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My hands, clutched in a clammy twist in my lap, still manage to tremble. The day has warmed, but I’m chilled, throwing off shivers. John, violent? Self-control is one of his hallmarks—but they say everyone has a breaking point.
Our first meeting notwithstanding, John has shown himself helpful and even kind. Of course, he could have been with his wife, too, and then something pushed him to a limit. He has a dangerous job, or at least used to. Is it that far a stretch to imagine him capable of violence? He did do work undercover.
At the same time he was married to the wife whose mother declared him a murderer.
I loosen my hands, but only seconds later I’m fingering the silver heart ring on my finger. Mom bought it for me the last Christmas before dementia stole her away. I miss her.
Oh, I want my mother right now.
“You’re afraid of me aren’t you?”
The first words John has spoken for fifty miles turn me to him, and a dry laugh scrapes across my silence.
He’s not wrong about what I’m feeling—but he isn’t right, either. I don’t hardly know what I feel, much less what I think.
Despite the beautiful weather, the perfect blue autumn sky, the day is ruined, and there’s nothing that can repair it, not for either one of us.
∞∞∞
I look at the clock on the double oven. Jacob texted and the Millers should be dropping him off in another hour or so.
The angle of the sun alone should have given me a rough estimate of the time. The fiery ball has dipped below the stands of live oak trees that separate John’s house from the river. He walked that direction when we arrived nearly two hours ago and hasn’t been seen since.
He wouldn’t do anything stupid, would he?
I don’t think so. He’s too good at controlling and compartmentalizing. He is human, however, and today had to have pushed him to the brink.
I’ve paced and stewed long enough. It’s settled. No matter how many laps I make from one end of John’s beautiful, empty house to the other, I cannot believe he is a murderer. Not a coldblooded one, that’s for sure.
I’m quite used to fear, but aside from the initial wave of horror when Judy shouted her declaration, the answer to John’s question on the road, the single thing spoken on the two-hour drive home, isno. I am not afraid of him.
No more so than anyone else, and even that’s come down a notch. Or three or four. What’s left is my problem. He’s been good to me.
The sun is on its home stretch as I grab my jacket and walk toward the river. When the trees open, I see him on a concrete bench a few feet from the water. His face is tipped toward the dirt, hands clenched between his knees. The gorgeous swaths of purple, peach, and pink striping the sky are lost on him.
John is still undercover, if you ask me. A caring man masquerading under the guise of a jerk.
I stop a few feet away. “Hi.”
Nothing.
“John?”
Slowly, he turns his face up.
“Are you alright?”
He stares, fixing on me likeheis trying to figuremeout. “I’m not about to walk into the river, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I rock onto the balls of my feet. “I figured I better check.”
“Well, now you have. You’re free to go.”
Wouldn’t I like to be able to leave. I’m sorely out of my depth here. John is the one who’s always strong.
I take a step toward his perch. “Do you want to talk?”
His squint flings a challenge. “You dare approach?”
