knit ski mask, slamming her elbow into his ribs. Prison hadn’t taught her much, but it had taught her how to fight.
He cursed, his grip loosening, and she broke free, lifting the paint roller, swinging at his face. Paint splattered across his ski mask, and he stumbled back.
She didn’t wait. Didn’t try to fight more. Just jumped off the porch and sprinted across the yard, heading for the dirt road that connected the homestead to its nearest neighbor.
Please, please.
Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in fast.
Please.
She turned left at the road. A quarter mile, and she’d be at the Morris place. Empty for years but finally sold to a man that Eileen said spent more time away than home.
Please, let him be home.
Her breath panted out, the old broken mailbox that marked the beginning of Morris property just ahead, the curve in the road that hid the house from view just beyond it.
Close.
She was so close.
God is smiling down on you, my sweet girl.
The voice echoed from a past so far away that Catherine wasn’t sure it had ever been hers.
And then she was yanked back with so much force she flew. Off balance, arms flailing, she beat at her attacker, jabbed at his eyes, tried to pull the mask from his face, screaming, screaming. As if someone might hear. As if rescue might be just a moment away.
His fist clipped her jaw, and she reeled, stars and darkness dancing at the edge of her vision.
Please, please, help me.
The prayer danced, too, slipping into her muddled thoughts, breaking her cardinal rule to never ask for help. She’d clung to her faith through rocky times, but the past few years had been stagnant and empty of hope, her faith shriveled and dry from lack of care.
If she could care again, would God save her?
Please!
Sun-scorched earth burned through her T-shirt.
On the ground, his hands around her neck, his breath fanning her cheek.
“How’s it feel to be on the other side, Dark Angel?” he whispered, his grip tightening, his knee pressing into her stomach.
She gagged, clawing at his wrists, trying to break his iron hold.
No air.
No breath.
Just hot dirt and hot sun and cold blue eyes staring into hers.
Please!
She let go of his wrists, dug her thumbs into his eyes, air filling her lungs as he shoved her hands away.
One more scream.
Another.
And his hands tightened on her throat again.
* * *
A scream broke the silence of Darius Osborne’s first day of vacation. Not an excited scream. Not an it’s-summer-and-we’re-letting-loose scream. A terror-filled, panicked, help-me scream, that made his hair stand on end.
Another scream followed the first, choked off at its zenith. He dropped the paint scraper, grabbed the hammer, racing around the side of the old farmhouse and onto the dirt road.
He stopped there. Waiting. Listening.
The hot summer day was silent again.
Not a breath, not a movement.
Nothing.
“Hello?” he called out, glancing up the road toward the distant highway, then down it toward the curve in the road and the dead fields of the neighboring farm.
“Help me!” A woman stumbled into view, burnished red hair gleaming in the sunlight, welts raised on the pale column of her throat. He knew her. Knew of her anyway. Everyone in Pine Bluff did.
Catherine Miller.
The Dark Angel of Good Samaritan.
Injured, terrified.
He ran toward her, scanning the area as he slid an arm around her waist.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Someone attacked me,” she rasped, her eyes hollow, her face expressionless.
“Where is he?”
“He ran when you called out.” She gestured to the curve in the road, the tall, brown grass and weeds. Anyone could be hiding there.
“Come on.” He urged her toward his house, her backbone prominent beneath his hand, every vertebra pressing up against her shirt. Too thin. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d seen her on the news.
Too thin, but beautiful.
Aloof.
The perfect neighbor because all she wanted was exactly what Darius did—to be left alone.
> Only, she hadn’t been left alone.
The welts on her neck, the bruise on her jaw proved that.
“Who was it? Someone you know?” He opened his front door, ushering her inside.
“I’m not sure. He was wearing a ski mask.” She shivered, and he pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck.
She flinched, tugging the blanket close.
“What else was he wearing?”
“Dark pants. Long-sleeved dark shirt. He was tall. Maybe a couple of inches shorter than you.” Her teeth chattered, but she looked him straight in the eye, her gaze direct, her blue eyes dark and lifeless.
“I’m going to call for help, then I’ll see if I can find him.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911 as he took his Glock from the gun safe in the hall closet.
Catherine watched as he loaded it, her expression never changing. The media had said plenty about her incarceration and release. They’d said plenty about her, too. Interviews with supposed friends, with people she’d worked with and with the family of the people she’d been convicted of murdering. There’d never been an interview with her, though. Just photos and videos of her leaving prison, her expression as empty as it was now.
“Stay here, okay?” he asked.
“I’ll stay for as long as I can,” she responded, and he frowned, hot air sweeping in as he opened the door.
“You need to stay here as long as it takes for me to make sure you’re safe.”
“My grandmother is at the hospital getting chemotherapy. I need to be there to pick her up in less than an hour.”
“Someone tried to kill you. I think your grandmother will understand if you’re late.”
“My grandmother can’t know what happened.” She touched her neck, but it was the only indication she gave of her feelings or her fear.
“Unless she’s blind, she’s going to be asking a lot of questions. How are you going to explain this?” He touched the bruise on her jaw, and she tensed, her eyes flashing with life for the first time since he’d seen her on the road.