| |
Whoever designed hospital bracelets obviously never intended patients to remove them.
What is this device of torture even made out of? Steel? Plastic? Gran’s fruitcake?
No matter how I yank on it, pull on it, chew on it, the stupid bracelet doesn’t show any signs of coming loose, and the only thing I have to show for it is a red, irritated patch on my wrist.
Fine.
I’ll just wear it like a weird fashion accessory. I can say it goes with my eyes, and even though it doesn’t, maybe I’ll be confident enough to start a new fad. Wearing your hospital admission bracelet with your outfit could become the next big thing, and I’ll take all the credit.
Take that, Versace.
I roll my head around my shoulders, feeling the ache and strain of every bruise and tendon. Oh, it hurts. The hospital never gave me anything stronger than acetaminophen for the pain, though, and while it took the edge off—well, it only took the edge off.
Shifting in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, I look up as Aaron sinks into the seat beside me and sets his big hand on my knee.
“Doing all right?” His eyes look tired.
“I’m okay.” I nod. “Just sore.”
“Me too.” He leans back and gazes out the atrium windows, keeping an eye out for my dad’s car.
We’ve both been discharged officially, and now all that remains is to get home and go back to bed. Aaron gazes thoughtfully at the red marks on my wrist as he gathers my hand into his. He shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls out his knife, snapping it open and cutting the bracelet off.
Show-off.
“What if I wanted to keep it?” I arch an eyebrow at him and decide that even my eyebrows hurt.
He hands it to me. “It’s still in one piece.”
I take it and peer at the writing. “You cut it right between my middle name and my last name.”
“They’re the same.” His tired eyes twinkle. “And that’s okay. You won’t need—”
Honk honk!
Dad’s old dark blue Oldsmobile pulls up to the atrium, and he waves at us.
Aaron scowls and stands up, offering me a hand. I’m about to ask him to finish his sentence when we step outside, and the wall of humidity hits us like two tons of bricks.
“What is wrong with this state?” I whine. “We’re landlocked. How can we have humidity like this?”
Aaron chuckles and holds the passenger side door open for me.
I once tried to get him to sit in the front, but he wouldn’t hear of it. According to him, he preferred having to cram himself and his even-longer-than-mine legs in Dad’s backseat that was already crammed full of yellow pads, briefcases, and sermon notes from the last twenty years of preaching.
Since then? Well, I don’t argue with him.
He’s stubborn, Aaron Guinness. I think it’s because he’s Irish.
Wincing, I pull the seat belt down and snap it in place. Dad waits until Aaron is buckled before he puts the car in drive.
“How are the two of you feeling?” His tone is full of concern, but his fingers tap on the steering wheel as he guides the behemoth of a vehicle onto the main road outside the hospital.
“Why?” I narrow my one functioning eye at him.
He sighs. “Something has come up.”
“At church?”
He nods.
I rest my head on the seat. It’s always something at church.
“That’s fine, Dad,” I say.
“Sure, sir.” Aaron says from the back seat.
Not like he’s going to argue. Not with my dad, and certainly not while he’s a passenger.
I’d say I will wait in the car, but while the weather is trying to nuke us like potatoes, it’s probably not a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “But it’s important. And it does involve you two.”
I groan. “Not another pregnancy rumor, Dad, please.”
Dad chuckles. “No, nothing like that.”
Last year, a disgruntled church member decided to make a big deal out of a conversation she’d overheard between me and Aaron, and the church rumor mill took it and went crazy. Hark! Behold! The scandal of the century! Pastor Lee’s wayward still-single daughter is pregnant! I have yet to determine if the rumor was so widespread because I was the pastor’s daughter—or because nobody actually believed I could be in a relationship with anyone.
Either option is just as likely.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the church building from the hospital, and once we’re there, admittedly I’m slow to climb out of the car. Aaron flashes me a disapproving glance, even though his eyes are laughing at me.
Golly, even with his face smashed in and bruised, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Have I told him that?
I should tell him that.
He hooks his arm in mine, and we walk into the church together. At least we have matching injuries. If anyone asks, we could tell them that we were in a domestic dispute and decided to beat each other up in exactly the same way. Cracked ribs. Black eyes. Split lips. Except I have a monstrous carpet burn on my face from where Kicky slid me across the floor, and the trip down the stairs sprained my knees, bruised my hips, and perforated my liver.
No, my liver isn’t perforated.
But that’s what I’m going to tell people, because I guarantee they won’t be satisfied in their poking and prodding until I tell them something truly dreadful. As though the sight of my swollen face isn’t dreadful enough.
Highpointe Baptist Church may be a proponent of many good things, but minding one’s own business doesn’t seem to be one of them—at least not among the female membership.
“Good gracious!” Marjorie, my dad’s secretary, cries in alarm as Aaron and I follow him into the offices. “What happened to you two?
Marjorie is a great secretary. She’s even a nice person. But she’s a card-carrying member of the Nosy Old Lady Club.
“It’s a long story, Marj.” I smile at her, even though I’m not really feeling it. It’s not her fault that every muscle in my entire body is screaming at me. “We accidentally stumbled on some squatters in the house we’re cleaning for URM.”
Marjorie comes around her desk and takes my hands. “Oh, dear, is anything broken?”
“No, Marjorie.”
“They didn’t do anything inappropriate, did they?”
Aaron snorts.
“Well, they beat the tar out of us.” I shrug and remember that shrugging hurts.
“Oh, well.” Marjorie pats my hand. “Bruises and scrapes will heal. Just be thankful they didn’t do worse.”
See? I should have told her my liver was perforated and that I only have a week to live. That would teach her.
“Trisha.” Dad calls down the hallway.
Aaron pulls me away from Marjorie and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly as soon as we’re out of sight. How can he roll his eyes like that? Even my eyeballs hurt.
Once we step into my dad’s office, I realize that this isn’t going to be a regular meeting. Prisha, Nathan, and Cecily are all gathered there, and—of course—there’s a general outcry of dismay.
“Trisha!” Prisha gasps and runs to me. “Oh, Trisha, what happened?”
Cecily only narrows her eyes and sips her coffee.
Nathan takes a look at me and then at Aaron. “Dude, bro. You look rough.”
“Thanks, man.” Aaron chuckles and accepts his handshake.
I lower myself into the armchair near Dad’s desk, and Prisha hangs onto my arm. I actually wish she wouldn’t because her fingers are digging into a particularly sore cluster of sore muscles. But I don’t have the heart to ask her to stop.
“We found out why we’ve been hearing voices at the house,” I say.
“Ghosts?” Cecily perks up.
Of course, she does.
“No.” Aaron shakes his head. “Squatters.”
“Not just squatters.” I sigh. “Drug dealing squatters. And they weren’t exactly happy that we found them.”
Prisha kneels next to me. “Trisha, I am beginning to believe that you have a curse on you. How is it possible for one person to attract so much trouble?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.” My dad rolls his eyes and settles into his desk chair. “Everyone, have a seat please.”
“Pastor Lee, sir,” Aaron starts slowly as he sits on the big sofa across from my dad’s desk, “will we be able to keep cleaning out the house?”
“Yes, tomorrow you should be clear.” Dad flips through some papers on his desk. “The police are doing a sweep of the house, but what Detective Maxwell has told me indicates that the drugs were only found in that upstairs room.”
“So the rest of the creepy dolls in the basement were clean?” I scowl.
That doesn’t sound right, but stranger things have happened.
Dad furrows his brow in consternation. “Well, Trisha, there are no dolls in the basement.”
The pronouncement falls like thunder.
“What?” Aaron makes a face.
“How can that be?” I shake my head. “Dad, there were like a hundred of those creepy dolls in that basement room.”
“Eighty-nine, specifically,” Cecily chimes in. “I counted them.”
Dad shrugs. “The police didn’t find any of them.”
I glance at Aaron. “Do you think the squatters took them?”
“Maybe.” He looks worried. “I mean, we don’t know how long the two of us were out. They could have taken them after they knocked us out. Or, since we didn’t go downstairs when we got there, they could have taken them before we even arrived.”
“Regardless.” Dad holds up his hands. “After the house has been cleared, you all are free to return to the project. However.”
I turn a frown on my dad.
He has that tone he likes to take when he’s got sad or disappointing news. I’ve heard him use it when he tells family members about someone’s bad diagnosis or untimely death. Instantly, my stomach tenses.
“What is it, Dad?”
“I feel like it’s important to tell you that Keith Wilner has been arrested.”
Cecily jerks like she’s been shot. Gasps of shock and dismay sound from the others in the room. Certainty settles in my stomach like a stone.
Oh, no. I knew something was wrong. I shut my eyes. I hate it when I’m right.
“Arrested?” I sit up. “Why? On what charges?”
But my mind is already clicking through the possibilities. Yesterday morning, Keith had discouraged me from going upstairs. He said he’d checked the rooms. He said he’d gone over everything and that it was all trash. That I didn’t need to look.
What if—What if he knew the squatters were there all along? What if he knew they were dealing drugs? What if he was just using us and our ministry as a front in order to get the drugs out of the house?
He’d struggled with addiction before. He’d told me as much. So was it possible he’d gone back to it?
It’s not that I want him to be false, but people don’t change. Not really. I don’t like how much sense this makes, and I’m already squirming in discomfort before my dad speaks again.
“The authorities believe that Mr. Wilner volunteered for the project because he was aware of the operation.” Dad weaves his fingers together on his desk. “He didn’t want it to be discovered.”
“This is a lie.” Cecily’s voice is sharp and cuts to the bone.
I glance at her.
She sits ramrod straight on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, muscle in the back of her jaw twitching. Her eyes—are burning. Her expression is fierce.
“Keith would not participate in something of this nature,” she says. “It goes against everything he believes, everything he has conquered in his life.”
“Cecily.” I turn toward her gently. “He has a history—”
“Everyone has a history, Patricia,” Cecily snaps. “But that does not indicate that they will be controlled by it.” She blinks and focuses her laser eyes on my dad. “Keith is innocent. These accusations are unjust.”
My dad holds up a hand. “Just because the authorities have arrested him doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything.” He sighs. “They had probable cause because of his background, but to be fair, none of the staffers at the Union Rescue Mission believe he’s guilty. His unit is being searched as we speak.”
“His unit?” Nathan frowns.
“If there are any drugs or alcohol in his unit, he’ll be removed from the URM program,” Dad says. “And it will only be more likely that he participated in something illegal at the house.”
“He did not.” Cecily looks away.
“I hope you’re right, Cecily.” Dad smiles kindly. “Nevertheless, once the house is cleared, you all are welcome to go back to work. But considering what happened—I want to make it clear that none of you have to.” Dad puts his gaze on me specifically. “There were four people in that house who attacked you and Aaron, Trisha. And if your statement to the police is accurate, one of them died when he fell down the stairs.”
I gulp for air.
Dad leaves out the most important part.
One of them died when he fell down the stairs after I grabbed onto his leg. One of them died because I was responsible for breaking his neck.
I’m glad Dad left that part out.
But I know it. And Aaron knows it.
“I would understand if you’d like to say job done.” Dad spreads his hands on the desk and sighs.
“No.” I shake my head. “We’re not finished. There’s still so much to do.”
“And the auction is still happening, right?” Aaron sits forward. “Keith’s situation withstanding, selling the house and giving its profits to URM is still happening?”
“Yes.” Dad nods.
“Then we’re not done.” Aaron glances at me. “We need to finish.”
Dad’s smile is bright, even though his eyes still look worried.
“Then, you can finish.” Dad nods. “Starting tomorrow. Any other questions or concerns?”
“Not for me.” Nathan stands up. “Thanks for giving us an out, sir, but we’ll be fine.”
Dad looks at me. “Trisha, I’ll take you and Aaron back to the house, but I do have a few phone calls to make.”
Of course, he does.
“That’s fine, Dad.”
“Please, help yourselves to drinks or cookies in the lobby.” Dad jerks his head at the door. “Tell Marjorie I said so.”
Nathan, spurred on by the promise of cookies, dashes out the door. With a departing hug around my shoulders, Prisha follows him.
Cecily hasn’t moved.
I push myself up and turn to her. “Cecily?”
She slowly looks at me. “He is innocent, Patricia.”
I hold out my hand to her, and—will wonders never cease—she takes it. Cecily stands up, and we walk toward the door together. Cecily doesn’t let go of my hand. Her fingers are cold and dry.
Aaron comes out behind us, and we make a beeline to the lobby where cookies and sweet tea beckon.
After a night of hospital food, I’m ravenous.
Fortunately, Marjorie isn’t being difficult and freely gives us access to the church office snacks. Aaron and Nathan grab handfuls of cookies and start chatting about the house. Prisha sips her tea and hovers at my elbow, her big dark eyes wide and worried as she stares at me. She’s probably making a categorical list of all my visible bruises.
Girl, you should see the ones that aren’t visible.
I hold the cookie plate up to Cecily, but she shakes her head and sits down on a chair in the lobby. I take the seat next to her.
“What’s wrong?”
Cecily worries her bottom lip before she blinks. “I am concerned for Keith.”
“I guessed that. But is there something specific?”
“I am confident that he has not returned to his former lifestyle, but I am concerned that the stress of being detained may hinder some of the progress he’s made.”
Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“You think he’ll be in greater danger of relapsing after he’s released?”
Cecily hesitates. “I believe it is more necessary than ever to believe in his innocence.” She nods. “To support him so that he understands this event was neither his doing nor anyone’s actual belief of his guilt. That it is a process that must be followed in order to ascertain the truth of the matter.”
I take an oatmeal raisin cookie and nibble on it. The act of chewing is quite painful as well.
And I thought I was angry at Kicky before.
Now I can’t even eat cookies.
“Keith is a good person,” Cecily says. “He has come from a dark place, but he has embraced faith as a pillar to withstand the temptations to drift back into his old lifestyle. He is someone to look up to.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like this,” I say.
Truthfully I’ve never heard Cecily say this much about anything outside of video games or nerdy movies.
She smiles.
Actually smiles.
Have I ever seen her smile?
“I have never met anyone like Keith.” The smile shines in her eyes.
“You like him.”
Cecily blinks and holds my gaze.
“I mean, you like-him, like-him.”
“Perhaps I do.” Cecily is still smiling. “You do not have the monopoly on first relationships in your thirties, Patricia Lee.”
“No, I guess I don’t.”
Huh.
In all the years I’ve known Cecily, I have never seen her judge someone wrongly. She doesn’t talk a lot. She doesn’t speak without thinking. And she doesn’t support anyone or anything that she disagrees with.
So if she is so firmly behind Keith, that should probably tell me everything I need to know about him, no matter what my instincts tell me.
I reach out to take her cold hand again and squeeze her fingers.
“Well,” I say, “then let’s pray that the truth is known.” I nod. “And that Keith knows we didn’t give up on him.”
Cecily squeezes my fingers back. Her smile doesn’t fade.
