by Diane Moody
She held up an empty bottle of wine. “And I tried to drown my guilt away by drinking, but the guilt only grew stronger.”
A moment passed before she tossed the bottle over the rail, and seconds later it crashed on the pavement below.
Peyton stole a quick glance toward Jeff and Cameron, again lifting his hand to signal them to stay put.
“I just couldn’t believe I let him talk me into it. But the deed was done. And then when he disappeared, I knew the day would come when I would have to pay for my sin. And I was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Harley came back to Braxton. That night at the church.”
“The night he was killed?”
“Yes.” She glanced away and paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “He came back to ask me for more money. Harley knew I was given a substantial severance package when my company in San Diego was bought out. I suppose it was just too big a temptation for him. He was smart enough not to go to his house or mine. So he called me from the church. He had his own key, you know, as the florist for the church. He insisted I come meet him there. I’d just gotten back in town from my conference in Chattanooga when he called. I knew he was going to ask for more money, and I made up my mind to stop it once and for all. To tell him I wouldn’t give him another dime.
“Which is exactly what I told him once I got to the church. He’d hidden in that hall area behind the choir loft, back by the baptistry, since there were no windows back there. When I finally found him, I told him right up front that I was done with him. There would be no more money, and if he didn’t go to the authorities, I would.
“But I’d forgotten how devious my brother could be. He told me he’d made a recording of our conversation that night at Braxton House—the night I agreed to let him steal the Braxton Sword. He said if I didn’t give him the money he needed, he would give the recording to Jeff. He would submit it anonymously, and I would be arrested. He needed fifty thousand dollars by the next day, or they would kill him. They’d already ordered a hit on him if the money wasn’t paid.”
She shook her head, clenching her fingers around the lowest railing. “Peyton, I was so angry! I just lost it. I yelled at him and slapped his face and hit him in the chest, and then he hit back, and we kept fighting like that until … until … he was standing on the top step of the baptistry. And then he started to lose his balance …”
Her eyes seemed glazed over, as though she were lost in the scene and reliving it, moment by horrifying moment.
“And then his eyes went wild, and he kept trying to grab me, and I tried to catch him, and he kept pulling at my sleeves … and then … and then …” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “It happened so fast. One minute he was there, and then he wasn’t. And I heard the thud … the snap of his head hitting the back ledge.”
She opened her eyes again, staring out into the night. “I knew immediately he was gone. The angle he hit. The snap I heard. The way his eyes were fixed. I just knew.”
They sat in silence. Peyton could hardly breathe, as if he’d been there too, like a silent witness watching from a darkened corner.
“I killed him, Peyton.”
He put his hand over hers. “You did not kill him. It was an accident, Kathleen. An accident.”
“I might not have pushed him, but my anger killed him. Just as if I had.”
“No, it’s not the same. But why didn’t you call Jeff or 911? Why did you run?”
She scoffed quietly. “No court in this country would find me innocent. I knew that. And I just panicked. I went home, picked up my suitcase where I’d left it, and I took off. I drove all the way back to Chattanooga and checked back in at my hotel. No one would be the wiser.”
He said nothing, simply prayed for the right response to help the broken and wounded soul beside him. A moment later, he put his arm around her shoulder and nudged her to his side.
“You should have just let me be, Peyton. You should have let me jump and just be done with it.”
He leaned his head against hers. “I would never have let you jump. You might have come up here wanting to end this nightmare, but I think God had other plans for you up here. You probably won’t believe this right now, but He loves you. And His heart is aching along with yours. But if you’re sincerely as sorry about all this as I think you are, then just ask for His forgiveness, and it’s yours.”
“No. It’s too late. I’m a lost cause.”
“Well, I have it on good authority that no one is a lost cause in God’s eyes.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll be happy to back it up with more scripture than you can shake a stick at.”
She thought for a moment, her head still resting on his shoulder. “What will happen to me now?”
He waited before answering. “God will forgive you. Completely. But you still have to live with the consequences of your actions. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ll gladly stand in your corner and testify that Harley’s death was an accident.”
“You would?” she asked, lifting her head to face him.
“In a heartbeat.”
A flicker of relief briefly softened her features, though a smile couldn’t quite take shape. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You are most welcome. Now, how about we get off this tower and find us some dry clothes and hot coffee?”
She nodded then took his hand as he helped her stand.
Chapter 40
“You again? Don’t you ever work?”
Tristan’s sarcasm drifted across the partition as a guard seated him at the visiting booth across from Peyton. “Who knew such a busy preacher man could get away so often to visit the brother he put in jail … again.”
“Nice to see you too, Tristan,” he answered with a chuckle.
“Don’t you have some blue-haired biddy in your congregation you need to visit?”
“Not today.”
“No deacons to conspire with or children to indoctrinate?”
“I see your sense of humor is still intact. But if you’ll put a lid on it for half a minute, I’d like to give you some good news.”
Tristan raised his cuffed hands. “Oh hallelujah! Preacher gonna give me the good news from the Word of God!”
Peyton laughed as he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Go ahead. Have your fun. I’ll wait until you’re done.”
Tristan leaned back in his own chair; their postures identical. “Nah. I’m done. I’d do my double-live stand-up album, but frankly, you’re not worth it.”
“Fine by me.”
Peyton jumped as an inmate and his visitor two booths down started screaming at each other. The inmate stood so fast, his chair flew back, and the guards came running. The profanities bounced off the walls of the small room as the guards dragged him away, his visitor shouting graphic threats that followed the inmate out the door. Another guard showed up to escort the angry guest out the visitor’s door.
Peyton looked across at his brother who wore his usual smirk, indifferent to the outburst.
“Just another lovely day here in the county jail. Nice, isn’t it?”
Peyton shook off the interruption and leaned his elbows on the table. “We could enjoy the ambiance for a couple more hours, or I could just tell you what I came to say. So I’ll cut to the chase. There’s been a confession concerning the death of Harley Creech, and you will be cleared and released. There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Tristan’s expression blanked. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Not at all. Sterling is processing the paperwork as we speak, and when that’s done, you’ll be free to go.”
“So help me, Peyton, if this is your idea of a—”
“If I had a Bible, I’d place my hand on it and swear to you that I’m telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Tristan stared him down a moment more, his eyes still narrowed. Then, something akin
to the mother-of-all sighs whooshed from his lungs, quickly followed by the first genuine smile Peyton had seen on his brother’s face in years.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, Tristan. You’re as good as free to go.”
“So who killed him?”
“Turns out the voices you heard that night were Harley’s and his sister Kathleen’s. She’s the curator of Braxton House, our local cultural center. Sharp lady, respectable, the last person I’d ever expect—”
“—to kill someone, as opposed to someone like me?”
“Let it go, Tristan.”
A slow smile returned. “So it was his sister?”
“Yes, but she didn’t actually kill him. They argued, then Harley lost his balance and fell back into the baptistry, snapping his neck on the way down.”
“So it was a sibling after all. They just had the wrong one. You’ve gotta admit, that’s rich.”
“It’s a long story, but turns out she had been complicit in Harley’s theft of a valuable historical artifact. He had a serious gambling addiction, tens of thousands of dollars in debt.”
“Will she go to prison?”
“I’m not sure. Sterling said she could be charged with involuntary manslaughter, but who knows. She’ll definitely have to pay for her involvement in the theft.”
“She’s a friend of yours?”
“Yes, she is.”
“What, did she have some kind of come-to-Jesus meltdown and confess all her sins?”
Peyton shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Can’t be much of a friend if she let them think you were a person of interest.”
“That’s all behind us now.”
“Is it? I wonder if you would have been as quick to forgive if I had been the murderer.”
“You’re forgetting that I told you I believed you were innocent.”
Tristan stared at him for a long moment. “If you’re expecting me to grovel with gratitude for some words you tossed my way while my hands were in cuffs, you can forget it.”
“Tristan!” Peyton shouted, immediately raising a palm to the guard who started toward him. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Tristan leaned back again as the grooves of his smirk etched deeper still on his face.
Peyton took a deep breath and willed himself to keep his temper under control. “Will you never drop this … this facade and just talk to me? Just once, can’t you be yourself? Drop the walls and speak to me, brother to brother?”
Tristan said nothing, just glared at him.
“I’m not naive. I know there’s way too much history between us to ever find our way back to the relationship we had as little kids. But can’t we at least try to find some common ground to start fresh?”
Tristan continued to stare at him, then finally blew out a groan. “I guess that all depends on you. Once—just once—I’d like you to look me in the eye without all your judgment and pious condescension. Without asking your God why, oh why can’t I be more like you?”
“But I never—”
“Just once, Peyton, look at me and accept me for who I am. I’m not a saint, and I’m never gonna be a saint, okay? So don’t try to proselytize me or quote your precious scriptures to me. Just accept me as I am.”
His harsh plea penetrated Peyton’s heart. He knew he’d never harbored any kind of ‘pious condescension’ toward his brother. But judgment? As the word rumbled around his head, he wondered when he’d last thought of his brother without the accompanying criticism for the life he lived or the laundry list of poor choices he’d made? With a sad reckoning, he realized it went back long, long ago to childhood when they’d been just a couple of kids playing ball, riding bikes, and wrestling on the floor of their shared bedroom.
By the time they reached early adolescence, Tristan had already embarked upon a path far different from Peyton’s. He hadn’t known it at the time, of course, but the space that first divided them would spawn into a yawning chasm until they were practically strangers; their identical faces their only common denominator.
Just accept me as I am.
Just as I am …
Tears pooled in Peyton’s eyes as he looked at his brother. Tristan was right. In all these years, Peyton hadn’t once looked at him or even thought of him without the asterisk of all he’d done wrong. Without the sum total of his sins.
Just accept me as I am.
Just as I am …
The words of the old hymn tugged at his heart. How many times had he sung those familiar lyrics, telling of a Heavenly Father who bids His children to come into His open arms—just as we are? God doesn’t demand that we clean up our acts before we come to Him. Because the truth is, apart from Him none of us are worthy. It is the coming, just as we are—with all our weaknesses and sins and failures—that God desires for us. Why? Because it’s all about Him. His grace and mercy and forgiveness.
Peyton locked eyes with Tristan, swallowing hard as a tear broke free and trickled down his cheek. He wasn’t sure he could find his voice, but he had to try.
“I’m sorry, Tristan.”
Tristan blinked as something familiar fluttered through his eyes. Acceptance? A softening?
No. More than that. Much more.
That’s when Peyton recognized it—the long-forgotten language they’d shared as kids. A “twin thing,” someone once told them. A total understanding between them without a single spoken word. A silent communication with nothing more than a look in their eyes. A rush of memories flooded his heart, so vivid he had to look away and pinch the bridge of his nose to stem the flow of tears. He wiped at them, embarrassed by them.
Until he heard what sounded like a sniffle.
Peyton looked up just as Tristan wiped at his face, his handcuffs jangling with the effort. He sniffled again as he grimaced against the sudden display of his own emotions. But when his eyes finally met Peyton’s, he knew he wasn’t the only one remembering the silent language of years gone by.
A moment passed as they dealt with the awkwardness of unbridled transparency.
Peyton smiled, coaxing a grin from his brother.
“Well, aren’t we a pair?” Tristan said quietly.
Several hours later, the long trail of paperwork finally complete, Tristan was released from jail. When he walked through the door, Peyton closed the gap between them then paused to hold out his hand to his brother. When Tristan took it, Peyton squeezed his hand then pulled his brother into a hug that was decades late. They stood like that for a moment until Tristan patted his back and pulled away.
“Don’t go all sappy on me. I think we’ve had enough tears for one day.”
“You’re probably right,” Peyton answered.
When Sterling pulled up, Peyton insisted Tristan ride in the front passenger seat. The conversation remained casual, Peyton relieved to have Sterling carry the bulk of it, offering Tristan plenty of unsolicited advice. Once the two landed on the topic of Tennessee football, Peyton zoned out, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” Sterling teased, waking Peyton, who rubbed his face then glanced out the window, surprised to be on the outskirts of Braxton. “I’m dropping you two at your place, unless there’s somewhere else you want to go.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks.”
“I’d rather get on the road,” Tristan said. “If you drop me off near the interstate, I can thumb a ride.”
Sterling’s eyes met Peyton’s in the rearview mirror. “Might not hurt to chill for a couple of days at Peyton’s before taking off.”
“Good idea,” Peyton added. “I’d like you to stay, Tris.”
Tristan didn’t answer as Sterling turned the corner onto Peyton’s street.
“Besides, I want you to meet Macy.”
“Who’s that? Your girlfriend?”
As Sterling pulled up in his driveway, he spotted Aubrey sitting on the top step of his front porch. Beside her, Macy got up, her tail wagging
furiously as she pulled at the leash in Aubrey’s hand.
Timing is everything, Peyton thought.
When the car stopped, Peyton got out and started toward her.
“That your girl?” Tristan asked as he climbed out of the car.
“Something like that,” Peyton said with a wide grin.
Aubrey let Macy off her leash after Sterling backed out of the driveway. The retriever rushed to Peyton, barking a wild welcome to her master. He tossed Aubrey a quick wink as he gave Macy a good rub behind her ears.
“Tristan, meet Macy. Macy, this is my brother Tristan.”
Aubrey couldn’t stop staring at Peyton’s twin. Apart from shaggy brown hair that begged for a trim, the numerous tattoos peeking out from beneath his collar and sleeves, and the ice-blue opaqueness of his eyes, he looked exactly like Peyton. She hadn’t prepared herself to see them together and found it quite unsettling.
She watched as he dropped to a knee and let the russet dog sniff his hand; her tail stilled as she carefully checked him out. But when he scratched his fingers beneath her chin, Macy’s tail wagged in a fury as she looked from Tristan to Peyton and back again.
“It’s like she knows,” Tristan said with a chuckle.
“She’s one smart girl,” Peyton added as he walked beyond them and up the steps toward Aubrey. “You’re here.”
She rose to meet him. “I’m here.”
“Are you ever a sight for sore eyes,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
Her arms circled his waist. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, so I thought I’d stop and check on Macy. At least, that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.”
