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Wrapping myself in my arms, I glance to the sunset. “I dare.”
He coughs out a laugh. “I detect second thoughts in that brain of yours.”
Gruffness is part of who John is, but my ears pick up a tinge of despair that adds a new twist. “Not really. I thought you might want some company.”
His cheek grooves. “Sure, Hollie. That’s why I came out here alone.”
“You don’t have to be rude, you know.”
“Of course I do. That’s what we bad guys do.”
I tilt my head. “Who says you’re a bad guy?”
A choking sound garbles his throat. “You heard it yourself. I’m a murderer.”
Was that an admission? I close my eyes.Father.
“Pray all you want. It doesn’t change a thing—and certainly not the past.”
Imperfect as I am at praying like I should, it is my lifeline for coping. For raising Jacob alone.
Some days, just for getting up in the morning.
John’s point is hard to argue, however, especially the part about the past. God probably could change even that if He wanted to, but He doesn’t reach down and change whatwas. Trust me, I’ve begged Him, and He’s remained unmoved on that score.
Altering the past would mean no Jacob, though, so maybe God knows what He’s doing.
Do you think, Hollie?
I press my palms to my cheeks. What am I doing here?
John scoots to the far end of the bench and thumps the vacancy. “Come sit with the killer. You can tell your friends all about it.”
“Don’t.” Why must he make everything difficult?
Or…does he? Bluntness can be painful—but it also opens doors that would otherwise remain locked tight.
I slip my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “I don’t believe for one instant you murdered your wife.”
For several seconds under his courage-withering stare, my feet shift and my heartrate sprints. Boy, he must have been the superstar of undercover work. When he doesn’t want to be read, he’s as closed and exasperating as a shrink-wrapped book.
“If this is you being certain, I’d hate to see your doubt.”
Looks are deceiving in this case. Besides, he’s only testing me. “John, call me stupid, but I don’t believe you just walked up and shot your wife in cold-blood. That’s not who you are.”
“Maybe I was different then.” In the fading light, his brown eyes glint a dangerous black.
“Not that different.”
The challenge dissipates. This time, he taps the bench in a more welcoming manner and draws his elbow in to make more space.
I take him up on his offer, pressing my hands between my knees. “So.”
“So.”
Floodlights on a house across the river flare on, and the laughter of children ripples across the water. A woman calls out for her kids to come inside and get ready for bed. The joyful sounds fade until the chirps of crickets take their place.
The man is insufferable, inviting me over yet staying clammed up. “What happened, John?” I watch the current in the river but feel his gaze.
