“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For honesty about how this whole thing must be for you.”

I swallowed past a lump of dread and opened the truck door. He joined me in the walk to the front entrance. Weeds had taken over the flower beds, and the shrubs had wild shoots. Mom loved gardening. How long had she been sick?

Denton rang the doorbell, giving me a few more moments to gain my composure. Where would I be if I hadn’t chosen to take Marissa’s place? The alternative of Mom and Dad raising a grandchild could never measure up to a good woman like my sister nurturing her daughter.

The door squeaked open.

Dad stood on the threshold. Less hair. Glasses. A Band-Aid on his cheek in the same spot where he’d been treated for melanoma years ago. Had the cancer returned? Perhaps later I’d ask.

“Dad, I appreciate your letting me see Mom.” My voice cracked.

The familiar lines across his forehead etched deep. “Don’t upset her. She’s not long for this world.”

“I only want to love on her. Sit by her side.”

“You will not be alone with your mother. It’s inconceivable to trust you.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Denton stuck out his hand and introduced himself, but Dad kept his hand at his side.

“You’re that FBI agent,” Dad said. “Why are you here? Are you escorting Shelby because you think she’s a danger to someone?”

“I’m here with Shelby in a different capacity.”

“Which is?”

“Her transportation and a friend.”

Dad huffed, and in a way his orneriness reminded me of Randy Hughes. “Let’s get this done before Marissa returns.” He opened the door, and I stepped back in time. The smells were the same, except my cherished memories were tainted with medicine.

A small terrier ran to me. The animal must have smelled Joy on me.

“Aria’s dog,” Dad mumbled.

My thoughts scattered. I wanted to run, but I needed to see Mom.

32

How I longed for my reunion with my mother to be filled with life instead of death. I followed Dad into Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Denton had touched my back, and I viewed it as reassurance as he stayed behind. Shadows deepened around the room. Mom loved the sunlight, but the hospice nurse must feel otherwise. My mother’s hair likened to snow, her body frail beneath a white blanket, and I doubted even the sun could rid the ghastly shade of gray on her face.

But her blue-gray eyes were open. “Shelby?” she whispered.

I knelt at her side. “Yes, Mom. I’m here.”

A faint smile curved her mouth. “I’ve been dreaming about a visit from you.” She lifted her hand, and I took it into mine. Fragile . . . too fragile. The Bible said Jesus was strongest when we’re weak. I feared I’d crumble.

“Are you in pain?”

“Not with you here.”

I kissed her forehead. “Can I open the blinds?”

“Yes, please.”

“Let me help you.” The nurse, a pleasant-sounding woman, allowed streams of late-morning sunshine to fill the room, and I thanked her.