by Irene Hannon
“Any bad thing in particular?”
At Moira’s soft question, Cal stiffened—and stalled. “Why do you ask that?”
She lifted one shoulder and traced a trail of grimy condensation to the edge of the table, where it plummeted into the shadowy void below.
“Intuition, I guess. And that.” She gestured to the crushed can. “I’m picking up a lot of tension—and anger. I’m guessing there’s some incident in your past that still bothers you. But I didn’t mean to pry, and I certainly understand if there are things you’d rather not share. We all have our secrets.” She gave him a tiny smile, then checked her watch. “It’s getting late. I better head out.” She reached for her empty can.
Giving in to his instincts, he grabbed her fingers. “Wait.”
She froze, and their gazes locked.
Seconds ticked by, but she didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t change her expression. Didn’t say a word.
She just waited as he struggled with his dilemma.
And it was a big one.
Should he take a risk and open his heart to this woman—or play it safe and let her walk away?
As he waffled, she suddenly cinched his decision with a gentle, encouraging, everything-will-be-all-right-because-I’m-here squeeze of his hand.
And all at once it was.
For in that instant, he knew this woman would honor his confidences . . . and listen with her heart as well as her head.
“Are you in a hurry to get home?” His question came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat.
“No.”
He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, released her fingers, and stood to walk over to the railing.
For a few seconds, he focused on the murky darkness beyond the range of the single, low-voltage light over the back door. Gathering up his courage.
Finally he turned back to her, fingers clenched around the wooden rail behind him.
“You were right. A very bad thing did happen.” He swallowed and verbalized the truth that had haunted him for five long years. “Lindsey died because I didn’t take adequate precautions. And because I was selfish.”
Surprise widened her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with puzzlement. “I thought you said it was a hit-and-run accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident.” The words came out hard. Flat. Cold. The way his heart had felt since her death.
She stared at him. “Are you saying . . . someone killed her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of a murder case I worked on that put a drug kingpin behind bars. We never found the driver, but I know Bernie Levine was calling the shots from his cell in Potosi.”
Moira held on to the arms of her chair and leaned forward, her posture taut. “How can you be sure?”
Cal swallowed past the bile that rose in his throat. “The day after Lindsey died, I got an unsigned sympathy card in the mail. The postmark was Potosi. It had been mailed the day before she was killed.”
He heard her gasp across the small space that separated them and steeled himself against the pain and rage and desolation that churned in his gut as he relived the moment when the implications of that message had registered.
“We worked the case hard, but we couldn’t find a tangible link between Levine and her death. A few months later I left County to form Phoenix, and Dev and I picked up the investigation again. Connor pitched in too when he joined the firm later that year. But we came up just as empty. The man knew how to cover his tracks, and he didn’t make many slips. It had taken us months to gather sufficient evidence to nail him on the charge that put him behind bars in the first place, and even then it was touch and go.” His jaw tightened. “In the end, it didn’t much matter. He died two years ago in prison of a cerebral hemorrhage.”
Several beats of silence ticked by as Moira furrowed her brow. “You said all this could have been avoided if you’d taken adequate precautions, but what could you have done?”
He turned away, toward the blackness, and let out a slow breath. “Levine warned me. I was there when he was sentenced, and before they took him out he looked over at me and said three words: ‘You’ll be sorry.’ I knew he had colleagues who wouldn’t mind extracting some retribution—for the right price. So I watched my back—and Lindsey’s. But I didn’t watch hers long enough.” His voice rasped.
A chair scuffed against the deck floor behind him, and a moment later Moira appeared at his side. She leaned a hip against the railing, facing him.
He didn’t want to look at her. Didn’t want to risk seeing on her face the condemnation he felt in his heart.
“Cal.” Her voice was whisper soft and laced with sympathy as she touched his arm.
Squeezing the railing, he forced himself to turn his head. The light above the door caught the shimmer in her eyes and her soft, compassionate expression.
She didn’t blame him for what had happened to Lindsey.
Gratitude and relief poured through him—even if it didn’t change his own opinion.
“I don’t believe it was your fault.” She spoke as if she’d read his mind.
“You haven’t heard it all.”
She waited.
Cal swiveled around and leaned back against the railing, putting the darkness behind him as he shared the incriminating information he’d never had the courage to tell his partners.
“After Bernie’s threat, I told Lindsey I’d like to join her on her early morning walks. That I needed more exercise, and that walking together would give us more couple time. I stuck with it for weeks, but there wasn’t so much as a peep from Bernie. I began to believe the danger was past.” He closed his eyes. “Bad mistake.”
He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. “A few days before she was killed, I started sleeping in and letting her go alone. I’d been working a case hard, late into the night for weeks, and I convinced myself the danger to her was minimal.” He swallowed. “One morning the sound of an ambulance woke me. I knew it was her. All because I put a few extra z’s above protecting my wife.” He braced himself, waiting for Moira’s expression to change.
It didn’t.
“What a terrible burden to carry for all these years.”
Pressure built behind his eyes at her whispered comment, and he blinked away the sudden sting. He didn’t deserve her kindness, even if it was a balm on his soul.
“I deserve it.”
“I don’t think so. You couldn’t have walked with her every morning forever, not with the demands of your job. And she was probably alone—and vulnerable—at other times during the day. Much as we might want to, we can’t protect the people we love every single minute.”
There was truth in what she said. Yet it didn’t salve his conscience.
“I’ve told myself that a thousand times. But I could have protected her that morning. And maybe if I’d shared the threat with her, she’d have been more on guard for a suspicious car.”
“Why didn’t you?” Moira’s tone was curious, not critical.
“She’d have ended up worrying more about me than herself, and she worried plenty already. She accepted my job, but the danger always freaked her out.” He shook his head, his stomach tightening into a familiar clench. “I thought I was doing her a favor by saving her that anxiety. Some favor.”
Moira touched his arm again, and the warmth of her fingers seeped into his skin as the evening air cooled around them.
“You did your best. You loved your wife and tried to protect her in every way you could—emotionally and physically—and you continued to pursue justice after the system failed you by striking out on your own to search for answers. There’s a lot to admire in that picture.”
He wanted to weave his fingers with hers, hold on tight, and believe he deserved her kind words.
Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and faced the truth. “I’m no hero, Moira.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Depends on how you define hero, I guess. In my
book, a hero doesn’t have to be perfect. He just has to do his best.” She slid her hand down his arm to his ring finger, leaving a trail of warmth in her wake. “I know from this”—she touched his cross-etched wedding ring—“and from your familiarity with the Bible that you’re a man of faith. Have you tried giving this to God? Letting him forgive you for whatever culpability you think you have, even if you can’t forgive yourself?”
“I’m still working on that.”
“Then it’ll come in time.”
She removed her hand and settled back against the railing beside him. “You know, I’ve wondered about the name of your firm. Now I think I understand. It doesn’t have anything to do with the city of Phoenix, does it?”
“No.” He wasn’t surprised she’d figured that out.
“A mythological creature, consumed in flames and reborn from the ashes.” She spoke the words softly as she regarded him. “Did you come up with the name, or did the three of you do it together?”
“Dev and I picked it. We both had our reasons for wanting to start over, away from the constraints of official law enforcement. So did Connor, when he joined us.” He left it at that. Dev and Connor trusted him with their secrets, just as he trusted them with his. The ones they’d revealed to each other, anyway. “We wanted to help people who fell between the cracks or were involved in cases law enforcement had dismissed.”
“Like mine.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m sorry for the reason you formed Phoenix, but I’m glad you were there when I needed help.” She checked her watch and straightened up. “Since you were up late last night collecting trash, I should let you get some sleep. Besides, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
No chance of that. But he left that unsaid as he picked up their empty cans.
“I’ll let you out through the front door this time.” He crossed to the slider, pulled it open, and followed her in. She snagged her purse off the counter and continued toward the front of the house as he deposited the cans beside the sink. “I’m going to check out a couple of those nursing homes tomorrow.”
She paused in the foyer while he unlatched the door. “And I’ll be at the Woman’s Exchange on Friday. Will you let me know if you learn anything interesting?”
“I’ll call you.” Either way. Even if the outing was a bust, he’d find some excuse to phone her just to hear her voice. “Thanks for helping sort the trash tonight—and for being such a good sport about it.”
She smiled. “All I can say is, you sure know how to impress a girl when you invite her over.”
He returned her smile. “That’s what Dev said. At least I’ll walk you to your car.” He was prepared for her to argue, but she didn’t.
Was it possible she was as reluctant as he was for the evening to end?
“For the record, I actually had a nice time, despite the agenda. I wonder what that says about me?” They walked down his driveway in silence for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone had morphed from joking to serious. “I also want you to know I appreciate what you shared with me about what happened to your wife. Trying to get past a tragedy like that has to be a huge challenge.”
“It is. And I’m not there yet.”
She stopped beside the car and faced him, her eyes warm and caring. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”
His throat constricted. It had been a long while since anyone had looked at him with such kindness and concern. “I appreciate that.” He leaned past her and opened the car door. “Maybe yours will get better results than mine have.”
She tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. “Could it be you’re praying for the wrong things?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
A dimple dented her cheek. “When I was a little girl, I used to ask God for very specific things. A new bike, an A on a test, a role in a school play. Sometimes I got what I wanted, sometimes I didn’t. It all seemed very haphazard to me. I asked my dad about the whole prayer thing, and he suggested I follow the advice of Socrates.”
Intrigued, Cal rested his hand on top of her door. “What did a pre-Christian Greek philosopher have to say on that subject?”
“‘Our prayers should be for blessings in general, for God knows best what is good for us.’” Moira smiled as she quoted the ancient sage, then shrugged. “It made sense to me. After that, I started laying my problems and needs before God and asking for grace and guidance and whatever other virtues he thought I needed.”
“That’s an interesting approach to prayer.”
She smiled and slid into the car. “It’s worked for me.”
“I’ll have to give it some thought, then. Drive safe.” With that, he shut the door and backed away.
He waited by the curb, watching the taillights of her car recede down the street. Once they disappeared, he slowly returned to the house, pondering Moira’s comments.
Had he been praying for the wrong things?
For years he’d asked God to help him find the evidence to pin Lindsey’s death on Bernie Levine so he could make certain the man never enjoyed another moment of freedom. He’d wanted retribution. Justice.
That hadn’t happened.
And even though Levine was dead, Cal continued to harbor hate in his heart—maybe too much to allow room for forgiveness to enter.
He pushed through the screen door, set the locks behind him, and wandered back into the kitchen. The two empty cans stood beside each other on the counter. One intact. One smashed.
Frowning, he picked up the one he’d crushed in anger.
Was this what his soul looked liked? Mangled and distorted by anger?
It was possible.
It was also very possible he had, indeed, been praying for the wrong things.
Maybe it was time to ask for blessings in general, as the classical philosopher had advised, and trust that God would give him what he needed to start fresh in his personal life as he had in his professional life. God alone might know what those needs were. After all, he’d sent Moira into his life, hadn’t he?
Blessings didn’t come any finer than that.
He set the crushed can back on the counter and reread the Family Circus plaque. Yesterday was the past. No matter how much he grieved, no matter how much he ranted against his fate, Lindsey was gone. He needed to begin living in—and enjoying—today . . . as she had always done.
So as soon as this case wrapped up, he was going to do a whole lot of thinking about how a certain blessing called Moira might fit into his future.
For now, though, he needed to focus on the case.
As he double-checked the locks, flipped off the inside lights, and headed down the hall to turn in, he reviewed their plans for the rest of the week. Tomorrow he’d visit the nursing homes. Friday, Moira would do her surveillance.
And if the evidence continued to align with his growing suspicions, they might be on track to solving the case of the vanishing woman.
Yet anxious as he was to put this one to bed, depending on what they uncovered, things could also get ugly—and dangerous. Fast.
Because desperate people did desperate things.
Meaning another woman he was coming to care for could suddenly find herself at risk.
A possibility that made his blood run cold.
12
Ken Blaine shrugged into his sport coat, grabbed his phone out of the locker, and exited the surgery unit, scrolling through messages as he maneuvered around gurneys and medical staff. He was an hour behind schedule already, and he had half a dozen hospitalized patients to see before his first office appointment at 1:00.
No lunch today.
No time to return calls, either, unless something significant caught his eye.
His finger stilled at the message with the “urgent” header, sent by Marge Lewis an hour ago. In many ways, she was a perfect secretary for Let the Children Come—handling the paperwork efficiently, maintaining the files, not asking a lot of questions—but she often got i
n a tizzy over nothing. This could probably wait.
Fifteen seconds later, he stopped again at another message from her, sent earlier in the morning. This one had an “emergency” header.
Maybe it couldn’t wait after all.
He opened the message and scanned the text.
Received a call from Dr. Gonzalez. Clinic has been damaged in an earthquake. Funds and supplies urgently needed. Please advise.
Ken’s pulse leaped, and he ducked out of the flow of traffic, turning his back on the bustle in the hall as his mind raced.
He knew almost to the penny how much was in the organization’s account, and it was only enough to take care of day-to-day operating expenses until the next infusion of capital—not planned for several months. The small surplus they’d stockpiled for crises had been eaten up two months ago when the clinic’s primary X-ray machine breathed its last. There were no funds to cover the kind of emergency expenses an earthquake could entail.
But the children needed the clinic.
Desperately.
They had to find a way to keep the facility operational.
Fingers trembling, Ken scrolled up to Marge’s more recent message and opened it.
Can we have an emergency board meeting? I checked our account. There isn’t much there. The clinic sustained severe damage and they’ve had to evacuate. Dr. Gonzalez has set up temporary quarters at the school and needs immediate funds and supplies to treat the many injured. He will email photos of the damage this afternoon.
Ken fought back his panic, his mind racing. In the short term, he could stave off a few of his own creditors for several weeks and float the organization a temporary personal loan. But he’d need to infuse the coffers of Let the Children Come with new contributions quickly so he could replenish his own funds. His annual fifty-thousand-dollar contribution more than maxed out his charitable resources.
“Everything okay, Ken?”
At the question behind him, he forced his stiff lips into a smile, pushed away from the wall with his shoulder, and turned toward the anesthesiologist who’d assisted him all morning. “Have you ever wanted to ditch one of these things?” He held up his phone, praying the man wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice.