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Jordan and Marx sipped at their unlimited free coffee in the church café, and I indulged in my fifty-cent hot chocolate. This packet came with the cutest baby marshmallows.
Watching them dissolve into frothy rings reminded me of the night I re-met Jordan and we caught up with a game of truth-or-dare in the break room of the sheriff’s department while I clutched the mug of marshmallow hot chocolate he’d made for me. I hadn’t trusted him enough to be alone in a room with him then, but now he was a frequent mention in my gratitude journal.
I smiled and took a sip of my drink, my attention drifting over the people in the café until it snagged on a man who stood by the counter.
I had seen him on Brushwick Friday night, but I’d been such a twisted bundle of nerves at the time that I hadn’t been able to place where I knew him from.
He stared at me, fear frozen on his face, as he passed a plate with a donut to his little girl. The pregnant woman beside him took the covered mug from his hand and said something.
Startled, he blinked and responded before automatically kissing her cheek. Confusion clouded the woman’s soft features, but she took their daughter’s hand and led her away toward the sanctuary.
He had a child, a wife, and a baby on the way. What had he been thinking, driving to Brushwick and propositioning a woman?
Despite the heat of the hot chocolate seeping through the paper mug, the warmth drained from my fingers as the man started toward us.
I considered excusing myself to the bathroom or ducking under the table, but I sat motionless in my chair, hoping he might chicken out and veer off at the last second.
Did he really want to have this conversation here, surrounded by our fellow church members? Was he going to deflect blame from himself and try to accuse me of something? Was he going to threaten me to stay silent to preserve his marriage and his position in the church?
You need to stay . . .
The unfinished words of my attacker replayed in my mind. Stay what—still, silent, out of his business, out of his way?
I regarded the approaching man with unease, my gaze dipping to his hands to see if there were any scratches from my fingernails. But he was wearing leather gloves—appropriate for the chilly weather and not unusual considering he was still wearing his coat.
He nodded to Marx and Jordan. “Morning, gentlemen.”
Marx offered his hand. “It’s Rob, right? You and your wife helped organize the group that came to the courthouse steps to pray durin’ the trial.”
Rob shook his hand but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, sir, we did.”
I had known there were Christians from our church gathered in prayer, but I hadn’t known he was one of them. His involvement explained why he recognized me the moment he saw me Friday night.
Rob nodded to Jordan and then met my eyes, sweat beading his forehead. “I was hoping I could have a moment alone to speak with you.”
Marx reclined in his chair, an elbow propped over the backrest, and his politeness gave way to suspicion. “What’s so important you need to be alone with her to discuss it?”
“It’s . . . a personal matter.”
“What sort of personal matter?”
Rob wiped at the moisture on his forehead and glanced at the people around us. They were trickling toward the open doors of the sanctuary, drawn to the inviting music. “I’d really rather discuss it in private with Holly. Please.”
I didn’t want to have this discussion at all, especially not in private, but the desperate gleam in his eyes eroded my resolve. “One minute, right there.”
I pointed to the cushions that lined the entryway. The teenagers generally gathered there, but they had all wandered off to the youth room. It was semiprivate, and I wouldn’t have to be alone with him.
Rob scratched behind his ear. “I was hoping we could use one of the empty conference rooms.”
Marx opened his mouth to say something, but I cut in. “It’s there or nothing.”
Reluctantly, Rob nodded. “Okay. I’ll, um, I’ll wait over there.” He walked away from the table.
Marx touched my arm. “After what happened last night, are you sure you wanna talk to him alone?”
Nope, not in the least, but I said, “I’ll be fine.”
Jordan watched the man, no doubt analyzing his movements and behaviors, but he didn’t object when I pushed up from the table. I crossed the lobby and stopped a comfortable distance from Rob.
I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t my attacker any more than I could be sure he had nothing to do with Cami’s abduction. Erik McCallister picked her up from Brushwick and supposedly let her out somewhere else, which meant she could’ve gotten into anyone’s car.
Rob’s shy, stammering approach to women might’ve put her at ease enough to climb into his car in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
He flicked a nervous glance toward Marx and Jordan. “You didn’t tell them.”
“If I told them where I saw you and what you were doing, they wouldn’t let you within ten feet of me.”
He released a quivering breath and stared at the floor, hands on his hips. It took him a few failed attempts to choke out. “I shouldn’t have been there.”
I wasn’t going to argue with that.
“I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve driven by a few times, stopped, but that was the only time I actually . . .” His throat sounded sticky as he swallowed. “I’ve never gone that far before.”
I folded my arms, not entirely convinced. Collin could play innocent, too, and he was as guilty as the devil. “Okay. What’s this important thing we need to discuss?”
“My wife.”
“I’m not gonna tell her, if that’s what you’re worried about. She deserves to know, but she should hear it from you.”
He dropped his eyes to the floor. “Telling her would only upset her.”
I wasn’t an expert at romantic relationships, seeing as I had never had one, but keeping this secret from his wife sounded like a good way to destroy the trust between them. She would find out eventually, either because someone told her or because he caved and went back.
“I think not telling her is a mistake, but it’s your marriage.” I turned to go back to the café, then decided to take advantage of this opportunity and probe for information. “Where were you Thursday night around midnight?”
A line formed between his eyebrows. “At home in bed with my wife. Why, what happened Thursday night?”
“A girl disappeared.” I snapped open the front pocket of my knapsack and retrieved the picture, showing him the half with Cami.
His eyebrows gave a barely perceptible twitch in response—he recognized her. If he denied it, I was going to let Marx and Jordan deal with him. They would scare the truth out of him.
“I saw her. But it was Monday, not Thursday,” he said. “She was having an argument with a bald guy on the sidewalk. He got pretty hands-on every time she tried to walk away.”
That must’ve been the conversation that made Spike angry, the one Tandi mentioned. But if he didn’t want her because of her diabetes, why was there a confrontation at all?
“What happened?” I asked.
“Some guy handing out Scripture pamphlets or something tried to intervene, but the bald guy shoved him to the ground. I don’t know what happened after that. I left and went home.”
“The man with the pamphlets, did you recognize him?” I asked, putting away the photo.
“No, he’s not from our church.”
“Can your wife confirm you were home in bed Thursday night?”
“You think I . . .” He jerked as though I had slapped him. “I had nothing to do with whatever happened to that girl, and you can’t talk to my wife about it. If you start asking questions . . .”
He stepped forward, and I retreated, heart skipping. He stilled at the scrape of metal chair legs on tile. Marx and Jordan were both standing now, poised to intervene.
Rob retreated, putting another two feet between us. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Holly. I would never hurt you.”
“I have no reason to believe that.”
Pain flashed across his face. “How can I put you at ease?”
“Take off your gloves.”
“My gloves?” He looked at his hands with a puzzled frown, then, without question, peeled the leather from his fingers until both hands were bare.
There were no scabs or scratches on the tops of either hand, and some of my worry melted away. He wasn’t the attacker from the laundry room.
“I don’t know what this thing with the gloves is about, but I’m not a bad person. I would never hurt anyone,” he said. “I’m not that kind of man.”
Was he really that naïve?
“You don’t think paying a woman to use her body is hurting her? You went to that street to rent and enjoy a human being like a Redbox movie.”
He flinched.
“Do you honestly believe any of those women wanna be there?”
“I . . . I mean, I guess I assumed they chose . . . to do what they’re doing. It’s not like they’re being trafficked.”
“No little girl dreams of becoming a prostitute when she grows up, of selling her body night after night to keep a roof over her head and food in her stomach. But somewhere along the way, someone or something convinced those girls it was their best and only option. Beneath the callouses that help them survive and face each day, their spirits are bleeding and broken, and instead of helping them, you went there to cause more pain.”
“I swear to you, I’ve never done anything like that before. It’s usually just . . .”—he struggled to form the words—“videos.”
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to hear about his addiction to explicit videos. Why was he admitting that to me, of all people?
“No one gets hurt,” he hastened to say.
“Everyone gets hurt. Your wife, your kids, your relationship with God. And you don’t know anything about the people in those videos. They could be as unwilling as . . .” My throat closed against the rest of my words. As unwilling as I was in the videos Collin made of me. “You need to talk to someone about your . . . habits.”
Rob’s shoulders slumped, the tears spilling over as he blinked. “I’m a Christian man. I’m not supposed to struggle with things like this. Who am I supposed to talk to?”
Nausea churned in my stomach as I tried to wrap my mind around how a man who claimed to love and follow Jesus could do the things he was doing. But then a quiet voice slipped through my thoughts, reminding me that there was no such thing as a perfect Christian, only a perfect savior.
“I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t, and I am so . . . so ashamed,” he admitted.
I was tempted to walk away and let him figure this out on his own, but dealing with it alone was what led him to Brushwick.
“Everyone struggles with something,” I said. “Even Christians. I can’t help you with your video issue, but shame is . . .” I tightened my arms around my stomach. “It’s something I’m intimately familiar with. Shame thrives in the dark and grows in the silence, isolating you and convincing you to do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
Like downing a bottle of pills, I thought, remembering that morning on Marx’s couch, the softening pills shifting in my palm.
“It will keep you trapped right where you are, unable to ask for help, and unable to break free of your habit, your temptation, your struggles.”
“What do I do?” Rob asked, his voice cracking. “How do I deal with it?”
I stared at the spiral carpet as I pondered my answer. I wasn’t a counselor or a pastor. I could only speak from my experience.
“You don’t deal with it alone,” I said. “Some battles are so hard, so overwhelming, that they can only be fought and won with an army. But for that army to fight alongside you, they need to know what they’re fighting. You need to confide in people you trust so they can pray for you and support you when you feel like giving in or giving up.” I glanced at Marx, grateful that he was there for me when I needed someone. “But I can’t be one of those people, Rob. I can’t . . . hear the things that—”
“I understand. It was insensitive of me to even bring it up. I wasn’t thinking about what you’ve been through.”
I shifted my shoulders in discomfort. “I know that the moment you think about speaking to someone, that shame curls into a panicked ball inside you, determined to scare you into keeping it secret. But don’t let it hold you prisoner. Talk to someone, okay?”
He nodded. “Thank you, Holly. For your advice. And for being there that night. If I hadn’t seen you, I might’ve gone through with it.”
“I’m not sure you should be thanking me for that last one.” I left him to rejoin Marx and Jordan in the café. Judging by the tightness in Marx’s jaw, he’d overheard some of the conversation. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know I’m never leavin’ you alone with any man in this church,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t trust a single one of them.”
I grabbed my hot chocolate from the table as a volunteer kicked up the rubber stoppers, and the heavy sanctuary doors drifted shut. I looked between Jordan and Marx. “Time to go learn some stuff.”
We made our way into the sanctuary and found seats near the back. I settled into a chair between my two favorite men and sang along to the music, trying not to laugh as a man one row ahead of us belted out the lyrics, off-key and so loud that the people on either side of him cringed every time a chorus came around.
I listened with rapt attention as Pastor Greg launched into a message about the importance of deriving our identity from a steadfast and loving God rather than a world that is opinionated, cruel, and indecisive.
“Folks, God weaves our identity into us in our mother’s wombs, and when we’re uncertain, we find the truth of that identity here.” Pastor Greg held up the Bible. “Chosen, accepted, loved, redeemed, forgiven. Mankind is quick to offer labels, and often times those labels become another link in the chain of bondage. Failure, thief, prostitute, worthless, adulterer.”
I glanced at Rob, who was seated a few rows up and across the aisle. He lowered his head, lips moving soundlessly in prayer.
“The identity the world tries to wrap you in is superficial, incomplete, and sometimes divisive, and it will never hold a candle to the identity God gives us. When you’re searching for who you are, look to the Word, not the world,” Pastor Greg said.
I leaned toward Marx and whispered, “What does divisive mean?”
“Somethin’ that causes hostility or disunity between people.”
“Shh,” the woman behind us said, irritation stamped on her face.
Marx turned in his seat, keeping his voice low. “You shushin’ me is louder than my whisper.” He faced forward with an aggravated shake of his head.
I wanted to shrink down in my seat from embarrassment, but Jordan leaned forward with an amused whisper. “Couldn’t just let that go, huh?”
“No, that is the third time she shushed me this mornin’.” Marx threw a look over his shoulder at her, almost daring her to do it again, but she pressed her lips together.
We made it through the rest of the service without incident and exited the sanctuary into the crowded lobby where church members mingled.
Jordan paused halfway to the doors. “Hang on, I got a text from Sam.” He scanned the message. “He reached out to the staff at the dining hall and they confirmed that Erik McCallister had his car brought around a little after eight p.m.”
“And Holly was attacked around nine,” Marx said.
Unease crawled through me. “But how would he know where I live? Jace and I left the party fifteen minutes before him. He couldn’t have followed us.”
“I think we should ask him,” Marx said.
Jordan tapped his screen a few times. “He volunteers at a soup kitchen every Sunday after church, and it’s not too far from here.”
“A soup kitchen,” I said doubtfully.
“Believe or not. According to the article, he finds fulfillment serving his community at one of the local food kitchens every Sunday afternoon.”
Jordan pulled up a picture on his phone. Erik, clad in a white apron, stood behind a table of food warmers with a politician’s smile that didn’t match the petulant gleam in his eyes. If he was donating his time to care for the poor and homeless, he wasn’t doing it by choice.