“Yes.” She gave me a quick kiss, a silent confirmation of her confidence in me. “Are you heading to the Field Office this morning?”

“I’m going to swing by the hospital first, see how Calvin is doing.”

“Let me know if he needs anything. I’d like to help if there’s anything I can do.”

Christie had never met Calvin and, although I would have liked to introduce them to each other, this might not be the best set of circumstances for that to happen.

“Thanks. I’ll see.”

All of my thoughts over the course of this last week concerning pain and God and the burdens we carry cycloned around inside me. My wife seemed so strong in her faith, so true to her beliefs. Finally, I said, “Christie, what does Christianity mean to you?”

“You mean when it’s really lived out?”

“Yeah.”

“It means treating everyone you meet as if they were worth dying for.”

“Because Jesus taught that?”

“Yes. And because they are.”

++++

Julianne’s body was starting to stink, so last night Timothy had slept on the couch in his living room instead of the spare bedroom upstairs.

But now, when he awoke, it wasn’t her body that he smelled.

It was coffee.

And then he heard the rattle of dishes.

Someone was in his kitchen.

No, you’re hearing things. You’re alone. No one else is here. No one else could be here.

Timothy still had Julianne’s Beretta, and now he silently retrieved it and gripped it firmly as he started toward the kitchen.

“Hello?”

He’d never shot a gun before, but it couldn’t be that difficult to use. Just point and squeeze the trigger.

Aim for the biggest target. Aim for the torso.

“Who’s there?”

No reply.

The lady from last night? From the bookstore? Miranda’s mom? Was that possible?

That woman really did think he had killed her daughter.

So did Julianne. She thought you killed Miranda too.

None of this made sense.

Maybe you did.

Timothy came to the far end of the living room and steeled himself.

Then stepped around the corner into the kitchen.

A man stood before him, early to mid fifties. He didn’t appear at all fazed that Timothy was pointing a gun at him.

“Hello.” He held a cup of coffee and now blew softly across the top of it. “My name is Blake Neeson. I thought it was time we had a little chat.”

62

A scalp-prickling terror gripped Timothy.

After Julianne had given him the papers at the pier, he’d brought them home and found a reference to Blake Neeson in them. He wasn’t certain, but from what it implied, Neeson was the one who’d dug up the information for her. An online search had told him that Neeson was on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.

“What are you doing here?” Timothy managed to say to him.