Page 64 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

“Why?” She crossed her arms.

“I need more time.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “But that’s just it, Brec—we don’t have time. There’s a killer on the loose, and for somebody who was pretty ticked that I went jogging by myself, I would think you’d care.”

“I do care!” he snapped, eyes blazing. “But I just can’t”—his Adam’s apple hitched hard before he looked away—“I’ll call the management company, and Sloan can do it.”

“No, you need to do it, Brec, not Sloan.”

“Why?” He slapped his blinker on and turned onto the road to Lake Loon too fast, skidding the car and scattering gravel. “It’s his investigation!”

“Yes,” she said quietly, heart aching at the pain he must have endured as a child. “But it’s your past, Brec, and nobody can face that but you.”

A tic flickered in his jaw as he stared straight ahead. “I know, Molly, but it’s … hard to face all of that again. The memories. The ghosts. I’d swore I’d never go back there again for a long, long time.”

She studied his profile—the hard-sculpted jaw pressed tight and the faint scars on his chin and cheek that indicated Breccan McGill was a fighter, both on the soccer field and off. And instantly she knew he was a man who stood his ground and faced the enemy no matter the cost.

Except in this, apparently, where the cost was too high.

And yet, Molly knew that the cost of not facing it was higher yet, and she cared far too much to let that happen. At least without a fight.

Studying him, she had a hunch and took a chance her gut was right. “You’re scared,” she said with a thrust of her chin, her statement more of a challenge than an accusation. “Scared that if you face your past and forgive your father”—she dipped her head to pin him with a pointed stare—“it condones what he did. And make no mistake, Breccan McGill, forgiveness is what facing your past is all about. The affair. Destroying the family. Destroying your mom. Ruining your life. And deep down I think that scares you silly, letting go of your bitterness.”

“You’re bloomin’ right it scares me,” he snapped, searing her with a hostile look that might have worried her if she were a man. “There’s not much in this godforsaken world that does it to me, Molly. I can take on anyone and anything, anytime and anywhere. But this”—his throat convulsed several times—“this … makes me feel weak, and I don’t like that.”

“Oh, stop bragging.”

He shot her a sideways glance, mouth sagging open. “What?”

“I said, ‘stop bragging!’ She could almost feel the twinkle in her eyes. “When you are weak, then you are strong.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you back on that cold medicine again?”

She laughed, grateful to get the conversation back on a lighter note. “It’s from the Bible you read to Miss Lilly every night, goose. ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.’”

He rolled his eyes, refocusing back on the road. “Look, I’ve never really been one of those Holy-Roller types who’s into Scriptures, Princess. Besides, I’ve already been to church today, so I think I’m well over my quota for the year.”

“So, use it,” she said with a hike of her brow, her voice edged with a dare.

“What?” His brows dug low as he glanced at her like she was speaking Greek.

Her chest rose and fell in an exasperated sigh. “You just told me going to your dad’s house makes you feel weak, yes? So you may as well let God help you because you have to look for photos to help solve this case, right? You sat in a pew today, Soccer Boy, so why not put it to good use with a little application instead of letting it go in one ear and out the other?” Her smile swerved to the right. “That is, if it even does go in because I could have sworn I heard you snoring during worship.”

He grilled her with a laser-thin glare. “The sermon was about the ‘Way, the Truth, and the Life,’ Goldie-Locks, so don’t accuse me of sleeping.”

“Very good,” she said with a nod of her head before jagging a challenging brow. “But applying it would be even better, mister, because it will demonstrate the ‘way’ that the ‘truth’ can change your ‘life.’”

“Cute.” He shook his head as he returned his gaze to the road. “You can put your pulpit away, Princess, because I’m not buying it. There’s no way a person can be strong when they’re weak.”

“Sure there is,” she said as he pulled the Range Rover in front of Miss Lilly’s house. She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder, pausing to smile at him after she opened her door. “When you trust in God to help you during a difficult situation, Brec, it’s a lot like epoxy because it’s the perfect match. Your ‘weak’ is the resin and God’s ‘strength’ is the hardener. Mix the two together, and it causes a chemical—aka spiritual—reaction that changes your liquid”—she wrinkled her nose in jest— “or your quivering fear, into an unbreakable solid that no fear can penetrate.”

“And actually,” she continued, getting out of the car and closing the door as he did the same, “it’s a lot like that 1,000-piece puzzle we’ve been working on all week, you know? When we looked high and low for that one missing piece and you found it under the couch?” She sashayed to the front door with an exaggerated sway before lobbing a sassy grin over her shoulder. “Your weakness and God’s strength,” she said with a wink, “is the perfect fit.”