time. We had a long night.”
So had he. He hadn’t gotten home from Gregory’s dinner party until after two o’clock. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got a situation at the crisis center—”
Ben rolled flat on his back and stared at the fleur-de-lis design in his recessed bedroom ceiling. Peggy knew only too well he didn’t get involved at the center. Ever. “Peg—”
“You don’t understand,” she said before he could reprimand her on the subject for the millionth time.
She hung on to this crazy idea that if she could get him back involved at the center, he’d get right with God.
It wasn’t happening.
He’d been right with God. His wife had been right with God. They had been raising their son to be right with God. And she and their son had been murdered, and their killer had gotten away—scot-free.
How did a man—
why
would a man in his position—want to getright with God? What kind of God let that happen to Susan and Christopher? Did the God Ben once fervently believed in even exist?
“I know you don’t counsel or get involved in any way anymore, Ben. But this time, you are involved. It’s different.”
Every time Peggy pulled this “you are involved,” it was always different—a different sick, twisted extortion scheme. People would do anything for money, including pretend to have important information on a dead woman and child.
“I’m not going through this again.” He swiped at his sleep-ridden eyes. Bitterness roiled in his throat, tasted as sour as brine on his tongue. Once he had believed—had
known
—had felt connected and protected. Once he had felt loved. Now, he just felt … forgotten.
“It is different, Ben.”
“I’m hanging up now.” He moved the receiver away from his ear.
“It’s about Susan!” Peggy shouted, her voice carrying.
Ben stilled, his arm in midair. Chills rippled through his body, knotted his muscles, and tightened his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Clyde Parker brought a woman into the center. She’d been carjacked and beaten and left for dead. Obviously, she wasn’t. She can’t remember who she is, but the two men who abducted her called her Susan. And she found a card for the center in her pocket—”
The grip on his chest cinched tighter. A few similarities to Susan’s case, but … “All of which means—
what
? Nothing,” he added before Peggy could answer. “It’s a common name and people take those cards by the handfuls.”
“They don’t handwrite ‘Susan’ on the back of them and stuff them into the pocket of a woman who looks remarkably like her.”
She looks like Susan?
That got Ben’s attention, though it too had happened before, justover a year ago. The woman—the fourth trying to extort money from him by pretending to have information on Susan’s case—turned out to be well intentioned but crazy as a loon. She thought she had special powers and could save Ben.
He grunted. What was left to save? He’d failed as a husband, not protecting his wife; as a father, not protecting his son; as a man, not finding the killers he failed to protect them from. Who wanted to be saved? Saved for what? For whom? He could do nothing to bring them back, and without them, he had nothing. He was nothing …
“Ben, are you still there?”
His eyes burned.
Survivor’s guilt
. That’s what Harvey Talbot had called it. The good doctor said Ben needed to forgive himself; what happened wasn’t his fault.
But Ben was responsible. He hadn’t pulled the trigger or fired the shots that killed his family, but he’d promised to love, honor, and protect. He made vows, and unlike Harvey, who set aside his vows in a divorce, Ben had been determined to keep his forever.
Being married to Susan had been a privilege, keeping those vows, his joy in life. Then he failed her and his son and he lost them both. Lost everything that most mattered to him. He wasn’t worthy of forgiveness.
If he found their killers, then maybe he
So had he. He hadn’t gotten home from Gregory’s dinner party until after two o’clock. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got a situation at the crisis center—”
Ben rolled flat on his back and stared at the fleur-de-lis design in his recessed bedroom ceiling. Peggy knew only too well he didn’t get involved at the center. Ever. “Peg—”
“You don’t understand,” she said before he could reprimand her on the subject for the millionth time.
She hung on to this crazy idea that if she could get him back involved at the center, he’d get right with God.
It wasn’t happening.
He’d been right with God. His wife had been right with God. They had been raising their son to be right with God. And she and their son had been murdered, and their killer had gotten away—scot-free.
How did a man—
why
would a man in his position—want to getright with God? What kind of God let that happen to Susan and Christopher? Did the God Ben once fervently believed in even exist?
“I know you don’t counsel or get involved in any way anymore, Ben. But this time, you are involved. It’s different.”
Every time Peggy pulled this “you are involved,” it was always different—a different sick, twisted extortion scheme. People would do anything for money, including pretend to have important information on a dead woman and child.
“I’m not going through this again.” He swiped at his sleep-ridden eyes. Bitterness roiled in his throat, tasted as sour as brine on his tongue. Once he had believed—had
known
—had felt connected and protected. Once he had felt loved. Now, he just felt … forgotten.
“It is different, Ben.”
“I’m hanging up now.” He moved the receiver away from his ear.
“It’s about Susan!” Peggy shouted, her voice carrying.
Ben stilled, his arm in midair. Chills rippled through his body, knotted his muscles, and tightened his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Clyde Parker brought a woman into the center. She’d been carjacked and beaten and left for dead. Obviously, she wasn’t. She can’t remember who she is, but the two men who abducted her called her Susan. And she found a card for the center in her pocket—”
The grip on his chest cinched tighter. A few similarities to Susan’s case, but … “All of which means—
what
? Nothing,” he added before Peggy could answer. “It’s a common name and people take those cards by the handfuls.”
“They don’t handwrite ‘Susan’ on the back of them and stuff them into the pocket of a woman who looks remarkably like her.”
She looks like Susan?
That got Ben’s attention, though it too had happened before, justover a year ago. The woman—the fourth trying to extort money from him by pretending to have information on Susan’s case—turned out to be well intentioned but crazy as a loon. She thought she had special powers and could save Ben.
He grunted. What was left to save? He’d failed as a husband, not protecting his wife; as a father, not protecting his son; as a man, not finding the killers he failed to protect them from. Who wanted to be saved? Saved for what? For whom? He could do nothing to bring them back, and without them, he had nothing. He was nothing …
“Ben, are you still there?”
His eyes burned.
Survivor’s guilt
. That’s what Harvey Talbot had called it. The good doctor said Ben needed to forgive himself; what happened wasn’t his fault.
But Ben was responsible. He hadn’t pulled the trigger or fired the shots that killed his family, but he’d promised to love, honor, and protect. He made vows, and unlike Harvey, who set aside his vows in a divorce, Ben had been determined to keep his forever.
Being married to Susan had been a privilege, keeping those vows, his joy in life. Then he failed her and his son and he lost them both. Lost everything that most mattered to him. He wasn’t worthy of forgiveness.
If he found their killers, then maybe he
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