Flee From Evil (3 page)

Cassandra broke from the sheets that bound her, and clasped them to her breast as though they could protect her. Her heart pounded against the fist at her sternum that held the bedclothes like a shield. Her hand almost moved with the hard beat against bone.

She labored for air and swung her gaze around the darkened room. Not her home. Where was she?

Mom’s. Cassandra’s childhood bedroom. Her pulse slowed, but the breath labored on.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she took in the same furniture, the same walls—the colors she woke to the morning after …

The pictures! They were different. She peered at the comforter over her legs. Different too. She bunched it under her arms and trod down the hall to the living room. Also different. Thank goodness her mother had redecorated after her father’s death that fall. Maybe Mom wanted to escape memories as well.

Cassandra dragged the bedspread across the living room and stubbed her toe with a clatter. Tibo’s cars had been lined up straight out from the wall. Rather than curse the pain the toy pick-up had caused her pinky toe, she grinned at the thought of her sweet little boy and his kooky obsession making straight lines with his belongings.

The vision of her small son’s smile made her muscles release. Her memory traveled to the words of his newest speech therapist who was certain she could improve his language. That was what they all said having heard him mutter what seemed to be full, grammatically mature and contextually appropriate sentences under his breath, only to never be repeated no matter how many times a person asked him to. More was going on in her son’s mind than he was able to display. She knew it. But how to unlock that information was the question no one had the answer to.

After rubbing the appendage that took the hit from the small vehicle, she stretched her comforter over the couch, and doubled back to the blow-up mattress where her son slumbered. Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his warm temple. He stretched and curled again, pulling the sheet from his shoulder. Cassandra lifted the cover to his chin as he cooed in his sleep.

Peace.
It seemed to pour from him and into her. So unlike what she’d seen from other children with autism. She thanked God for that one reprieve, but wondered—as always—if it would last.

Taking Tibo’s gift of calm, She headed back to the living room, snuggled into the brown, microfiber couch, balled into a fetal position under the plush comforter, and sighed.

She thought back to what woke her. Why those dreams tonight? She hadn’t had one in almost eight years. Tim had comforted her through them before, until one day they were no more.

But now, she no longer had Tim to hold her. Only memories of Tim. And memories of … things she didn’t want to remember.

She’d slept in that bedroom a week now, since they moved back. So, why the nightmares tonight?

Images of Vince Steegle slid through her mind, tainting both past and present. Some held hints of hopes she’d had of a future with him, which only proved to be a lie. She needed to shake free, but knew she couldn’t as long as that man was so near.

Could she live here with her mother? She had no other choice. Despite her in-laws vast wealth, there was none available to her. Not for her, nor the children who had called their son Daddy.

There was nowhere to go. No jobs that would allow her the care of a high-maintenance, special-needs child and the bills that came with his therapies. There seemed no options but to live with her mom who could help her watch over Tibo, and give her a place to live at no cost. She glanced at the once diamond ring setting, now sporting a piece of glass fashioned to look like the stone her husband had given her. The means with which she’d paid the remainder of her bills before leaving Philadelphia.

Could her family home be the respite she’d hoped to have for her and her kids? Not if it meant enduring the mention of her mother’s pastor … unless Cassandra told her mother what he really was.

No. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t even speak the words.

Cassandra closed her eyes on a breath and prayed, “Father why have you exchanged good for evil?”

We know that all things work for the good of those who love Him.

Could she believe that? Cassandra knew Tim would.

But after years of finally learning to love her best friend, Tim was now dead.

~*~

Vince swung the pitching wedge and connected with the ball. It lofted to the edge of the circle he’d cut into the field beside the church. He’d have to make his little green larger the next time he brought his mower to the grounds. Couldn’t seem to hit anything today.

“Rough morning?” John sauntered up behind him, and thrust his hands into his navy pants.

Vince nodded.

“Good thing you have this little patch of heaven to help you think.” That’s what Vince had called this field next to Water’s Edge Community. His own back yard wasn’t much more than a postage stamp, so he couldn’t practice chipping there. It was nice to clear his mind this way after a long day. Only this day had just begun.

Vince swatted at another ball in the line. Shank.

John groaned. “She must have been important to you. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you flub a shot like that before.” Evidently, Vince’s reaction to the latecomer yesterday hadn’t escaped John’s notice.

Vince pulled another ball with his club.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Vince shook his head.

“It might help to unload your burdens.”

Vince drew in a breath and leaned on the club. After several heartbeats, he met John’s fatherly gaze. “I know, John. I don’t think I can right now.” He wasn’t sure what he thought or felt. What could he say? He didn’t even want to tell the story since it was only partly his. Telling it would reveal things Cass wouldn’t want known. Could he talk to anyone about it?

“I take it you hurt her pretty bad.”

Vince’s shoulders slumped. He almost dropped the club in the grass.

“I’m sorry, Vince. I didn’t mean to lay more guilt on your shoulders. I just want you to know you can come to me. I won’t judge. I know you’ve been forgiven alrea—”

“Not by Cass.” Vince gasped at his own use of her name. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to reveal it, even though it was obvious John already knew. But to confirm it with his own lips felt like sacrilege.

“She’s Greta Hessing’s daughter. I’ve known Cassandra since she was a little girl.”

That stilled Vince. It hadn’t even dawned on him that this had been Cassandra’s church before it had been his. Now he knew he couldn’t tell John. He felt like an extra heel having hurt a member of the man’s flock.

“She’s a very sweet and caring person.”

More knives turned into his flesh at how he’d victimized someone so good, so vulnerable.

“Her faith has always been strong, even in the hardest of circumstances.” John jangled the change in his pocket. “She’ll forgive you eventually.”

Vince’s head rocked back and forth. His guilt was too thick to penetrate. He pushed out the breath that seemed to strangle him. “I don’t think I could if I were her.”

John dropped a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Let’s just thank God she’s better than you.” He pushed up a little smile that lightened the air around them.

“She is that.” Vince swallowed hard.

John squeezed Vince’s shoulder, leaving him with that fatherly strength before turning back to the building. Vince always loved how John not only knew what to say, but also knew when not to say anything at all. He’d leave Vince in the field to work out his frustration with the golf ball then hash it out later in prayer to his Creator. And if he needed to talk, Vince knew John would listen. Though this was not a story Cass’s childhood pastor should hear.

So for now, the golf balls would know his self-inflicted wrath.

~*~

“I thought I told you to stack the manure bags in the garden center.”

Kevin Perkins’ gaze slid from the paint cans to his supervisor who was full of the stuff himself. “I was just—”

“Don’t mouth me. And no excuses.” The squat man’s left eye twitched when he got excited. “It’s growing season, and we need the garden section stocked.”

Growing season. Kevin peered at the little man’s patch of facial hair. For some reason it made him think of a
growing
fungus. Kevin squeezed his fists tight. He’d like to rip out that weed.

“Excuse me.” A red-haired lady interrupted. “Is there someone who can help me choose paints?”

Kevin shifted to leave.

Squat man’s voice cracked. “Sure. Kevin’ll help you.”

Kevin’s eyes burned like fire. If only they had projectile capability. He plastered a you-know-this-is-a-fake-smile on his face, but it dropped as he got a better look at the woman in front of him—Cassandra Hessing. The girl who thought she was too good for everyone in high school. Too self-righteous with all that religion. But not too self-righteous when it came to dating rich boys.

His gaze dropped to the rock on her finger. That’s right, she married into that pharmaceuticals family. Mega-wealth. Figures. Kevin had heard the guy died. Probably leaving her dripping in dough.

He waited for her to recognize him. Didn’t know why. Not like she ever paid attention to him then. His eyes roamed down the buttons of her blouse and up again. He’d thought about her night and day for at least three years after graduation.

Cassandra’s lashes lifted as he caught her eye. A flicker passed through them. “Did you—?”

“I don’t know why you have to start painting right away. It’s like you’ve been on fire all day.” The older lady next to Cassandra, stared as if waiting for a response.

“Grandma, please …” The tone of the teen girl with them seemed to placate the woman.

A young blond boy palmed every last paint can Kevin had just stacked. “No touch.” He kept repeating the phrase with every contact.

Better not knock them over.

Cassandra tugged him away like she was protecting the boy from Kevin’s heated glare. “He has autism.” Her words came out as if to accuse Kevin of stabbing the kid. So much for happy reunions.

The diamond ring flashed from the florescent lights above as she pulled a curl from her eyes. Her daughter didn’t seem to have inherited much of the curls and none of the red. Coal black. But her blue eyes grabbed him in just the same way Cassandra’s did.

Cassandra shifted. “Can you help us or not?”

Kevin’s attention dropped to the ring again before scanning the high priced outfit and fancy shoes. Reminded him of his ex-wife. Is that what you call the deceased? An ex? Except that woman didn’t come with the hefty bank account. She was better at unloading it. Kevin had taken care of that little fault.

“Sure, what can I do for you?” He made his smile more genuine this time. He could help Cassandra all right—right out of her inheritance. It was the reason Kevin worked the retail establishment. He’d roam the aisles, assisting customers and suggest they hire a professional for their home improvement needs. Oh yes, and he just happened to be that professional. Brilliant, if he did say so himself. A great way to case a house for valuables. He could only imagine the valuables Cassandra possessed.

~*~

Aisles and aisles of paint. Aisles and aisles of lumber. Sophie tugged and redirected Tibo as he twirled and touched things, grinning like the feel of the cold metal cans and shelves brought him relief of some kind.

Grandma had abandoned them long ago to look into the garden section.

Mom charged through rows with the orange-vested guy who’d gone from talking her through paints to promising to give her a reasonable quote for the addition he’d build on the back of Grandma’s house. Sophie didn’t think they’d do that until after Mom finally found a job. But Grandma said she’d foot the bill, and the guy agreed to a payment plan. Mom was hooked.

Something about him gave her the creeps. One minute, Mom was getting all defensive about Tibo. The next he was charming her into a contracting job.

Sophie shuddered.

Finally, they got in the line with a basket full of paints and brushes. But just as the lady in front of them finished paying …

“Oh, I forgot the tape.”

“Mom.” Too late, Mom was down the aisle, beyond hearing. The lady behind Sophie harrumphed.

The cashier—who was hotter than Juan Pablo, the way his blond hair curled around his ear and his T-shirt stretched over his biceps—took the paint brush and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll take it slow.” His wink made her go all silly inside. Searching over the brush, his strong fingers pried off the price sticker, secretly flicking it to the floor under the counter. Giving Sophie a knowing look, he said, “I’ll have to get a price check on this item.”

The woman behind sighed so hard Sophie felt the breath in her hair.

The cashier switched his numbered sign to blink, and gave the brush to another orange-vested employee. “Can you get me a price on this?”

He and Sophie shared a smile as he scanned the other items—carefully. They rang up on the display.

Out of breath, Mom rushed back to the line carrying a roll of blue tape. “Got it.”