18

Violet had always thought people past fifty believed in that “early to bed, early to rise” thing, but Belinda was apparently an exception. Violet had lain wide awake and listened to Khloe’s breathing for hours before sneaking downstairs. Incriminating items, whatever they might be, probably weren’t left lying around. Searching the house was a risk, now that Belinda bustled around the kitchen making cookies from scratch. At eleven-thirty at night.

You’d think she would bake tomorrow morning, when her husband came home from his fishing trip. Violet hovered in a shadow at the base of the spiral staircase and glared at the light pouring into the foyer from the kitchen. But wow, the cookies smelled amazing. Belinda hummed off-key and let pans clatter. In a mammoth mansion, you could probably scream downstairs and not be heard upstairs.

Great thought.

Evidence wouldn’t come to her, so she must go to the evidence. She headed down the hall to the right.

Belinda’s tour had designated this room as her husband’s study, but it didn’t at all resemble Clay’s. The rustic wall panels were a masculine touch—or an attempt to hide a door in the wall. The room held no desk, just a low bookshelf, a stuffed chair and coffee table, and a TV. A sleek gray fish hung on the far wall like a deer’s head, above eye level and attached to a wooden stand. Its mouth gaped, and its eye watched Violet cross to the bookshelf, which contained about half movies and half books. The book titles were an interesting mix: ragged hardcovers by Mark Twain, recent paperback thrillers, and a slim collection of poetry by Robert Frost.

Violet flopped into the chair and made eye contact with the fish. “Am I wasting my time in here?”

Good grief, it looked like it blinked at her. She looked away to the coffee table. A slim, brass lamp stood on a woven doily. A cork-bottomed coaster depicted a guy and his dog in a fishing boat. And a leather-bound book just sat there, unhidden, like a dare.

Belinda’s husband really was exploring Christianity.

Violet picked the book up. Gold letters had mostly rubbed off the spine: Holy Bible. Holy? The new ones didn’t say that. She opened the cover. A woman’s handwriting filled in the blanks with purple ink. “This Bible is presented to: James A. Cole. Presented by:” Here, the woman had written a whole message, squeezing two rows of words between each line. She had to write smaller toward the end.

“To my second love and husband, who has finally met and embraced my First Love and Savior! I’m yours, and now both of us are His. Love forever and ever, Karlyn.”

Violet’s finger traced the names and trembled. James Cole. Karlyn Cole. Names from a news story, months ago, sometime last fall. Arrested Christians. They’d fought back when the con-cops came for them—violently, according to at least one news report. Violet wouldn’t even know their names if her social science teacher hadn’t given extra credit to anyone who wrote an essay on the Constabulary’s latest success.

Where would Belinda’s husband have gotten James Cole’s Bible? Did they know him? Or did someone else know him, someone involved in the Bible black market?

She pushed away thoughts of the book’s previous owner and flipped to the first page of text. Genesis. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” That was the same. Well, she didn’t have time to read the whole thing. She flipped forward to find one of Jesus’ books. What did He say in this version? Did He promote violence and intolerance? Here. Matthew. This book would tell her.

Knock-knock-knock.

The sound came from the living room. Violet jumped up and ducked behind the study door. Her mouth turned to sawdust. She couldn’t get back upstairs without crossing in front of the living room. Whoever that was, they’d see her.

Knock-knock-knock-knock.

A lock clicked, and the sliding glass door slid open.

If she was going to get caught, better not to be in this room. Maybe she could claim she was pacing the hallways, stricken by insomnia. She padded back toward the staircase but stayed hidden by the half wall. Too bad it didn’t extend to block off the living room.

“Come in, come in,” Belinda said. “No wonder I felt like baking—oh! What’s wrong, what’s—?”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t call.”

Violet cringed against the wall. Marcus.

“You know better than to apologize.” Belinda’s voice neared her. “Just fill me in as much as you can. Is she all right?”

“She needs somewhere to lay down.”

“Right over here to the couch.”

A new voice joined them, husky and low. “Thank you.”

Violet reached the edge of the wall and peered around it. Belinda bent to switch on a lamp, and its warm glow filled the room. The male voice did indeed belong to Marcus, clad in jeans and a black T-shirt. A baseball cap’s curved brim shielded the top half of his face. He carried a petite black woman to the couch and eased her down. Long braided extensions fanned onto the throw pillow. She kept her knees bent when Marcus withdrew his arms. Her clover-green maternity top strained over her belly.

Belinda sat beside her. “What’s your name, sugar?”

“Please, I’m having contractions. He said you might know what to do to stop them.”

“To stop them?” Belinda’s face crinkled as she stared at Marcus.

Marcus ground his knuckles against his neck. “I thought—if she lays down and … I don’t know, but—”

The woman pushed up onto her elbows. “Sir, you’ve got to save my husband, whatever you have to do. Please.”

“I will,” Marcus said.

Belinda’s attention bounced back and forth between them and rested on Marcus. “Can you tell me?”

“Her husband’s driving home tomorrow afternoon. Business trip in Indiana. I’ve got to—”

“Get him and bring him here,” the woman said. “Before they get hold of him.”

“How?” Belinda clasped her hands together as if she’d suggest they all drop to their knees in prayer right there on her carpet. But no, she wasn’t a Christian.

Marcus gripped the back of his neck and started to pace.

“All right, then. Tell me your name, sugar.”

“Wren Thomas, Wren like the bird. My husband’s Franklin.”

“Wren, I’m Belinda, and don’t you worry about a thing. Just lie back here and relax a minute while I talk to Marcus.”

“He has to save my husband.”

“That counts as worrying.” Belinda patted her shoulder and followed Marcus from the room.

They headed to the kitchen. Violet ducked past the living room, unnoticed by Wren, and padded after them. Go back to bed. But she might learn details, how Marcus planned to “save” this guy. When she peeked around the kitchen corner, Marcus was pacing in front of the fridge. Belinda propped a hip against the counter and watched him.

“I don’t see how it can be done, Marcus. I mean, he’ll probably get over the state line without trouble, but if she doesn’t know what time or where …”

“I have to try.”

“What’ll you do, park across from his house and wait for him? You won’t be helping anyone if you get taken yourself.”

“The baby. You can help her? She said he’s not supposed to come now.”

“Could be false labor, could be stress. It might stop if she calms down, but I’m not a nurse.”

Marcus shook his head. “No.”

“I’m just telling you, if it’s really labor—”

“No.” His left foot dragged a step over the rug, and he reached a hand to the counter.

“Son?”

“I need coffee. Please. Black.”

Belinda charged into his space and stared into his bloodshot eyes. “Oh my heavens, you haven’t slept a wink.”

“This isn’t the time to sleep.”

“And last night wasn’t, either. Marcus, what were you thinking, getting behind the wheel with a pregnant woman depending on you?”

“That woman is depending on me. To save her husband. I need coffee. Now.”

“You are not leaving this house. Not until you’ve slept.”

Marcus glared at her like … like he could kill her? A shudder ran through Violet. He trudged across the kitchen to the coffeemaker, grabbed the carafe, and started to fill it with water.

“Marcus Brenner, you’re not getting any coffee.” Belinda stomped over and shut off the faucet.

Brenner. Thanks for the info, Belinda. Keep talking. Maybe he’d spontaneously confess.

“When Chuck gets back, he’ll help you sort all this out.”

“I won’t be here when Chuck—”

A quiet groan from the living room broke into his words.

Marcus’s gaze snapped to the doorway too fast for Violet to duck. She froze, as if he might not see her head poked halfway into the room. He jolted back a step, and then recognition relaxed his shoulders.

“Violet,” he said.

“What are you doing up, sugar?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Couldn’t move while Marcus studied her.

“We’ve got another guest.” Belinda steered Violet toward the stairs, seeming not to notice Marcus’s eyes boring into their backs. Or just Violet’s back. “Probably best if you go back to bed.”

Wren moaned again, still quietly but a longer sound this time. Belinda rushed into the living room. Well, no one had ordered Violet to bed. She followed.

Wren sat upright now, doubled over as far as the swell of her belly would allow. Both her hands clung to the cushion. She lifted her head.

“It’s coming again.”

Belinda knelt beside her and rested a hand on her belly. “You’re how far along?”

“Thirty-five weeks.”

Belinda looked over Violet’s shoulder, sending some message. Marcus blocked most of the doorway.

“This little one could be ready,” she said, not to Wren but to Marcus. He stared at them both with something between concern and panic.

Wren rocked forward and back. “Not yet. Not yet.”

“Anything we need to know? Risk factors?”

“No, but he can’t come now.”

“I think it’s been four decades since a child was born in this house. About time for another one.”

They were all crazy. Nothing was worth giving birth without drugs, without a doctor. Belinda’s hand moved on Wren’s belly as Wren began to breathe harder.

Come on, somebody take her to a hospital.

When the pain ended, Wren sat there … crying. Soundless tears dropped onto her belly.

“It’s labor, Marcus,” Belinda said. “We’re going to need Lee.”

“Is Lee a doctor?” Wren’s alto voice lilted upward with hope.

“She’s a nurse, our go-to medical gal. I’ve got four children of my own, I know how it’s done, but any sight of blood and I get dizzy as can be. Marcus, we’ve got to have Lee if we’re going to deliver a baby.”

From the kitchen, the coffeemaker gurgled. Marcus turned and left the room.

Belinda sighed after him, then looked to Violet. “Glad you’re up, after all. He left his keys on the counter. I need you to swipe them for me as soon as he’s not looking.”

Prevent him from preventing a Constabulary arrest? Sure, she could do that. When Marcus reentered the room, cradling a steaming mug, Violet slid behind his line of sight.

Belinda’s voice gentled even more than usual. “Son, I know you’re worried right now, about all of us, and there’s good reason for it. But please, you have to call Lee.”

Violet slipped from the room.

The scent of coffee filled the kitchen. The carafe held about ten cups, kept warm on the coffeemaker’s hot plate. Surely he didn’t plan on drinking all of it. As Belinda had said, a key ring sprawled on the counter, only a few keys and a knife. Violet scooped them up and held them against her thigh to muffle the jingle.

Now to stash them. She stood in the center of the kitchen and pivoted a slow circle. Hmm.

She tugged open the lower oven drawer. Like Mom, Belinda stored her cookie sheets down here. Violet leaned down.

“What’re you doing?”

She jolted upright. The keys hit her foot and bounced to the floor with a condemning clink.

Marcus’s gaze bored into hers, traveled down to the keys, then back to her. His chest rose with a deep breath. Something crinkled between his eyes, some certainty or decision.

“What are you doing?” He took a step into the room and seemed to fill it.

“I— I— I—”

“Who sent you?”

He knew. He could probably see her heart hammering through her shirt. Come on, girl, think. She couldn’t.

Another step, closer to her, his shoe almost soundless on the tile. Scents of him crowded too close—soap, wood, and clean sweat. She backed into the corner of the counter. Dead end. Literally. Because he knew it all, everything she’d done, and he was a Christian. The only reasonable thing for him to do was to kill her.