Betwixt Two Hearts (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  In the end, he had been the one to leave her. It wasn’t as if she’d abandoned him. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do anymore. Not like she could physically restrain him to keep him from walking out of her life, leaving nothing but broken dreams in his wake.

  Caroline was ready for a change. Needed a change. As the South Korean landscape zoomed into focus, her heart reached out for a shred of hope. Not hope that her husband would come to his senses and accept Christ as his Savior. Not even hope that God would work on Calvin’s heart and lead the two of them toward reconciliation.

  Right now, all she had left to hope for was that he’d leave her in peace. He obviously hated being married to a Christian, and since Caroline’s conversion was the most real thing that had happened to her in her adult life, their marriage had arrived at an impossible impasse.

  If Calvin wanted out, she couldn’t stop him.

  The thought brought a rush of relief she hadn’t felt in months.

  Drisklay jerked awake and wiped the drool off his cheek. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen asleep at his desk, but no matter how often it happened, he never quite got over the few seconds of disorientation when he woke up.

  He reached for his Styrofoam cup. Empty.

  Great. He glanced at the clock.

  “Alexi!” he bellowed.

  His partner rushed over and slapped him on the back. “Long night, eh, boss?”

  Drisklay scowled and muttered, “Just sleeping off that last pot of coffee.”

  Alexi tried to hand him a jumbo cup. “Yeah, I figured you’d need to refuel, so I picked you up a mocha.”

  Drisklay stared, ignoring the sound of a few of his coworkers sniggering in the background. Alexi had been transferred to his unit a month earlier, long enough that he should know better than to offer Drisklay something as disgusting as a sugar-ridden mocha.

  The nerve.

  Drisklay stared Alexi down until his partner slunk away, frou-frou cup in hand.

  Drisklay shuffled papers around on his desk, waiting for his brain to realize it was already morning.

  A minute later, his partner returned, a penitent look on his face as he held out a Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee. “Long night?”

  Drisklay grunted his reply and turned back to his notebook. He needed the caffeine, but he wasn’t thinking about that right now. Right now, he was still thinking about that pastor’s daughter. Something didn’t fit. He was overlooking something.

  Something important.

  He downed a large gulp, wincing as the liquid scalded the back of his throat.

  He was going to find this murderer.

  And stop this criminal madness before anybody else ended up dead.

  Caroline hadn’t realized how long it would take just to get through customs. She was ready with her passport, but when the agent asked for the phone number and address of her contact in South Korea, she’d had to pull up her inbox on her phone and stand there in the front of the line scrolling through dozens of emails she’d exchanged with Mrs. Cho. In the end, she could only find the orphanage phone number. She gave it to the agent then used the public address listed on the Korea Freedom website, hoping he wouldn’t recognize it as a business instead of a place of residence.

  Finally, she was on the curb, mentally repeating the number of the bus she was supposed to take, wondering if it would be easier to hail a cab.

  “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you one last time.”

  Caroline turned to find herself staring down into Grandma Lucy’s smiling face. The two women had traveled together through the terminal, with Caroline helping wheel Grandma Lucy’s small carry-on, but they’d been directed into separate lines at customs and lost track of each other.

  “The Lord is always faithful to bring his children together, isn’t he?” Grandma Lucy crooned as if she and Caroline had been separated for years and not an hour.

  “I’d like you to meet my grandson and his wife.” Grandma Lucy beamed up at a tall redheaded man with a confident twinkle in his expression. “This is a good friend of mine,” she told him. “We met on the flight over.”

  He chuckled and stretched out his hand. “Why am I not surprised to hear that Grandma Lucy made a friend on the plane?” He stood with his arm around a young woman with long brown hair. She was pretty and quite obviously pregnant. All the while, Grandma Lucy stood by, beaming broadly.

  Caroline tried to overcome her mental fog to think of something to say to the family, but the red-haired grandson was too quick. “This one’s ours,” he announced, and Caroline felt herself breathing a sigh of relief as he helped his wife and grandma board the bus. She usually wasn’t afraid of chitchat, but something about her previous encounter with Grandma Lucy made her feel on edge. It was a sensation she’d experienced before and one that was particularly unwelcome here.

  Early on in her Christian life, Caroline and her husband had come to the tacit agreement that he wouldn’t harp on her quite so much if she limited her church going to just Sunday mornings, so Caroline needed to find alternate ways to nourish her spirit that didn’t involve darkening the doors of a church. Instead of joining Sandy’s ladies’ Bible study or attending weeknight prayer meetings, she poured herself into Christian books and podcasts, things she could read or listen to only when Calvin wasn’t home to overhear.

  Most of these resources were invaluable, exactly what Caroline had needed. In her early days as a new believer, she’d been so eager to soak up whatever Bible teaching and spiritual encouragement she could find. But lately, she’d noticed something from even some of her favorite podcasts. A hint of guilt. A sense that if she were a better Christian, she wouldn’t be struggling the way she was.

  Like the blog post Caroline had read where an anonymous woman related her desperation after being married to an unrepentant unbeliever for over three decades. The article itself was heartfelt, echoing Caroline’s own discouragement and despair. But the comments… Caroline had spent the afternoon crying and had finally called Sandy to talk through how upset they’d made her.

  “These women act like if your husband’s not saved, you must be the one preventing God from working,” she complained. “They take one or two Bible verses and make out like it’s my fault that Calvin still doesn’t believe.”

  The other line was so quiet that at first Caroline wondered if she’d lost the call.

  Then Sandy simply said, “Some people really are idiots, aren’t they?”

  The words were so surprising coming from her pastor’s wife that Caroline didn’t know if she should laugh or just cry harder.

  As it turned out, Caroline had repeated Sandy’s spontaneous and somewhat irreverent remark to herself on more than one occasion since then. Even though at the time it had shocked her out of her despair, it never fully took away the pain of knowing that some people blamed her for her marriage’s failure.

  As if she had any choice in the matter.

  As if she hadn’t tried everything in her power, begging God and heaven to intervene, to save both her husband and her marriage.

  Some people really are idiots, aren’t they? Even now, while her bus pulled to a stop by the crowded airport curbside, Caroline smiled to herself at the words.

  It didn’t take away the slight unease she’d felt meeting Grandma Lucy. It didn’t change the fact that some Christians would consider her a failure.

  Caroline boarded the bus, pleasantly surprised to discover it nicely air conditioned, and found a window seat so she could watch the city skyline loom into view. She put her bag on her lap, still smiling to herself at her memory of that phone conversation with Sandy. Some people really are idiots…

  It didn’t change the fact that her marriage was dead. It didn’t change the fact that some people still would blame her for not being a perfect wife and a perfect witness to Calvin as if all her marital woes were her fault and no one else’s.

  But as long as Caroline could remember what her pastor’s wife taught her, as l
ong as she could remember that some people really were idiots, she was going to be all right.

  Everything was going to work out in the end. She just had to find a way to hold on without losing her mind or her faith until then.

  Drisklay led the dead woman’s parents into the sparse room and set his Styrofoam cup on the table between them. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the worn couch.

  Mr. Harrison looked at his wife, and they both sat in silent unison.

  “I’d like to express my condolences regarding your loss.” The words rolled off Drisklay’s tongue. Practiced and rehearsed. How many times had he led victims’ families into this very room, sat them down on this very couch, and opened his interview with this exact line? Sometimes he’d even caught criminals this way. Figured out when a story or an alibi didn’t line up, at which point the bereaved family member turned into a suspect, prepped to transport to the far less comfortable interrogation room.

  Drisklay took a sip of cold coffee and nodded toward the pastor. “Is it okay if I record this?”

  Harrison glanced again at his wife, and they both nodded together. Sitting next to each other, they looked as if they could have been twins.

  Disgusting. And more than a little disturbing.

  Drisklay hated preachers on principle even before his wife was won over by Bible thumpers. All preachers wanted was your money, and they’d use hell and damnation and any other scare tactic to get it.

  Sick people.

  He took one more swig from his cup, gulping loudly, then decided he’d start with the woman. The mother.

  “What can you tell me about Rebekah?” He kept his voice gruff, having learned from years of experience that if you let softness or compassion seep into your words, even just a little, you’d have the victims’ loved ones blubbering. Drisklay glanced at the box of Kleenex on the side table, hoping the janitor had remembered to make sure it was full, then leaned forward, waiting for the woman’s answer.

  Mrs. Harrison glanced toward her husband, who gave the slightest nod.

  “She was always a good girl,” the mother began.

  Drisklay clasped his hands in front of him, trying to come across like the kind of detective who has all the time in the world. Without staring straight into her eyes and making her uncomfortable, he kept his eyes focused mostly on her earrings, glancing every so often at her pupils, the biological lie detectors, nature’s gift to detectives.

  “She never gave us any trouble.” So far, Mrs. Harrison was telling the truth. Or at least she wasn’t deliberately making stuff up. Typical of any mother, whether that of the victim or the criminal. Always thinking the best about her children. Never willing to admit what kind of danger they might be willfully putting themselves into or what kind of deranged crimes they might be willing to commit.

  Mrs. Harrison was wringing her hands together, and to avoid the mess of having to deal with a complete meltdown, Drisklay turned toward the husband. The pastor.

  “What can you tell me about her friends?”

  On cue, the couple shared another glance, and the pastor took his wife’s hand. “She kept to herself, mostly. Quiet. Had some kids she graduated with that she kept up with occasionally.”

  “I thought she was homeschooled,” Drisklay interrupted.

  Mrs. Harrison straightened her back and offered the first comment of the interview that hadn’t been preceded by a conjugal glance. “She was part of a homeschool co-op through our church.”

  The church. It figured.

  “Any particularly close friends you think I should talk to?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Harrison glanced at each other, all four of their eyebrows arched in matching question marks.

  “Maybe Misty?” Mrs. Harrison suggested.

  “Or Katie.”

  Drisklay already had an interview with Misty scheduled but decided to get the second girl’s last name and jot it down in his notebook before moving to his next question. “Boyfriend?”

  At the word, the pastor stiffened his spine, and Drisklay noted with marked attention the way his wife gave his hand a firm squeeze. She looked Drisklay straight in the eyes, the first time she’d met his stare straight-on, and answered, “No.”

  The word fell flat, but at the sound of it, her husband visibly relaxed.

  Interesting.

  Drisklay leaned forward. “You are both aware, aren’t you, that your daughter had a profile up on a dating website, correct?”

  His question was met with icy, palpable silence.

  “You were both aware, I assume?” he prodded.

  Mrs. Harrison nodded. “Yes, Rebekah told her father and me that she’d made herself a profile. I researched it online, and it looked respectable. A nice way to find young Christian men her age. I thought it was a good idea…”

  Her husband tensed, and Mrs. Harrison stopped her breathy discourse, biting her lip and staring nervously at her hands.

  “I take it you also were aware then of her activities online?” Drisklay asked the father.

  Harrison knitted his brows and answered curtly, “Yes.” He leaned forward intensely. “Now, officer, what can you tell me about my daughter’s murder, and what are you doing to bring her killer to justice?”

  It was at that point Drisklay knew the interview was over. Not surprising, really. Better to end the meeting early than risk further alienating the bereaved parents. He’d need more help from them later on, and it was in his best interest to keep them as cooperative as possible.

  Pleasantries were exchanged. Thanks given and received. More apologies, condolences for their daughter’s death, regrets for the inconvenience of a police interview.

  Drisklay shook both Mr. and Mrs. Harrison’s hands in turn. The pastor’s grip was firm and confident, hers weak and feeble. As Harrison led his wife out the door and down the hall, it looked as if he were supporting the bulk of her weight.

  Drisklay let out a deep breath.

  “Get anywhere with them, boss?” Alexi asked, materializing by the open door.

  Drisklay shook his head.

  “Think they’re involved at all?”

  Drisklay didn’t bother to answer. Something was going on here. He’d have to keep focusing on this family, but for now, there were other interviews to conduct.

  His partner was still standing stupidly next to him, like a twelve-year-old kid totally ignorant of the concept of initiative.

  “Is the friend here?” Drisklay snapped.

  Alexi jerked to attention. “Misty? Yeah. You ready for her?”

  “I’m ready.” Drisklay thrust his empty cup into his partner’s hands. “Get me a refill and lead her back.”

  Alexi stared at the empty cup. “You want creamer or sugar or…” He stopped mid-sentence and spun on his heel in response to Drisklay’s glare.

  “Be right back,” he muttered, and Drisklay paced the hallway while he waited to interview the dead girl’s best friend.

  Heavy rain started to pour just minutes after Caroline locked herself into her small hotel room. Thankful to be buffered from the traffic and city noise, she welcomed the pounding drops splattering against the windowpane.

  Something about the rain reminded her of that Halloween night. How many years ago was it now? Twenty-five? Maybe more. Calvin would remember. They hadn’t talked about it since it happened, but he still remembered. She was certain of that.

  When it came right down to it, that night was what had changed everything. Calvin was never the same after that. Neither was their marriage.

  Which was why it was stupid of her husband to blame her conversion for their troubles. Had he forgotten all the stress they endured even before she was saved?

  She tried to ignore the rain and plopped her suitcase onto the bed. She’d lost track of how many hours she’d been awake at this point, but it was probably close to twenty-four if not already more.

  Calvin would never change, his constitution as steady as the rain pounding on the roof. He was the same stubborn, cynical
man who’d come home broken that Halloween. It was the last time she’d seen her husband cry. It was as if that one night had opened his eyes to just how tragic the world could be, and he’d vowed to harden himself so his work could never affect him in that way again.

  Maybe it was the right call for a police officer. Maybe it was what anyone else would have done in his situation. But it also spelled the death of any remnants of closeness, love, or romance between them.

  How do you develop any sense of intimacy with a man who’s shielded himself from all emotion whatsoever?

  Caroline’s conversion wasn’t what broke their marriage. Their doom had been written out decades ago, on a rainy night just like this. All of it—Calvin’s unhappiness, his cynicism, his inability to express or receive love in any meaningful way—boiled down to that one pouring evening.

  Caroline left her suitcase half unpacked on the bed and stretched out on the mattress, covering her ears with the pillow.

  She hated the sound of the rain.

  Drisklay didn’t like the look of Rebekah Harrison’s best friend from the moment Alexi led her into the interview room. Misty slouched in a vain attempt to conceal her six-foot-tall height. She was young, only twenty, and yet she was as bent over as Drisklay’s grandma had been at seventy-five.

  Her hand was sweaty when she agreed to shake his, and her voice held a high-pitched nasal quality that made Drisklay want to offer her an entire box of Kleenex.

  Her clothing was drab, and she picked at the fuzz on her checkered knee-length skirt when she sat down.

  “Misty, thank you for being here today.”

  Her expression didn’t change. Her look was one of both fear and painfully debilitating shyness.

  He forced himself to smile. “How are you doing?”

  She sniffed and didn’t answer.

  Drisklay nudged the Kleenex box closer to her. “You were Rebekah Harrison’s best friend.” He hoped the statement would open her locked jaw, but this must not have been his lucky day. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he added automatically.