Deadly Aim by Patricia H. Rushford Page A

dipped in her spoon. It smelled and tasted like it always did. The onions, garlic, chicken, carrots, and celery, with Ma’s favorite spices—cilantro, basil, and a pinch of chili peppers—warmed her inside and out. The fragrant aroma calmed her nerves but unfortunately brought on another rush of tears that rolled down her cheeks and dripped into the broth.Dipping into her pocket, she dug out a slightly used tissue, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When she’d finished the soup, she devoured an oversized piece of cake and felt much better.
    Angel put away the leftovers, rinsed her dishes, then wandered over to the sofa, where she stuffed a cushion under her head, stretched out under her afghan, and closed her eyes.
    Sometime later she woke to a dinging sound, and after a few seconds realized there was someone at her door.
    “Angel? Are you in there? Come on, open it up. It’s me.”
    Angel yawned and groaned at the same time. Her mother must’ve called Tim. “Hang on, I’m coming.”
    Her head felt like it had been used as a target in a rock-throwing contest. She had a serious pain behind her eyes.
    When she opened the door, Tim brushed past her. “Mom told me what happened. Are you okay?”
    “Yeah.” She rubbed her forehead and frowned. “I guess.” She looked at her brother. Tim was thirty-five, five-ten, and had hazel eyes and sandy brown hair with a touch of copper. He favored the Irish side of the family, while she leaned toward the Italian. He must’ve come straight from church, as he was still wearing his clerical collar and black shirt and slacks. Ordinarily on a Sunday afternoon, he’d wear something more laid-back.
    “Why are you here?” Angel rested her hands on her hips, not caring that she was being obnoxious.
    Tim ignored her surliness and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, sis.”
    She relented and hugged him back, clamping her lips together to stop the pesky tears.
    “How can I help?”
    She pulled away. “I guess you could pray. Maybe God will listen to you. I sure don’t seem to be getting anywhere lately.”
    “He’s listening. He always is.”
    “Yeah. Whatever.” She didn’t want to talk about God. But something inside welled up like a pot of boiling water. “Why, Tim? Why did I have to be the one to shoot that boy? Why did he have to die?” She pushed at his chest when he reached out to comfort her again.
    Her brother ran a finger inside his clerical collar and opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance. “I’ll tell you why. Because God doesn’t care.”
    Tim lowered himself into the recliner while she paced back and forth and went on raving. “I don’t need your help, or God’s, or Ma’s for that matter. I just need you all to go away and quit acting like I committed some sort of heinous crime. I was doing my job.”
    She stopped in front of him, suddenly feeling like an idiot.
    He looked up at her. “Are you through?”
    “No.” She turned away from him and went to stand in front of the patio doors. What’s gotten into you? You’re losing your grip . She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes.” She walked back toward him, her gaze glued to the floor. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
    “Yes, it was, but I’ll let it slide this time. You’re upset, and that’s understandable. I wish I had an answer for you, Angel. All I know is that God is there for you. He loves you, and if you’ll let him, he’ll bring you through this.”
    I wish I could believe you . She folded her arms. “I don’t see how. A twelve-year-old boy is dead because of me.”
    “Would you like me to pray with you?”
    “No. What’s the point?” She hitched herself up on the bar stool at the counter.
    Tim shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of people struggle with their faith—especially in times of trouble. A child dies and they ask why. They blame God. It’s a normal reaction, I guess. But I just never expected it from you. You