“Really? Check out my previous address. Who’s running your call center? Purchasing leads? Collecting the cash? What are you outsourcing?”

“I can’t approve you.”

“Yes, you can. Decide soon before I leave the country.”

“You’ll get picked up at the airport.”

“Not a chance. I have my connections too. Call me by ten in the morning if we’re going to work this out.”

“You’re giving me a deadline?” Marissa’s voice sliced like a blade.

“I have a good offer in Europe, except they need an answer by eleven. Thing is, I’d rather work with you. We’re sisters and understand each other, but that’s your decision. You have what, twelve to fifteen people you trust? Or think you trust. You trained me for a lot of years how to get out of tight places, to read people, and commit the cleverest of crimes. We have much to teach each other. Give me a corner, and I won’t bother you.” I clicked off.

Shaking.

“You did a good job,” Mike said. “Convinced me.”

“But did I convince Marissa?”

63

For so many years, I’d buried my emotions and attempted to mold myself into someone else to find acceptance. First as a child to gain Marissa’s approval, then as a teen to gain my own approval, and on into prison years when I no longer cared. Those were the lost years before I met Jesus. The only approval and acceptance that mattered now came from my relationship with Him. Depression still knocked me down on occasion, but now I knew how to get back up. I’d made mistakes and grown from them. The difference between me and my sister was Marissa had never faced consequences.

After her call, I stepped outside—with shoes on—and talked to God about my fears for my loved ones. And I couldn’t turn off my love for Marissa. I vowed to follow through with doing the right thing. I asked for forgiveness for covering up a crime. I prayed for those who’d been victimized and lost loved ones. I breathed out my prayer in sobs—God, help me bring truth and justice to so many tragedies.

A memory crept in from when I was six years old. Unbidden, but one I needed to access . . .

“Shelby, here’s your puzzle,” Marissa said. “We live in a two-story brick house, and your bedroom is upstairs. Mom and Dad alarm our house at 10 p.m. You went to bed at 8:30 but snuck out to play with your friends. It’s now 11:15. How will you get back inside without getting caught?”

“Easy. Before I leave, I’ll toss a rope out the window so I can crawl back up.”

“All you have is a jump rope, and it’s not long enough.”

“I’ll use a bedsheet and tie it to the leg of my bed. Give me a harder one.”

“Good job. Here’s a cherry Tootsie Pop. Your favorite.”

As I grew older, Marissa had confirmed my foolproof plans with more praise. Winnings escalated to more games, nail polish, lipstick, and special time with her. I spent hours creating the perfect crime. The last game before she married pushed the current problem into perspective.