“We’ll find your mom.”
And then Marinell said the words that ripped the lid off of Lucy’s composure. “Would . . . would you say a prayer? Can you just . . . ask God to help my brother?”
Tears thickened Lucy’s throat, and she took a few deep breaths until she could find her voice. “Of course.” Keeping a firm hold on Marinell, Lucy prayed to the God of healing, of help, and miracles. She asked him to restore Carlos’s kidney. To comfort his fears. To give strength to Marinell, and to help them find her mother.
“Amen,” Lucy said, lifting her head. “Now let’s go talk to a nurse so we’ll know exactly what to tell your mom.”
A flash from the TV overhead caught Lucy’s eye. A familiar image of Will Sinclair dominated the screen, sending Lucy racing toward the bedside table to grab the remote.
An anchor’s voice filled the room.
“—received word that Ben Hayes, one of the two reporters presumed dead in a school explosion in Afghanistan over a year ago, is now resting in a German hospital.”
Lucy clicked the volume button again and moved closer to the television.
“According to Hayes, he and CNN correspondent Will Sinclair were in the school, but Hayes was pulled out immediately after the blast and captured by insurgents. He is the only known survivor. We will pass on details as they emerge. More on the hour . . .”
Alex. She had to call him.
“Marinell, go to the nurse’s station. I’ll be right there.”
Lucy wasted no time, frantically digging through her purse for her phone. She punched the number that would connect her to Alex.
And then her purse rang.
She sucked in a breath as she reached for the other phone.
Alex’s.
She had taken it at the retirement home and forgotten to give it back.
Checking his display, he had thirty-six missed calls. Half of them were from someone named Kat. A memory replayed of Alex on the phone the night he had taken her to the ER. Was he seeing this Kat? Had he been seeing her all along?
She pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind as the pressing reality intruded. Will Sinclair was dead.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Two hours, four abandoned houses, and three homeless shelters later, Lucy found Esther Hernandez.
The faded sign on the door said CONDEMNED, but Marinell led Lucy around the back of the decaying duplex, jiggled off a screen, and lifted the window of what once was a living room.
“Are you coming?” Marinell asked from inside the house.
Lucy hoisted her leg over, feeling a give in her black slacks as the wooden splinters caught the material. That was what she got for listening to Clare and paying a hundred dollars for a pair of pants. Whoever said money was the only way to buy quality could just kiss her multicolored underwear.
“Mami?” Marinell called.
The stench of rotten garbage hit Lucy’s nostrils, and she tried not to gag. No windows were open, and the heat was enough to buckle the walls. The only air came from a hole in the roof over a collapsed fireplace.
“Mami?”
Rustling came from the front of the house. “Mija?”
Mrs. Hernandez peeked her head out from a plastic-covered doorway off the tiny hall. Marinell ran to her mother, collapsed against her, and told her about Carlos in between broken sobs. Lucy didn’t remember much high school Spanish, but no translation was needed to see that Mrs. Hernandez was a mother barely surviving the weight of her breaking heart.
“Mi hijo.” Mrs. Hernandez held onto her daughter and shared in her tears. “Mi hijo.”
Lucy was an outsider, standing on the fringe of this family’s pain, and for the millionth time she thought of Alex. She couldn’t leave Marinell, but she had to get to him. If only she hadn’t been so punch-drunk on his charm at lunch, she would’ve remembered to return his phone.
On the floor beside a dirty backpack sat an empty sandwich bag and a juice box. This would explain Marinell’s lack of appetite. She was handing food off to her mother. That would have to stop—just as soon as they got Mrs. Hernandez out of this hovel.
“You can’t stay here,” Lucy said to Esther.
The woman wiped her face and shook her head. Marinell translated. “She has nowhere to go. She has no car and wants to stay close to the hospital so she can walk.”
To let a family member stay at Saving Grace was against the rules. But the pressure on Lucy’s conscience was so strong, God was practically writing Mrs. Hernandez an invitation himself. “Get your things,” Lucy said. “We’re all going back to Saving Grace.” Esther could stay in Marinell’s room. Somehow they would make it work, at least for now.
Mrs. Hernandez’s hands flew as she spoke to her daughter.
“My mom just wants to see Carlos. She won’t leave this house.”
“Mrs. Hernandez, you’re no good to your son sick. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen to you if you don’t get out of this place.” Lucy heard scratching overhead, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t the Prize Patrol trying to make a surprise entrance. “You’ll spend the night at Saving Grace, and I’ll make sure you have transportation to the hospital whenever you want.” Marinell repeated in Spanish as Lucy mentally sorted through her housing options for Esther.
“My mom says thank you.” Beside Marinell, her mother nodded, tears flowing unchecked down her sallow cheeks.
Despite Mrs. Hernandez’s matted hair and ripe smell, Lucy drew her into a hug. “It’s going to be okay.”
Though Lucy had no idea how.
The covered dishes were already arriving. Any good Southerner knew a life couldn’t officially be over until the first green-bean casserole arrived.
Alex sat in Marcus Sinclair’s home office. He could hear the front doorbell and signaled for his dad to shut the door.
Ben Hayes stared back from the computer screen on the desk, visibly weak but very much alive.
“You’re sure it was him?” It was the third time Alex had asked. He couldn’t let it go.
“I’m sorry,” Hayes said into the laptop camera from his bed in Germany. “I know it’s not the outcome you and your family hoped for.”
It had taken Alex and his team a mere ten minutes to make the many calls to connect to Ben on Skype.
“You were pulled from the fire,” Alex said. “Why do you assume no one else was?”
Ben’s voice was faint and raspy. “The place burned to ashes.” He paused for a moment to collect himself. “I was conscious when I was dragged away. I heard . . . I heard the screams.” Alex closed his eyes as Ben continued. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair. No one could’ve survived. It’s just not possible.”
The pain wasn’t an ache. It was violent waves crashing until he thought he’d sink straight down. His brother. Gone.
Alex drove his fingers through his hair. He could hear his father sniffing behind him. “Where was my brother when the bomb hit?”
“If I remember correctly . . . he was telling a story and the children were acting it out.”
That was so Will. Alex could see him surrounded by children, eager faces beaming as they waited for their cues.
His father scooted his chair closer to Alex. “What was my son’s last day like?” He swiped at the tears falling down his cheeks. “Was Will happy?”
“There was a lot of laughter, Mr. Sinclair.” Hayes was gaunt, but he smiled. “The children loved him. He told them stories, played games, gave each one gifts from the States. Your son died doing what he loved. He was making a difference—making the world a better place.”
There were voices in the background on the other end. Ben nodded to someone off camera. “It’s my therapy time. Gotta get up and walk the halls. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.” Alex’s words sounded impotent and hollow. Just like his ravaged heart.
He shut down the connection on his dad’s Mac. The room was silent and heavy. Until his father bent over and threw his head into his hands.
His choking sobs sliced through Alex until he thought he would bleed from them. This was his father. Broken.
Alex clutched his own fist in his hand. He had no idea what to do. He had been able to fix everything in his life. Through hard work, some cash, there had been nothing he couldn’t have. Until now. No amount of money could bring his brother back. No endorsement deal would fill this bottomless ache.
His father slowly lifted his head. “Son”—red-rimmed eyes looked straight into Alex’s—“I want you to pray for us.”
Him? Now? He was the guy who had pushed God aside until a year ago. Hadn’t needed a savior. But after the news first hit of Will, he’d realized it had been a mirage, an illusion. His hands were useless. His bank account—worthless. You have my attention now, God. Is that what you wanted? Alex may have pushed God into the background, but he still knew who was in charge of miracles. And he had started begging for one the day of that fateful call.
Coughing past the lump in his throat, Alex reached out his hand and rested it on his father’s shoulder. Marcus Sinclair latched on to Alex, drawing his son near as he bowed his head.
Alex opened his mouth and waited as a new wave of pain rolled through his system. His body ached like he had just climbed out of a three-man tackle. “God . . . we pray for peace for our family.” Are you listening? Do you hear me? Is this what I get for shutting you out until I had nowhere else to turn? “Give us healing and comfort. Help us to—” He stopped. His mind searched for the right words, something to appeal to the God of his childhood, the God he had once believed in with all his heart before fame had become his answer. But Alex’s well was dry. Not a single profound or inspiring word in him. “Just . . . pull us through.”
His dad hugged him closer. “Amen.” Marcus pulled a tissue from his desk and blew his red nose. “I better go check on your mother. You know how she gets around Uncle Bill.”
Alex followed his dad down the long hallway into the main living room. Unlike the outside of the grand house, the inside wasn’t formal. It was a family’s home. Under this roof, three children had grown up. It had been the central hub for friends. This very living room was where his mom and dad hosted a weekly Bible study. For all their wealth, his parents were just normal people who loved their Jesus, their life, and their kids. Family was everything. But now one of them was gone. The home would never be the same.
Alex greeted two of his cousins who also lived in Charleston. He knew more were on the way. There was already talk of a memorial service, and the very thought made him want to run his fist through the wall.
His sister stood among a small group of friends, her head pressed to the shoulder of that boyfriend his parents were always complaining about. Aside from the grunge band hair draped in his eyes, the kid looked okay. Alex was glad Finley had people to turn to.
Across the room, his mother talked with her youngest sister and her best friend Marcy, the woman who had been her college roommate. His mom’s eyes were swollen. He knew she’d held out hope, despite impossible odds, that Will had somehow survived. Now her heart was broken too.
A few more people trickled into the room, and he caught a flash of yellow-gold hair.
Lucy.
His lungs filled with his first deep breath as he took in the sight of her. Her wide eyes held that same compassion he’d seen her dole out to every one of her girls. There was a bronze button missing from her fitted jacket, and her pants were smudged with dust, but she still was a picture of grace.
He needed her.
Lucy said hello to a couple of people as she surveyed the room. Funny how they hadn’t been together long, but he knew exactly what she was thinking. They could fit two of her apartments into this room. She would be horribly uncomfortable. The woman had an allergy to the finer things. She was so good, so decent. So many things he was not.
Alex dug his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to do with a female for the first time in his life. The women he had dated had always needed something from him. Never the other way around.
Her eyes scanned the perimeter until they finally lit on him. Then Lucy, his PDA-hating Lucy, pushed past an oxygen-tank–wearing neighbor to run straight to him. It was a sack worthy of a Warriors jersey.
Her arms held fiercely as they wrapped around him. His hands moved of their own volition, pressing her close. He breathed in all that was Lucy—her friendship, her heart, her strength.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
He couldn’t speak. All he could do was hold her like she was his lifeline, as if he could absorb some of her comfort. Some of her faith.
When she finally pulled away, she held his face in her hands. “Tell me everything.”
He shrugged. Shook his head. “He’s gone.”
“I saw it on TV.” Her eyes glazed over with tears, and each one cut right through him. “I had your stupid phone and couldn’t call.”
And she had felt responsible. Because she was Lucy. And in her world people didn’t have two other phones and an entourage of people around them. “We got the word before the story hit. About five minutes after you left the retirement home.”
She pulled the phone out of her purse and handed it to him.
He took it and kept her hand in his. “I guess I won the bet after all.”
Her smile was wobbly. “What can I do?”
Just don’t stop being you. “Nothing.”
“I prayed for you all the way here.”
“I know you did.” Then he kissed her. Because he was out of words, and he just wanted to feel—something. Anything besides the gripping despair.
Her body melted toward his, and her lips were a wispy touch. He didn’t kiss her with a raging fire, but simply pressed his mouth to hers in the most basic of invitations. She gave back with her gentleness, her soft fingers threading through his hair. He couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t stop watching her.
Because she was watching him.
“Alex?”
He took her hand, held it to his heart. “I’m glad you’re here.” The words sounded like they came from a bumbling sixteen-year-old. But death put life through a new lens—at least for tonight—and he needed her to know. There had been so many things he hadn’t said to his brother.
“My Brides magazine said I should support my fiancé.” She cupped his cheek in her hand, her eyes full of something he couldn’t quite read.
He had been about to speak with his grief-liberated tongue, but the phone in his pocket buzzed. Spared from saying something he’d probably later regret, he took the call. “Hey, David.” He ran his hand down Lucy’s arm. “Luce, I have to take this. Can you stay for a while?”
“I’m here,” she said. “For as long as you need me.”
Chapter Thirty
And that’s why you can’t just buy any aloe vera ointment. Mine is only $29.99 and the only brand that comes with zarkspur, a rare fruit extract from the floor of the South African rain forests.”
Uncle Bill had Lucy cornered on the terrace as he finally wound up his sales pitch. She was about ready to hand over her wallet just to shut him up.
“And if you buy it tonight, I’ll throw in a small tube of my special diaper ointment.”
“I don’t have children.”
“Me neither.” He scratched his large, bulbous nose. “But I’ve still found uses for it.”
Behind them the patio door slid open. Alex. This damsel in distress was about to be saved. She and her checkbook were going to survive after all.
“I like cash, but I recently got acquainted with that PayPal thing and—”
“Uncle Bill, I think Finley wants to talk to you,” Alex said, his eyes not straying from Lucy. “She was counting her birthday money.”
Uncle Bill was gone before Lucy could say nice to meet you.
“You just threw your sister under the bus.”
He traced the curve of a curl near her cheek. “Finley’s antics have my dad on high blood pressur
e medicine. She can handle Uncle Bill.”
Lucy could hardly form a coherent thought when he looked at her that way. Grief did strange things to a man. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve had better days.” His face was taut with worry and fatigue, and she just wanted to erase it all until he wore that cocky grin. “Let’s talk about something besides bombs, funerals, and what Uncle Bill really does with that aloe stuff. Like why I see rainbows peeking out through a hole in your pants.”
Lucy closed her eyes and sighed. “I just can’t win.”
He stole another glance. “They look like winners to me.”
“Not that it compares, but it’s been a wild day.” She filled him in on Marinell. “And I caught my pants on the window.”
Alex dropped his head and contemplated the floor for a moment before returning his gaze to Lucy. “You’re telling me that you broke into a condemned house today?”
“I think ‘broke’ in is a really strong description. More like took a little tour,” she said. “There weren’t any photographers around. I checked.”
“I don’t care about that.” His voice was a low growl. “What I care about is my fiancée being in a building that isn’t safe for human habitation. Where a ceiling could fall in and crush you or a crazed vagrant could decide you’re in his way. Do you want me to go on?”
“I think we’re good.”
“And where were Lou and Squid?”
“I might’ve talked one of the Saving Grace girls into providing a little distraction so we could get away.” The bodyguards had arrived by the time Lucy had crawled back out of the window. And they hadn’t been wearing smiles.
“Was it too much to call someone for help? If Marinell’s mom was missing, why didn’t you call the police?”
Lucy turned and contemplated the somber gray evening sky.
“All I got inside is more of Uncle Bill and his magic rash cream,” Alex said from behind her. “I can stand here all day and wait this out.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ll try to follow along.”
“Esther Hernandez kind of has to lie low. Her husband has some people looking for him.”
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