Too Close to Home (37 page)
Instead, he pulled away. Sat back and smiled as she slowly opened her eyes.
An answering smile crept across her face and she said, “Well, that was . . . unexpected.”
“But?”
“But . . . nice.”
“Nice?” He pretended to be wounded. “Nice? I guess I’m going to have to work on my technique.”
Samantha threw back her head and laughed, then stared him down. “I’ll be glad to give you plenty of opportunity to work on that.” She reached up and cupped his cheek. “I need to tell you something.”
He stopped her with a finger on her lips. “Tell me in a little while.”
Her eyes said she understood, and she cranked the car to head to the little storage business about five miles up the street from his neighborhood. She pulled through the gate and around to the number he’d given her.
“I’ll wait here.”
Already he could feel the knot in his throat and wondered if he was ready for this. Her hand covered his and he looked up, not bothering to hide the tears that welled there.
“Go. God is with you. Lean on him. Cry on his shoulder. Trust him.”
Without a word, Connor opened the door and stepped out. Punched in the code to lift the garage door.
And there it was.
Andrew’s sleek little red Corvette.
Connor fingered the key in his pocket and pulled in a deep breath. Instead of going around to the driver’s door, he went to the other side.
Pulling the door open, he slid in the passenger seat and . . . inhaled. The scent of Andrew’s favorite aftershave assaulted him. Tears flooded his eyes.
Oh God, I can’t do this! He was like my brother, God. Why . . .
Please . . .
Deep breath.
Samantha’s words came back to him.
God is with you. Lean on
him. Cry on his shoulder.
Connor opened the glove compartment.
And saw the envelope sitting on top of the “About Your Car” book. Saw his name written in Andrew’s neat, tight scrawl.
He reached out a hand and with trembling fingers picked up the envelope and opened it.
More of Andrew’s handwriting filled the one page Connor pulled out.
“Dear Connor. I guess if you’re reading this, I’m dead. I know you’re probably missing me, but I have to be honest, I don’t miss you a bit. I’m in heaven walking and talking with Jesus, so, sorry, buddy.”
Connor gave a choked laugh and shook his head. “Ah, Andrew . . .”
He kept reading. “Anyway, in all seriousness, I know if I died during a case, you’d probably blame yourself in some way . . . or God. Connor, if that’s what you’re doing, you’ve got to stop that right now. You know better than anyone, with the exception of Angie, how much I love God. I’m home now. Don’t blame God, don’t blame yourself.”
Connor leaned his head back against the headrest and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, God. I didn’t mean to blame you, but it was easier than blaming myself. And now . . . I guess I can’t even do that after reading this. I do blame Tom Jackson. I don’t know why you don’t take guys like that out before they’re born, but I guess it’s not for me to understand.”
He went back to the letter. “Connor, God loves you so much. I hope one day you come to understand that. I think Samantha’s kind of falling for you too.”
He chuckled out loud. “I hope so, partner.”
“Have faith, Connor. Faith in Samantha, faith in Jenna, faith in yourself. But most importantly, have faith in God. He won’t let you down. I love you, my friend. I pray for you for peace that passes all understanding. I’d put in a good word for you up here, but it doesn’t work that way. It’s up to you, Connor. I love you, my friend. You’ve been the brother I never had. Thanks for looking after Angie as I know you will. Hang in there, partner, and give God the chance he deserves. I’ll see you soon, as life on earth is a mere blink of the eye to the One who holds it all in his palm. Andrew.”
But there was more. “P.S. Let Jenna drive the Vette. It’s just a car. Material things don’t mean squat compared to the spiritual stuff. Be sure to tell her to be careful, though.”
Connor folded the letter, holding on to his composure.
He felt a hand fall on his shoulder and looked up to see Samantha staring down at him. “Are you okay?”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Yes. I think so. Or at least I will be.”
“Race you home?” She quirked a brow at him, and he laughed, stood and pulled her into his arms.
“I love you, Sam.”
“I love you too, Connor.”
“Andrew’s watching all this and laughing his head off at me, you realize this, don’t you?”
“Well, that’s heaven for you. No tears or sorrow allowed.”
He turned serious, but didn’t let her go. “Yeah, that’s heaven. But I have to admit, I think God’s blessed me with a little slice of heaven on earth.”
“You think?”
“Oh yeah.” He leaned down and placed his lips against hers . . .
. . . and thanked God for loving him so much that he was willing to die for him . . .
. . . and to give him a woman like Samantha to live out the rest of his days with.
God is faithful.
The Hero snapped open the newspaper—and nearly choked on his chicken sandwich.
He pulled the paper closer to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
They weren’t.
She was alive.
What? How was that possible?
It wasn’t. He knew that.
And yet—there she was. Smiling broadly and holding a diploma?
Sandwich forgotten, he scanned the article.
Jamie Cash, a doctor?
He tossed the paper aside and walked down to his basement. Bypassing the terrified young woman stretched out on the cot across the room, hands bound beneath her, he went straight to his safe. Her eyes never left him. He’d have to get rid of her tonight. If the newspaper article was true, he had pressing business to take care of.
Three twists later, he pulled out his most treasured possession.
The Book.
Opening it, he flipped through to number twelve.
And there she was.
He’d taken twelve pictures of her because she was number twelve.
He flicked a glance in the direction of his latest. She turned her head when he met her eyes—and screamed.
Number seventeen. He still needed six pictures of her.
Number twelve drew his attention back to The Book. She’d been his favorite. Out of all of them, she stood out in his memory the most. She’d fought him the hardest—and screamed the loudest.
And she’d lived even after he’d killed her.
Or thought he’d killed her.
Jamie Cash.
Beautiful Jamie.
Number twelve.
He slapped the book closed. Picked up the knife.
And cut his fun short.
Literally.
Holding the blade under the running water, he watched the red liquid swirl down the drain as he remembered back to the moment he met Jamie. Anticipation filled him as he slid the knife back into its proper place.
Slowly, methodically, he dried his hands.
Now, to find Jamie and finish what he’d started a little over ten years ago. He smiled.
Let the fun begin.
Thank you to Jesus who answered my prayers and allowed my dreams to come true. I pray I always walk in accordance with the plans You have for me. I pray You are visible on each and every page.
Thanks to my agent, Tamela Murray, for all your wonderful, uplifting encouragement and hard work in seeing this book come to pass. Your faithfulness and integrity mean the world to me!
Thank you to my editor, Andrea Doering, who took a chance on a semi-newbie . . . LOL . . . and believed in the story and me. It’s a pleasure to work with you!
Thanks to all the computer geniuses at crimescenewriter—you guys were never too busy to answer my computer questions. If anyone notices any errors in the computer stuff, it’s totally my fault.
Thank you, Officer Jim Hall, fellow ACFWer and Carolina Christian Writer, for telling me how to get all my “cop stuff” right. I would have been sorely embarrassed if you hadn’t fixed all my police procedural mistakes. I look forward to seeing your book in print one day because you’ve got a kickin’ story—wish I’d thought of it!
Thank you to my family for putting up with me when I’m in writing mode—which is a lot of the time, I know! Thank you for your patience and understanding—and the willingness to eat out A LOT! And thank you to my parents, Lewis and Lou Jean Barker, and in-laws, Bill and Diane Eason, who provide kid care so I can write. I couldn’t do it without you and I love you very much.
A special thank-you to my dear sweet husband who supports me 100 percent, but isn’t sure he wants to read this book because one measly little chapter scared him. (You weren’t supposed to read the end first!)
Thanks to my writing buddies, critique partners, and brain-stormers! To the Brainstorming Authors: Camy Tang, Missy Tippens, Jennifer Hudson Taylor, Pammer James, and Cheryl Wyatt—and Ginny Aiken who was supposed to be there, but couldn’t be. Thanks for your long-distance help! This book is the result of our weekend writers retreat up in the North Carolina mountains. Once I recovered from the altitude sickness, everything we discussed came together and actually made sense. You guys rock. Until next time . . .
Thank you, Dee Henderson, for the time you put into reading and critiquing the book. Thank you so much for your sweet endorsements of my writing. Your mentorship has been such a blessing and your friendship a gift from God. You’ve been a steadfast friend for ten years, and I appreciate you more than you know.
Thanks to Barb Barnes for her superior editing and to Michele Misiak for all of her help with marketing ideas, etc., and for keeping me updated on everything going on!
And a big thank-you to American Christian Fiction Writers and all of you who so helpfully answered research questions. I wish I could name you all.
Lynette Eason
grew up in Greenville, South Carolina. She graduated from the University of South Carolina, Columbia, and then obtained her master’s in education at Converse College. Author of eight inspirational romantic suspense books, she is also a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and Romance Writers of America (RWA). In 1998, Lynette married “the boy next door,” and now she and her husband and two children make their home in Spartanburg, South Carolina.