A shudder seized Violet. “Not all of them.”
“I’ll admit, if you were a grown man, Marcus might have rounded your jaw. But he would never raise a hand to you.”
“He was really mad. Really extremely mad.”
“He’s dog-tired, and he’s grieving.”
Grieving? Seriously? Belinda made it sound as if Violet had sentenced all those people to death. All they had to do was cooperate, and they’d be free again in a few months.
Belinda glanced toward the kitchen and sighed. “That’s as much as I can say. But I’m sorry he made you feel unsafe. That wasn’t right of him.”
This wasn’t a role Belinda had shrugged into. Her eyes held the same wide honesty they’d offered for the last day and a half. This was truth. Violet shut her eyes, and that breathless second hit her again, the collision of Marcus’s arm and her stomach as he hefted her off her feet with no effort at all.
Faint words bubbled out of her, some deep well inside that didn’t want to understand and couldn’t help understanding. “He’s a Christian?”
“No question about it.”
“But you’re sure he won’t hurt me.”
“Violet, the Christians I’ve met—the real ones—they don’t hate. They love, or they try to. And most of them do it real well.”
Violet stood up and pushed back from the table. Possibilities congealed in her chest until breathing took effort. Christians—some of them, at least—might be safe, loving people.
“I texted a con-cop with addresses. The church, Marcus’s church. And that woman’s house. Penny.”
Belinda’s steepled hands retreated to her lap. “You took their freedom from them.”
I took their freedom. Violet tasted the words, swallowed them, and their rottenness choked her all the way down. But she’d done it for the good of others. Christians having freedom was dangerous. History had proved that, just look at her school textbooks. She backed away from the table, from the circle of lamplight that hung on an antique chain from the ceiling, from the first hint of warmth in Belinda’s eyes since Violet had tried to sprint for the door.
“I would have texted your address too, but Marcus took my phone battery.”
Belinda nodded.
“Khloe doesn’t know.”
Another nod. Stop that, say something.
“Her dad, he knows Marcus, he’s a Christian too, and I thought … I thought it was the right thing to do.”
Belinda’s hands reemerged. She folded them and grounded them on the table, arms half-reaching toward Violet. “What do you think now?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a start.”
Maybe she should apologize for good measure, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sorry. Not entirely, not yet.
Not yet. As if she would be in the future. What’s happening to my brain?
“Belinda?” From the living room, Wren’s voice pierced the pause.
Belinda pressed her hands against her forehead. They lowered a second later. “Not a word of this to Wren, now. She needs to stay calm. She doesn’t want to believe it, but she’ll be holding her little one by morning.”
21
“Mr. Hansen, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I was just looking for, um, for Violet.”
Clay wasn’t freaked out, he was mad. The kid had almost arm-locked him. Adrenaline pulsed through his body and turned his heart into a jackhammer. He inhaled the cool, calming night.
“You’re trespassing.”
“I’m sorry, but is Violet here?”
“You know Violet?” And you’re looking for her at my residence, why?
“From Elysium, sure. She’s in my small group. A great kid.” Austin’s eyes darted to one side.
Oh, no way. The blast of adrenaline and anger turned hot in Clay’s veins, then cold. He gripped the young man’s arm and steered him to the porch and shoved him down onto the first step.
“How old are you?”
Austin rubbed his bare arms as if a breeze had picked up, but the air around them remained still.
“For all intents and purposes, I’m that girl’s father. I’m recommending you tell me the truth.”
“I’m twenty-one.”
Austin’s shirt was balled in Clay’s fist before either of them took a next breath. He jerked the kid forward, half off his feet. “Have you touched her?”
Austin’s fingers pried at Clay’s. “It’s nothing like that, Mr. Hansen.”
“Oh, is that why you’re tapping on my window at twelve-something in the morning, because it’s nothing like that? You feed me more crap and I’ll shove it down your throat, Delvecchio.”
“Violet is a thoughtful, introspective person.”
“She’s also seventeen years old.” And she’s starving for love her parents can’t be bothered to give her. “And if you have so much as thought about—”
“I haven’t. I haven’t.”
Clay breathed. Released the kid’s shirt. Stepped back. Austin tugged at his collar, and his eyes darted toward the street, then fastened on Clay.
“I was hoping Violet would be here. She occasionally slips out this window to meet me, after Khloe’s asleep. A few times, she’s let me in.” He lifted both hands before Clay could charge. “We talk, Mr. Hansen. About philosophy. And, yes, about what we’ll do when she turns eighteen.”
“Get off my lawn and do not come back.”
“Do you know where she is? I don’t think her parents do, but that didn’t worry me.”
“Violet’s fine.”
Miles above the motionless night air, a cloud shifted and bared the moon. Austin tilted his head, and a shadow appeared between his eyebrows.
“You don’t know, either, do you? Is Khloe home?”
Promote a smart kid too young, and all you breed is arrogance. Elysium had done exactly that to Austin: let him lead a teen small group when he’d barely emerged from adolescence himself, given him a group of his own for the Saturday morning Fishers of Friends club. Now this barely legal, scholar wannabe faced Clay down on his own property. A ball of heat rose from the pit of Clay’s stomach.
“If you don’t leave in the next two minutes, I’m calling the cops.”
He said it with all the conviction he could muster, but Austin glanced at the house and crossed his arms. At his wrist, bound there with a black cord, something glittered. A charm … the silver fin of a shark.
“I could call your bluff,” Austin said, “but I’m not sure what that would get me at this point.”
“And I could call you a liar.” Because Violet collected ocean charms. Because Violet held onto her heart, yet this guy merited a gift. Or a pledge.
Austin sighed and backed away. “Call me whatever you want, Mr. Hansen. Violet likes me. Violet talks to me. Violet asks me what to do when she finds out someone she knows is practicing illegal beliefs.”
Clay’s hands turned to ice. If not for the dark, Austin would see the pallor invade his face. Better hit him. Better make a point. But the ice traveled up his arms, down his legs.
“If Khloe acquainted herself with some Christians, like maybe the ones from that busted meeting two nights ago, how would you know? But you would. Parents always figure that kind of stuff out. I still don’t know how they do it, but they do.”
Clay pulled his phone from his pocket, showed Austin the keypad, and pressed 9.
“Which is why you won’t finish dialing.”
Who was this kid? The palms-up pleading from minutes ago had vanished, a stripped veneer. Clay pressed 1.
“No worries, I’m leaving. See you tomorrow.” Austin turned and loped across the grass.
Clay didn’t pocket his phone until Austin’s car had pulled away and not returned for ten minutes. He slipped back into the house, locked and dead-bolted the
door. Tomorrow. Right. Fishers of Friends day at Elysium. If Clay missed it now, Austin might congratulate himself on his intimidation technique. Might analyze this situation further. Clay couldn’t haunt his own house, waiting for Violet and Khloe to skip up the driveway. He had to go … to church.
Irony in real life.
22
Violet padded barefoot down the upstairs corridor, past doors and doors and doors painted antique white. None of the knobs matched, but all of them held a dark, obsolete finish. Or maybe that wasn’t a finish at all but rather the metal underneath, exposed by generations of hands. The night light at the far end cast her stick figure shadow on the ivory wall to her left. Ahead on the right was her room. Khloe’s room. The one room in this house where she belonged. She should’ve sneaked in an hour ago, shaken Khloe awake, and confessed her dilemma. But her hand refused to reach for the doorknob. Her feet refused to shuffle inside.
She should go back to Wren’s room at the far end of the hallway. She should watch and listen and make sense of these people. Anyway, if she didn’t go back soon, Belinda’s head would pop into view—“Don’t go far”—then vanish back into the room. House arrest for a spy was understandable, but Belinda must have decided on room arrest.
Violet paused in front of an antique clock that hung at eye level. She touched the weighted pendulum, and dust speckled her palm. When she released it, it hung there, swinging a bit from the motion of her hand but not enough to run the clock. She pulled it to one side and let go. Restart.
She turned around and walked the wood floor like a plank. She paused at Wren’s door. It cracked open to leak light and sound.
“Not here.” Wren’s voice wafted through the crack.
“Sugar, you know it’s going to be here. You know it’s got to be here.”
“No. I don’t want …”
Violet’s fingers curled around her charm bracelet until it left indentations across each one, a starfish arm gouged here, a fish tail there, a rounded placeholder bead there. “I don’t want …” Words her own mom might have said as she labored to give Violet breath.
“If it’s here, you get to keep him. Think on that.”
What was Belinda talking about?
Violet peered through the crack in the door. Wren lay on her side, knees tucked in. The pale pink nightgown strained tight over her belly, and only her feet poked from under the hem. Belinda perched near the head of the bed in an oak rocking chair. One of her hands was woven with Wren’s, a white and black finger braid.
“Maybe Lee’s on her way right now.”
Wren stretched her legs and her back. “If there’s something wrong, when he comes. If he needs a hospital.”
“Don’t go thinking that way, sugar.”
“I don’t want to lose him.” Wren rested a hand on her stomach and closed her eyes.
So that was how she ended the sentence. Mom wouldn’t have. “I don’t want to keep her. I want to give her up.” Everyone had stories from their childhood, and this one was Violet’s. She’d been hearing it since she was old enough for language. “But you were a good baby, Violet. I never regretted keeping you.” Wren already wanted her baby.
Movement from Violet’s peripheral vision jolted her to face the hallway, almost bumping the door open with her elbow. Marcus headed toward her, followed by a thin woman in dark green scrubs. She carried a bulging leather laptop case over her shoulder. Or a medical bag, maybe. This was obviously the nurse.
“Lee, this is Violet,” Marcus said.
Lee’s gaze measured her up and down, searching for something. After a moment, she nodded. Either this woman was an icicle to everyone she met, or Marcus had told her everything. Betting on the second option.
Lee moved like water around both of them and into Wren’s room. Violet’s gaze collided with Marcus’s and locked. Behind her, voices filtered through the door.
“You’re Lee? Oh, praise Jesus, praise Jesus for you, ma’am.”
“I need to examine you.” A latex glove snapped.
“It’s good you’re here.” Relief eased the stress from Belinda’s voice. “They’re coming about six minutes apart right now.”
“My baby, how is he, ma’am?”
Marcus didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact. His voice came quietly. “Why did you do it?”
Shouldn’t be hard to guess.
“Did they threaten you?”
She should say yes. Make the con-cops out to be their common enemy. But everything Belinda had said ping-ponged around in her head. She’d lied enough to these people. She shook her head, and Marcus continued to study her.
Lee’s voice came from behind her. “The heartbeat is strong.”
“Praise Jesus.” Wren’s words caught on a sob.
“Remain calm, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Marcus sighed, tried to rub his eyes, but his fingers only splayed over his face.
“Are you going home now?” Violet said.
His hand lowered to his side. His eyes narrowed at her.
Heat rushed into her cheeks. He thought she was probing for information. Well, of course he did. “You look tired, that’s all. That’s why I asked.”
He turned and trudged toward the stairs.
“Are you leaving?”
No response, no pause. She didn’t dare get in his way, but he might fall asleep halfway home and hurt somebody. She barged into Wren’s room and froze. Wren lay on her back, knees bent and legs spread. Her nightgown was pushed up to bare her body from the waist down.
Belinda was nodding to Lee as the nurse recited some list. “… shower curtain, plastic garbage bags, and—”
“Marcus,” Violet said.
Lee’s gray eyes flashed toward her.
Belinda leaned forward in the rocking chair. “My heavens, did he start the coffee again?”
“No, I think he’s leaving, right now.”
By the end of Violet’s sentence, Lee was halfway to the door.
“I’ll handle him, Lee.” Belinda pulled herself to her feet. “You stay put.”
“He won’t listen to you.”
“Him and me, we’ve come a long way these last few months. I know how to talk him down.”
Lee stripped off her glove so fast it turned inside out. She tossed it onto the dresser as she left.
As if just realizing Violet’s presence, Wren tugged the nightgown down over her thighs. She pushed up on her elbows and tried to roll to her side. “I think Lee’s right, it’s easier when I’m not on my back.”
“Let me help you, sugar.” Belinda rushed forward.
Violet backed toward the door. Not belonging here was an understatement. Half down the hallway, she was frozen by Wren’s alarmed voice.
“Belinda?”
“Ooh.” The little sound quivered.
Violet rushed back. Belinda sat on the floor beside the bed, ashen-faced. Bloody fluid smeared the white sheet under Wren. Belinda must have gotten a glimpse.
“Belinda.” Violet crouched in front of her. “Are you sick?”
“Blood,” she whispered.
“I know, but are you okay?”
Belinda put a trembling hand to her own forehead as if checking for a fever. “Once I fainted.”
Awesome. Violet bolted up and out of the room. A sleep-deprived guy really shouldn’t rank on a nurse’s priority list. Not compared to a woman in labor and a woman ready to faint. She padded downstairs and tried to listen for their voices. Words drifted from the kitchen, taut and low. Marcus.
“That’s not what this is.”
“It would be understandable,” Lee said.
“I don’t want a drink. I want to fix this.”
Something clattered against the counter. Violet should barge into their conversation now, before Belinda passed out up
stairs. But if they were about to discuss resistance secrets …
“You said yourself he isn’t in immediate danger until he re-enters Michigan, and that won’t happen tonight.”
Keys jingled. Must be the keys Violet was supposed to stash. She shuddered.
Lee’s voice came again, still impassive. “How long have you been awake?”
Silence.
She released a quiet sigh. “Marcus. Please.”
Only a step away from the doorway, only inches from their sight, Violet pressed against the cool wall. This conversation wasn’t revealing anything. A count to ten, and then she’d interrupt. One …
“It wasn’t me.” Marcus’s voice barely reached her.
“If you’re referring to your intimidation of a teenage girl—”
“No. It wasn’t me. That they were using.”
A floorboard creaked. The cuckoo clock chirped five times. Good grief, the sun would be up soon.
“You believed it was,” Lee said quietly.
“Everything I did, the last three days, I knew—any day, any minute. They’d take me and …”
“You were wrong.”
“I know, but I—I can’t stop. Feeling it.”
“You are … afraid?” She spoke the words as if they didn’t belong together.
“I—” Trembling shattered the big man’s voice. “Lee. I can’t sleep.”
Nine. Ten. The silence kept ticking.
Something Violet couldn’t name existed between all these people, Marcus and Lee and Belinda and Wren. They shared a camaraderie that only grew from fighting the world itself and winning together, from knowing what could send each other to prison and not fearing the other’s knowledge. She peeked around the corner.
The growling grizzly was bowed over, elbows on the counter, head in his hands. Lee stood at his side. Care pulled her mouth, and her hand hovered at his back. But she lowered it without touching him.
Marcus shuddered hard. “I lost them.”
“You’re not to blame.”
“I keep losing more of them.”
Found and Lost Page 13
