pulled her hands away and covered her face. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
He’d never seen her like this, but she seemed so fragile, he was afraid to push her.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
Betsy swiped the tears off her cheeks, took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose as she stood. “It’s time to put the bread in the oven.”
“And lunch is ready,” Dallas said as she carried the sandwiches to the table.
“I’ll pour the coffee,” Trey said.
“I’ll dish up the soup,” Dallas added. She headed back to the stove while Betsy set the timer for the bread.
“That bread is going to smell so good,” Betsy said.
Trey watched her turn back into the mother he knew and felt a chill run up his spine. He didn’t know what had happened the night she graduated, but he would bet his retirement that they’d either been a part of something illegal or they’d witnessed something bad. What he couldn’t figure out was why they were being eliminated now. What was happening that made getting rid of them so important? If his theory about these deaths was correct, she would be next, and he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to find that old accident report. Maybe there was something in it that would help him make sense of all this.
* * *
Mack had gone through the desk, the computer files, the old lockbox his dad kept in the back of the closet, the shoe boxes full of old income tax papers and every place he could think of looking for anything resembling a journal or a diary. If there was nothing wrong with the lift, then they needed answers to this nightmare, but he couldn’t find a thing.
He sat down on the corner of his dad’s bed and closed his eyes. The faint scent of diesel, probably from an old pair of his dad’s work shoes, coupled with some manly aftershave, was so reminiscent of his father that he kept thinking the man was going to walk in at any moment. Mack took a deep breath, choking back tears, but before he could gather his thoughts, someone was knocking at the front door.
He got up with a heavy heart, and when he saw one of the ladies from his dad’s church on the porch holding a covered dish, he sighed.
Feeding the grief stricken had begun.
* * *
Lissa, standing in the hall outside her bedroom, was bordering on what felt like a full-blown panic attack. The thunder of her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that at first she didn’t hear her cell phone ringing. By the time it dawned on her what was happening the call had gone to voice mail. Since she didn’t want to talk to anyone, she didn’t bother checking to see who it had been.
The only person she needed to talk to was God. She mouthed the proper words, and then cried until her eyes were so swollen it hurt to blink before she dropped to her knees. Despair was heavy, weighing her down as she stared at the floor in disbelief.
Why had this happened?
She felt like she was being punished, and yet Paul Jackson was the one who had died. So was it his punishment and she’d just become the tool, or was it hers and his life was gone because of it?
Sick at heart and too exhausted to get up, she slid forward, stretching out facedown on the cold hardwood floor, and closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear forever.
* * *
Along about 6:00 p.m. Jim Farley, the pastor from Paul Jackson’s church, stopped by to express his condolences. By Mack’s count he was visitor number seven, and when this one left, Mack was leaving, too. He couldn’t take any more well-wishers and didn’t want anyone else to pray for him. He didn’t want prayers. He wanted answers.
Mack took a deep breath, bracing himself for yet another painful conversation. “Pastor Farley, thank you for coming,” he said.
The little man smiled, which made the scar across his upper lip—the result of a hockey puck gone wild during his youth—pull sideways just the tiniest bit.
“Good afternoon, Mack. I came
He’d never seen her like this, but she seemed so fragile, he was afraid to push her.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
Betsy swiped the tears off her cheeks, took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose as she stood. “It’s time to put the bread in the oven.”
“And lunch is ready,” Dallas said as she carried the sandwiches to the table.
“I’ll pour the coffee,” Trey said.
“I’ll dish up the soup,” Dallas added. She headed back to the stove while Betsy set the timer for the bread.
“That bread is going to smell so good,” Betsy said.
Trey watched her turn back into the mother he knew and felt a chill run up his spine. He didn’t know what had happened the night she graduated, but he would bet his retirement that they’d either been a part of something illegal or they’d witnessed something bad. What he couldn’t figure out was why they were being eliminated now. What was happening that made getting rid of them so important? If his theory about these deaths was correct, she would be next, and he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to find that old accident report. Maybe there was something in it that would help him make sense of all this.
* * *
Mack had gone through the desk, the computer files, the old lockbox his dad kept in the back of the closet, the shoe boxes full of old income tax papers and every place he could think of looking for anything resembling a journal or a diary. If there was nothing wrong with the lift, then they needed answers to this nightmare, but he couldn’t find a thing.
He sat down on the corner of his dad’s bed and closed his eyes. The faint scent of diesel, probably from an old pair of his dad’s work shoes, coupled with some manly aftershave, was so reminiscent of his father that he kept thinking the man was going to walk in at any moment. Mack took a deep breath, choking back tears, but before he could gather his thoughts, someone was knocking at the front door.
He got up with a heavy heart, and when he saw one of the ladies from his dad’s church on the porch holding a covered dish, he sighed.
Feeding the grief stricken had begun.
* * *
Lissa, standing in the hall outside her bedroom, was bordering on what felt like a full-blown panic attack. The thunder of her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that at first she didn’t hear her cell phone ringing. By the time it dawned on her what was happening the call had gone to voice mail. Since she didn’t want to talk to anyone, she didn’t bother checking to see who it had been.
The only person she needed to talk to was God. She mouthed the proper words, and then cried until her eyes were so swollen it hurt to blink before she dropped to her knees. Despair was heavy, weighing her down as she stared at the floor in disbelief.
Why had this happened?
She felt like she was being punished, and yet Paul Jackson was the one who had died. So was it his punishment and she’d just become the tool, or was it hers and his life was gone because of it?
Sick at heart and too exhausted to get up, she slid forward, stretching out facedown on the cold hardwood floor, and closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear forever.
* * *
Along about 6:00 p.m. Jim Farley, the pastor from Paul Jackson’s church, stopped by to express his condolences. By Mack’s count he was visitor number seven, and when this one left, Mack was leaving, too. He couldn’t take any more well-wishers and didn’t want anyone else to pray for him. He didn’t want prayers. He wanted answers.
Mack took a deep breath, bracing himself for yet another painful conversation. “Pastor Farley, thank you for coming,” he said.
The little man smiled, which made the scar across his upper lip—the result of a hockey puck gone wild during his youth—pull sideways just the tiniest bit.
“Good afternoon, Mack. I came
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