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“God loves you, Violet. He knew how you’d be born. Where. Knew you’d be right here. Right now. Talking to me. Arguing with me. Because you’re bossy. I remember.” He smirked and framed her face. “And He loves you. Die-for-you kind of love, Violet.”
She couldn’t. It was too much. Too hard to listen to. She wanted to reach out and stake her claim on the words. Wanted to believe that if she cried out in faith, she’d be free from the hopeless dark prison that held her captive.
She opened her mouth, and the hairs on her neck stood on end as if something slippery and sinister had nestled up beside her.
There is no God. And if there was, He wouldn’t want you. Tell John what you did to Lynn Tavish. Tell him how you watched after you pushed her. Tell him. No one has saved you. No one will save you. No one can save you. You’re your father’s daughter. When are you gonna embrace it?
She swallowed down the aching cry and dark thoughts. Blinked back the tears and cleared her vision. “I’d rather discuss the case and what you found out from Greg. I don’t want to talk about me or my soul or how Jesus loves me because the Bible tells me so. If I wanted to be preached to, I’d go to a church service. Do we understand?” It was cold. Harsh. And lies, if she would allow herself to be honest.
Disappointment filled his eyes. “I understand. I’m not sorry, but I’ll abide by your wishes.”
A sliver of herself wanted to take her words back and ask him to repeat the ones he’d just spoken instead—words that breathed like life and not death—but she refrained and the risen neck hairs slowly dissipated as if the sinister presence had been satisfied. She shook out of it and glanced beside her to check. See if she could see anything.
She never could. Never had.
Only her own punishing thoughts.
“Thank you.” She began walking uphill again. She’d been walking uphill since she was born. “I need a few minutes, and then I’ll meet you on the back porch. I want to hear what Greg said. I hope it’s good and gets us somewhere.”
John sat in the rocking chair on the screened-in porch, waiting on Violet to return to share the news from earlier. It was hard for him to concentrate on the case when Violet had revealed the truth about her birth and her father, though he’d suspected it.
The baggage she carried was a lifetime of heavy weight, and the rift with her maternal family had been brought into sharper focus. John’s family was far from perfect, but he’d never felt unloved or unwanted. Not even during his most wayward moments.
Violet had never felt loved. Worse than never even feeling love, she believed she was unlovable. A lie developed from childhood experience and from hateful words slung in her face from a terribly hurt person. He worked in missing persons, and on the few occasions they found a survivor, the person came back empty and hollow. Without proper counseling and care, they never healed. He suspected Reeva had remained a shell of her former self.
And in the meantime, Violet had been used as a punching bag for the pain, riddled with lies, and it would take powerful truths to untangle and dissolve that and free her.
It would take...love. He closed his eyes and prayed for Violet. To feel the love of God. To see through the darkness to His light. That He wasn’t outside the darkness but there in the midst and not hiding. She was blinded, and she desperately needed to see. Not what was tangible but what was real. And true. He ached for her, ached for her to see...to know. To experience.
She was a psychologist. She knew the mind, emotion. But she was deep in a web that had spun around her and cocooned her in. Reason wouldn’t work. Logic was useless.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and digging his hands into his hair. He prayed a little longer then checked his watch. She’d been upstairs for fifteen minutes. His thoughts wandered to Greg and their conversation earlier.
“I’m sorry, John. I don’t want Callie’s killer to get away. I owe her, so I’m going to tell you something the locals won’t. Whiskey owns a bar up near the head of the holler. Back in the hills. It’s called the Swallow. He coordinates out of there. If by chance you discover it and go in there, remember no one is friendly. No one is going to tell you the truth, and if I’m there, I’ll be of no assistance to you. Do you understand?”
John wasn’t sure if he was getting good information or an invitation to get the stuffing kicked out of him. Greg wouldn’t confirm or deny that the first three victims were Whiskey Girls. He denied Whiskey being the Blind Eye Killer. But John wasn’t sure Greg believed that.
“You can question him, but don’t expect answers, and he might toss you out on your head. I’m not breaking cover for you. But I will tell you something else. Earl Levine and Bobby Lloyd are dead. I didn’t see Whiskey kill them. Didn’t have to. Bobby hurt Atta. Earl got drunk and stupid and hurt more than one of the holler girls. Quit looking for them.”
John inquired about Cecil Johnson, but Greg didn’t have much on him. He didn’t hang out at the Swallow often. But some interesting folks did, and they would be more useful to John than Whiskey himself. With that cryptic bit of information, he’d left the bar they used as a rendezvous point.
The screen door opened and Violet entered. She’d changed into jeans and an oversize sweater that matched her eyes. Bluish-green. Her hair was brushed, and she wore a pair of Duck Head boots. “Well?”
“You wanna go out to a bar with me?”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
The tension had receded between them, and she was back to her way of teasing. “Our first date isn’t going to be at a bar,” he said lightly. They weren’t having a first date. Things wouldn’t work between them. Not because of her history or the sobering truth she’d dropped on him. John wasn’t scared of baggage. He had his own nice-size trunk of mistakes, junk and shame. He couldn’t forget that her job was her first love, and it was dangerous. He’d seen how Stella had quickly been fond of her. He wasn’t bringing anyone into the house for Stella to get attached to, only to lose them. And there was the whole big other thing where they didn’t share the same faith, and that could cause complications down the road.
But all of these factors and truths didn’t change the way his heart was feeling about her. Almost kissing her had been his brain’s lapse in judgment as his heart usurped the throne, and it was holding its spot for the long haul.
“Well, I’d hope you would have more class than that.”
He stood and grinned as he glanced toward the house. “Should we ask Ty to join us?”
“No. He’s working on the numbers and deep in it. When he finally gets in his zone, he’s in. I did apologize to him and told him what he needed to know to appease him. I’ll text him, fill him in on what we’re doing. What are we doing exactly?”
John gave her the rundown of his conversation with Greg. “I thought maybe we’d watch from behind the scenes. See who goes in and out then make our way inside.”
