I sucked in a deep, unnerving breath, letting the sweat pour down my skin. “She's back.” I said the words dully, quietly, keeping the passion from my face, keeping the emotions in check.
     My son looked up at me. He didn't deserve this—didn't deserve to suffer for my mistakes. “Is she...coming here?”
     I recognized that look in his eyes, the certain hesitancy in his features, the unsure yearning, the battle. He wanted to see her. I knew it.
     I turned away from him, casting my gaze across the room, anywhere but his haunting eyes. “She might,” I answered him. I tried to force a laugh—tried to pretend our world hadn't just been rocked back on its axis. “We've got to try and get away. Maybe she won't be able to find us—”
     “Dad,” he cut me off, his thirteen-year-old voice suddenly deeper. “I want to see her. Just once.”
     I whirled on him, piercing him with my infuriated stare. “Why?” I was incredulous. “What has she ever done for you?”
     He held my gaze...almost like a man. “She's my mom.”
     His words dropped a curtain of silence between us—too thick to peel back—too dark to break through. I turned once more; took my gaze back to the room. I felt all the hate and bitterness boiling inside of me—thirteen years worth of enmity. How could she do this to me? How could she leave me with a son and disappear without a trace, only to show up thirteen-years later?
     I closed my eyes, and found myself whispering some sort of prayer. Not that it would do any good. I wasn't even really sure if anyone was listening...
     But if there was a God in heaven, I hoped He heard me. I hoped He'd reach down and stop her—I hoped He wouldn't let her take my son away from me.
     Only I knew Cynthia. And I knew she would.

<><><><><>

     It was the next day. Casey was at school and I was sitting on our front porch, skimming over the morning paper with a cup of coffee. I looked up as a red car sped into the driveway. At first I was not alarmed, completely aloof. But then the door opened, and her slim figure stepped out—complete with the long legs and high-heels, the daring, too-tight dress, the obnoxious lipstick.
     She pranced up to me, flipping her hair over her shoulder, her purse swinging from her arm.
     I stood and stared, mouth agape. “You're not welcome here—”
     “Oh, don't be ridiculous, Dan!” She said the words with a roll of her eyes. “I came to see Casey. Where is he?”
     I gripped the coffee cup in my hand; I swallowed; I tried to breath. “Kids go to school—or didn't you know that?”
     She pulled out a chair and flopped down into it. “You can't keep me from seeing him.”
     Her smell drifted to my nose, pulling me back into memories, reminding me of how much I once loved her. It was strange, but I had always thought she smelled beautiful...
     “How old is he now? Eleven? Twelve?” She stared at me, waiting.
     Did she really not know?
     I sucked in a breath. “Thirteen.”
     She smiled, then she chuckled slightly. “Casey always was a cute kid—favored me, I think.”
     “Wow, Cynthia. I'm impressed.” The bitterness swelled up in me, swallowing me. “You remembered his name.”
     Again, the roll of her eyes. “Dan, please. I didn't come here for trouble—I just want to see my kid.”
     I was getting lost in her eyes, feelings were coming—feelings I thought I buried long ago. “Is that really the reason, Cynthia?” My voice was breathless, my skin tight, my eyes boring into her...
     She brought a quick smile to her lips—a charming sort of smile that had a way of both calming me and warning me. “Of course, Dan. What else could I want?”
     She could want my son. She could want to take away the only happiness I had, the only family she'd left me...
     Abruptly, she stood to her feet. “I'll be here around five to pick him up. I want to take him to Mcdonalds, or something. He likes burgers, right?”
     I nodded, hardly understanding, completely numb.
    Then she flounced away and raced off in her red car.
    But I sat there longer, my coffee going cold, the paper unread. The realization hit me with such force that it left me paralyzed—unbelieving. I had hated her so long—despised every ounce of her being—abhorred the very sound of her name. And yet I wasn't feeling hatred right now. When I looked into her eyes, I had felt only one thing—one emotion—vivid and familiar.
     I dared not say the word in my mind. It was not love. There was just no way. Not after all these years...

<><><><><>

     I watched from the window later that day as my son got into the passenger seat of her red car. The dust flew up behind her, the roaring died away as she disappeared down the road.
     This was the beginning of a nightmare. Somehow, she'd find a way to hurt me again. She'd take my son; she'd take my heart. Anything she could get....anyway she could.
    I collapsed in a chair and let my head fall back against the seat rest. Tears swelled in my eyes—there was a familiar burning in my heart—an unspoken dread that churned in my stomach. I waited in that chair all evening, hardly taking notice every time my clock struck another hour. Darkness came, seeping into the windows, mirroring my dark soul.
     Finally I stood and ventured to the window. I looked out, watching for the red car, waiting for my son to come running back into the house—safe. But her head lights never illuminated the driveway, and I never heard the roar of her car. I started pacing back and forth—praying even though I wasn't sure there was Someone listening. Then the phone rang and I darted towards the stand and answered it.
     “Hello?” My voice was breathless.
     “Is this Dan Ammin?”
     I closed my eyes and whispered into the phone, “Yes.”
     “This is Detective Joan. There's a woman here that says she knows you—a victim. The paramedics are trying to save her, but come quickly. I don't think she has much time...”
     “My son!” I shouted the words into the phone. “Is there a boy with her?”
     There was a pause—noises in the background. “I'm sorry, sir. There's no one else here.”

<><><><><>

     I arrived at the crime scene—the back parking lot of a run down post office that hadn't been used in thirty years. I stepped up to the gurney she was laying on. I looked down at her, into her big brown eyes so luminous in the night.
     She reached out and grabbed my shirt, making a fist around the fabric. “Dan...”
     I stared at her—helpless and desperate, too confused to speak. Finally, the words came out, “Casey. Where is he?”
     She only stared at me...
      “Cynthia! Speak to me!”
     She turned her face away from me...
     I grabbed her chin...then I froze. There was a big gash on the side of her neck, just behind her hair. Blood...everywhere...dripping down her neck...
     I stumbled back, then I stopped. What was I doing? She had to know. I had to get her to tell me where my son was...
     I approached her once more, my heart frenzied, my pulse a wreck. I swallowed and forced out the words, “Cynthia. Where is Casey? I need to know. Who did this to you?”
     “Casey...”
     “If you care a wit about him, tell me what's happened—!” My words broke off. I felt the pain working its way through me, numbing every muscle, every feeling. I backed away—silently, quietly, disbelievingly.
     Cynthia was dead.

<><><><><>

     Three days went by in a blur. There were interviews, investigations, talk of murder and kidnapping. I didn't understand any of it—couldn't grope with the reality that my son was missing. I would sit in my chair in the living room, staring blankly into space, not really looking at anything at all. I couldn't pray anymore...I didn't know how to. How could I pray for my son? I couldn't form the words—couldn't believe that a God would care.
     So I just sat there everyday, grieving in silence, never shedding a tear...

<><><><><>

     “Where's my son?” I twisted the steering wheel, swerving passed a couple of pedestrians that weren't paying attention.
     Joan, the detective investigating Cynthia's murder and the kidnapping, remained professionally silent.
     Why couldn't she see I needed her emotional support—not her stiff, professional indifference?
    “Mr. Ammin,” she said calmly, “if we knew where your son was, we wouldn't be searching for him, now would we?”
     I breathed a laugh. She was a smart one. Pain pinched at my heart and tears sprung to the back of my eyes. Just like Cynthia, I thought. But why did I even care? Hadn't Cynthia proved to me that she was nothing to be trusted...nothing to be cared about? That she was no good?
      I didn't understand why I still cared. I didn't understand why I felt such deep pain cutting and sawing into my soul every time I remembered that cut on her neck.
     “Mr. Ammin, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
     I looked over at her. “Go ahead,” I said dully.
     She paused a moment. “I have come to the conclusion, after close observation mind you, that you remain feelings for the deceased. Am I wrong in saying this?”
      Again, the anger. “Why do you talk as if I've caught a disease?”
     “I don't know what you mean—”
     “Yes, I loved her! She was the mother of my son, for blasted sakes!”
     Joan grew silent, and I too held my tongue until we reached our destination: the town in which Cynthia had lived. “Can I call you Joan?”
     She appeared agitated, but consented.
I drew in a long, shaky breath.  Just find my son. Just find him. As the day went by, visiting Cynthia's friends, neighbors and enemies, I kept thinking those words.
  
<><><><><>

     We drove to the hotel at the end of a long, clueless day and got two separate rooms. I had just sat down on the bed, convincing myself that a short nap could only help...
     The phone in my pocket began to vibrate and I yanked it out and pressed talk. “Hello?”
     “Dad...” the signal broke up his words. “You've got to come! Dad! Help me!”
     Blood rushed to my head, froze in my veins. “Where are you?” I gasped.
     “I don't know. Dad, hurry. I'm scared. We're at this river, in this house. Dad...please...” I heard a sob in the phone, then another voice shouting, then a scream.
      The phone clicked in my ear. I ran for Joan...

<><><><><>

      “Casey said they were by a river.”
      She nodded. “Yes. We're on our way.” She pressed the gas petal and we sped off down the road. She was silent a while before she stated calmly, “I'm guessing that this man and Cynthia were involved in some crime together—robbery or something that she hired him to do.”
      “Where did you come up with that?”
      “Remember one of her friends said she thought she'd been in some kind of deal—a robbery?”
      “Yeah.”
      “We'll a woman usually needs a man for that kind of thing.” Joan was silent for another minute, as if running it through her brain. “I'm guessing they were both suppose to have a part in the money, but when her accomplice got there, he decided that he could just kill her and get everything for himself.”
     I swallowed. “Why'd he take my boy?”
     “Casey was a witness.”
     I ran my hand over my face. Slowly, I whispered, “He'll probably kill him, won't he?”
     Joan looked over at me, and for the first time I saw a hint of human in her face. “Let's hope we can find that house by the river.”
      I started to pray again. I hoped there was Someone listening.

<><><><><>

      I stared at each house we passed, wondering if Casey was locked up inside, prisoner to a money-hungry maniac. Joan remained calm, professional, prepared as she questioned the owners of each riverside house. But we found nothing—nothing that led us to believe that Casey could be inside—nothing but nice, kind, considerate people.
     Joan kept her face impassive as we headed farther up the road. The only sound was the river roaring to the left of us, and the car engine sputtering, and the wheels jolting under each dip in the road.
     “Why aren't the police helping us look?” My voice was desperate, my eyes wild with anxiousness. “Shouldn't there be AMBER alerts? FBI's? Other people involved?”
      Joan blew her bangs away from her eyes. “I am trained specifically in this, Mr. Ammin, and I assure you I have got this investigation underway. The less people involved, the less chances our man will catch on to us. We'll find your son in no time.”
     “What if your wrong?” my voice roared in the small car, startling her. “Or what if we do find him. Dead. Murdered.” I sucked in a breath of air. I tried to absorb her calm, tried to make my own voice as normal as hers. “Joan,” I said the word more softly.
      She did not change her expression, but I heard her whisper, “Yes?”
      “Do you believe there's a...God?” I couldn't believe I was asking her this—a stranger. I shouldn't care what she thought; it didn't really matter. And yet, she seemed so sensible, so calm. Maybe she would know. Maybe she could drive away the strange sense that there was a Higher Power, a real Savior, a Jesus watching over me and Casey...
     “Yes, Dan. I believe in God.” She'd said my name, and when she turned and looked at me, there was something beautiful in her dark, quiet eyes.
      “Do you believe...He cares?” Again, I was shocked at myself. I was stronger than this. I didn't need a God—never had. So why did I feel willing to fall on my knees? Why the calling to pass the burden on to Someone else? Why the need to feel that Someone else had this—that Whoever it was wasn't going to let His plan go wrong?
      “Of course He cares.” This was all stated so matter-of-fact—in that sure and confident way of hers—that I knew a great peace in my heart. Maybe God was there. Maybe He cared. Maybe He had his hand around Casey, protecting him, watching over him, loving him...
      “Why do you doubt?”
      Why did I doubt? Because I was always strong before. Because Christians to me were always weak—and the only reason they believed and turned to a God was because it gave them a shoulder to lean on. But I didn't need the shoulder of a fairy tale. I was strong. I could handle this. And yet...
      “How do you know He's real, Joan?”
      “Because you can feel Him.”
      Feel Him? Was it possible?
      I breathed in deep. My mouth felt dry, my tongue like a big strip of leather. My neck was wet with sweat, but I wasn't hot—and there were goosebumps on my arms, but I wasn't cold. “What's He feel like?”
      Joan smiled, something that made her face light up. Her voice was quiet and soft, as if the Savior she spoke of were too precious not to whisper about. “He feels like comfort and love. He feels like protection, like a refugee against the killers, like a shield against the enemies.” She paused. “He feels like Heaven, Dan. Just like Heaven.”
       I didn't understand what she meant. I didn't understand at all. But for the first time, I had a strong sensation that He was here, right in this car—that perhaps He did care and did love us and He was real. Maybe there was hope for Casey after all.
      Maybe there was hope for me.

<><><><><>

     Joan stopped the car in front of a yellow house alongside the river. It was the last house down the road—last hope.
     I swallowed as we got out of the car.
     She knocked on the door quietly, her assurance soothing over me.
     A black man answered the door, wearing a baggy T-shirt and jeans. He reeked of cigarette smoke and his face appeared as if he hadn't shaven in days. “Yeah?” He seemed annoyed at our appearance—but not alarmed, not guilty.
     Joan spoke up quickly. “I'm Joan and this is Dan. We'd like to talk to you if it's not a problem.”
     The man coughed into his hand. “Police?”
     Joan nodded. “Yes. You're not in trouble, we're just stopping at all these houses to question people.”
     Stepping away from the doorway, the man led us into his house. Junk and trash cluttered the floor and furniture, and he had to throw his cat off the couch before we could sit down. “Want something to drink? A coke?”
     “No, thank you,” she said.
     I answered the same.
     “Now...” she drawled. “First I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
     Again I sensed an annoyance in his behavior, but not fear. This wasn't it. This wasn't the killer. Just another empty stop. More questions with no answers...
     I tried to concentrate on Joan's questioning—tried to focus on his pointless answers. And then I heard a sound, small and indistinct. It shouldn't have caught my notice. It could have been anything—an animal, a wife in the kitchen, the wind blowing at the shutters. But a certain fear exploded inside of me, like hot lava pouring through my soul.
     I glanced at Joan, but she just kept asking him questions, not paying attention. Why wouldn't she look at me?
     “Excuse me, sir.”
     The man looked at me, that same aloofness on his face.
     “Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I'm so sorry but—”
     “Right down the hall. Second door on the right.”
     I thanked him and stood.
     Joan sent me a look, but I ignored her and hurried down the hallway. I had to find out...just had to ease this feeling in the pit of my stomach...
     Out of sight in the long hallway, I stopped at the first door and eased it open. Junk and dirty sheets were on the bed, a kitten was perched up on the pillow. No sign of Casey.
      I moved on to the next room, found nothing, then continued to the last door. I put my hand on the knob, I pushed, I squeezed...
     “Hey! What you doing, man?”
     I turned, heart thumping, swallowing down a big lump. “I was looking for the bathroom—” 
“You'se looking through my stuff! Get out of here, man! I gonna call the police!”
Joan stepped up behind him. “Mr. Ammin! Please, we don't have a warrant or a reason to search this house.” She turned to the black man. “I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what got into him—”
“I'm not leaving till I find my son!” I bellowed the words out at him. I knew he was here. I couldn't explain—didn't know how I knew. I just knew, almost like I could feel him, his presence.
The man's black eyebrows shot up. “What your son doing here? I ain't got no kid! I didn't do it!”
Joan stood in front of the black man. She was wiping her bangs away from her face...
Heavy black arms reached out and grabbed her, yanking her against the foul smelling T-shirt. His fingers went around her neck, so strong they looked like they could break her in two.
“You don't move!” He glared at me with terrible white eyes against his ebony skin. “I knew I should'a killed dat boy!”
Joan gasped, fighting for her breath...
I just stood there. My son was alive. My son was alive. My son, my precious son, was alive.
I stepped back against the wall when the man pulled a gun from his jeans. He held it against Joan's head. He was trembling, and one nerve twitching in his finger could end her life...
He drug her up to the door I had tried to open and thew the door open. “Git inside.”
I obeyed him.
Then he shut the door behind us and locked it—and took Joan with him.
I whirled around, panic pushing through my veins, quivering in my lips...
And then I saw my son, lying under the barred window. His eyes were closed.

<><><><><>

Carefully, I lifted his head onto my lap and wiped his hair out of his eyes. There were big, black bruises on his face and a cut below his lip. Slowly I stared at the ceiling. “Why, God?” I whispered the words so quietly I could barely hear them. But I knew God heard.
I ran my hand down my son's smooth cheek. How had this happened? Why was I here? Why had my son been beaten? Why had Cynthia been murdered? Why was life so hard?
Pain ripped through me—agony that left me drained and tired and helpless. The tears came now, hard and fast, streaming down my cheeks like raindrops. I heard quiet screams, desperate sobs, heart-wrenching noises...
They were my noises, my sobs, my pain. I covered my face with my hands and screeched out the words, “God, help us!”
My son stirred in my arms but didn't wake.
“Don't let him die,” I gasped. “Don't let him suffer for my mistakes—for Cynthia's mistakes! Please, God! I'm begging You!” My voice quieted; the hysteria faded away to cold fear. “Please help Joan,” I whispered. I started rocking Casey in my arms, calmly as if I were cradling a small child in a pink nursery. “She believed in You, even when I didn't. But I do now—praise God, I do!” I felt the peace washing over me, the calmness, the safety. The sea of worries and fear was still tossing me and drowning me—still pulling me under each heavy wave. But I knew a peace, deep in the pit of my soul. A peace because there was a God. Because it meant that I wasn't just a result of science, but a creature fearfully and wonderfully made—a person that was cared about and loved. Because I wasn't doing this alone. Because I had a God to help me, to work things out for a greater plan.
I wiped away the grimy tears in the corners of my eyes. “Jesus...” I let the word—that precious, precious word—linger on the air for a moment, giving me strength. “I don't want to do this without You.” I paused and breathed in a shattered breath. I never thought I'd say this—never thought I could swallow my pride enough to get out the words. But I had no pride—not here in this room, locked in by a killer, my son bleeding and unconscious on my lap. I didn't know the meaning of it—didn't understand it anymore. All I knew was that I wanted Jesus. I wanted Him today. I wanted Him now. I wanted Him forever and ever—I wanted Him beside me through everything I ever went through, helping me along, offering me His strength and His peace.
“Jesus, please stay with me.” The words brought on a new rush of feelings—feelings that sounded just like the presence that Joan had told me of. “Save me, Lord. Save me from ever being alone again. Save me through Your blood...”

<><><><><>

The door opened.
I swallowed, tried to muster up my strength. I stood to my feet in front of Casey, protecting him from the big black man. “Where's Joan?” my words roared over the room.
The black man cursed and held his gun out. His hand shook, as if the thought of killing me in cold blood somehow disturbed him.
I had to be brave. Had to convince him I wasn't afraid. Had to take my chances—they were my last ones. “What's a matter?” I eyed him coldly, trying to plant fear into his soul. “Afraid to kill me, maybe?”
“I killed before.”
Was that remorse I saw in his eyes?
“You,” he coughed into his hand, “don't say one more word.”
Again, I swallowed. I had to try. “You killed Cynthia, didn't you?”
“I said shut up!”
“But you did, huh? Just like you're about to do to me.”
His big nostrils flared. “I had to!” he seethed the words. “That little tramp couldn't be trusted! I was afraid after all we done been through she'd take the money for herself.”
“So you murder her for money?”
I saw tears. “Dat woman was bad! She real bad.” He paused and breathed in, as if calming himself. “I ain't no killer. I just got to kill you, then the boy. Got to git this behind me.” He held the gun an inch high, aiming at my head. “I'll take the money, and I'll high-tail it out of here. I won't bother no one again. Won't ever hire out for no dirty work.”
“What about the police? What if they catch you—with four murders?”
“I ain't gone to no prison!”
I'd hit a nerve. His entire form started to shake—the pistol cocked. “As dey say, I hang just as high for one murder as I do four.”
     “Please...” I couldn't be strong. There was no more strength. I just wanted my son to live—I needed for him to live. “You can kill me,” I gasped out the words. “Just don't kill my son!”
His face twisted, but the pistol didn't waver. “I got to, man. I got to.”
He was going to do it. He was really going to kill my child. I scooped down and gathered Casey's limp form into my arms. I buried my face into him, wailing, sobbing, praying...
“Jesus, help us!” my voice shook with tremor. “In the name of Jesus Christ, please help us!”
Seconds passed like hours—minutes like an eternity. Slowly, I looked up into the black man's face.
He was just standing there, the gun lowered to his side, watching us.
I held his gaze—saw the torment raging in those dark eyes.
Finally, he whispered softly, “I know dat name.”
I blinked. “Jesus?” I whispered back.
His lips puckered and tears slid smoothly down his ebony cheeks. “Dat's the name.” His strong, masculine voice cracked as he went on, “My mama told me 'bout Him. She told me when I wus little, that the Jesus man, He loved me.”
I stared into the face. He was a killer—a malicious, deliberate killer—a man of such evil that even the sinful world thought of him as an outcast. But he had a mama, somewhere out there, who told him about Jesus?
I was numb and yet I felt that strange feeling again—the one Joan had told me about. I wanted to tell him about the cross—about everything Jesus did on the earth—about God and the trinity and the miracles. But I didn't know the stories. I didn't know the scriptures. I didn't know anything at all. All I knew, was that Jesus did love him, and He loved me, too.
I nodded. “Yes,” I breathed the words. “Jesus loves everyone. Even me.”
The big black man shook his head. “No. He don't love me. I done killed before. I done stole. I done all dose bad things.”
I didn't know how to witness. I didn't know the words to say. Dear Lord, help me reach him...
“But you can stop doing them.” I watched, fascinated, as the man stood there trembling, his sobs echoing in the room.
Finally, he dropped to his knees. The gun fell to the floor. The tears kept coming. The sobs grew harder...
He shoved the pistol at me, then met my gaze—miserably. “Go on!” he screamed. “Shoot me!”
I lifted the pistol in my hands. I glanced at my son, at the bruises swelling his face. This man had done that to him—to my child. This man was a killer. He deserved to die. He wanted to die. I wanted him to die...
I laid the pistol in my lap. Yesterday I would have done it. Yesterday I could have pulled the trigger, because I knew he deserved it. But today I was different. Today, Someone had given me mercy. Someone had spared me...when I was ready to end the agony...ready to give up...ready to die my sin was so great...
I slid across the floor towards the black man.
He watched me, breathing hard, tears dripping from those somber eyes.
I put my hand on his shoulder, and he jumped at my touch, as if he expected a knife rather than a caress. I didn't say anything—there wasn't anything to say. But I felt that feeling again, so strong it was overwhelming me in a maddening peace, running up my legs, through my heart, along my spine...
The black man buried his face in his hands. “I want Him,” he rasped.
God, bring him home...
“I want Jesus.”
Almost there. Almost free. Almost saved...
“Dear God, save me!”
I pulled him into my arms—felt his massive body trembling against mine.
He lifted his head up and searched my face, pulling back. The shadow had fallen from his face; the eyes were strangely different. “Dear God, forgive me for killing...” the words trailed away to silence.
“She chose how to live her life. She chose her fate—”
“Not just Cynthia.” His lips compressed, and he choked out the words, “I killed the woman—the police one. I killed her!”
Joan...
I felt the blood run cold in my veins. Every muscle went rigid. The world tipped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
I scrambled to my feet, gasping for ragged breaths. I stumbled to the door, blindly, numbly, conscious of only one thing. Joan. She can't die. She showed me You were real. She can't die. You can't let her die...
I searched the house, room after room, jumping over the junk scattered across the floor.
“She in the basement.”
I whirled and glared at the black man. He'd followed me in the kitchen...and I hated him. I wanted to love—wanted to be forgiving—wanted to remember what I'd just witnessed. But I wasn't that strong. I couldn't forgive. I just needed Joan...needed to see her face...needed to feel her calm...
I darted for the basement door and flew down the stairs. I fell, my knee scraping against the pavement, my head banging against something sharp. But I got back up—didn't feel a thing—didn't notice the blood.
I stopped—couldn't breath. Her black tresses hung down the back of a chair, where her limp body was tied. There was blood dripping off the chair legs, making a puddle on the basement floor...
Slowly, I walked towards her and turned the chair around.
Her eyes were still open, staring at me with that usual quietness. Only now there was no warmth in her stare, not even the common professionalism I'd grown accustom to. Just quietness. Calmness. Death.
I tore my eyes away from her face and bare the horrid sight of that jagged cut, gashed across her neck. Same as Cynthia.
I fell to my knees. I spread out across the cold floor, my head against the concrete. God, no.
I couldn't take this anymore. I wanted to die. I wanted to die. I wanted to die.
God, no. Not Joan.

<><><><><>

Lights in my eyes. Voices screaming in my ears. Faces blurring in and out.
“Dad.”
The word was soft to my ear, pulling me into a strange comfort. I wanted to reach out and grab that voice, lock it in my heart, keep it forever. And then I heard it again:
“Dad. Come on, Dad.”
It was urging me, trying to get me to wake up, trying to get me to focus. But I couldn't. The only thing I knew was that I just needed that voice to stay with me...
Slowly, the fog fell away. The memories came back to me, vivid and frightening, sending shock waves of immense pain up my body.
“Dad!” Casey's small form stepped before me. He leaned down and grabbed me, clinging to me, crying into my shirt. “Dad!”
Weakly, I held him. “Are you alright?” I gasped.
“Yeah, Dad. I'm fine.” He paused and looked down at me, wiping tears from his face. “We thought you weren't going to pull through. You wouldn't wake up.” Again he paused. “The doctor said you had a pretty bad gash in your head.”
I swallowed hard. “Where is...he?”
“Prison.”
I nodded. “I'm glad...”
“But, Dad.” Casey's lips started to tremble. “He brought you here—turned himself in. He brought in this woman, too, but—”
“Stop it!” I closed my eyes, blocking him out, trying to breathe. I didn't want to hear him say it. I didn't want to hear the words. Didn't want to face another death...
“Dad.”
I felt his hand on my hand, and it gave me courage—maybe even strength.
“She's alright. The cut wasn't deep enough to kill her. The doctor gave her stitches, and she's already sitting up in bed.” He patted my hand. “She's been praying for you.”
For me? I didn't deserve that. I had failed. I had been too weak. I had given up on life, lying with my face against that bloody basement floor, unwilling to force another step, unwilling to take another blow...
“Really?” I whispered.
Casey grinned. “Really.”

<><><><><>

I dozed off after that, but when I woke back up, Casey was still sitting beside me. There were new tears on his face—in his red, swollen eyes.
I reached out and grabbed his hand.
He smiled at me. 
“We've been through a lot, haven't we, son?” I whispered.
He nodded, but the tears kept coming faster. His hand trembled in my grasp—the vein in his forehead bulging. “Dad?”
“Yeah, son.”
He paused and breathed in, nostrils flaring, body wracking. “Why...why do you think Mom came for me?”
I couldn't look into his eyes. They were too hurt—too rejected—too hopeful, even. “I don't know.”
There was a long pause, then a hesitant whisper, “Do you think, Dad, that she...loved me? Maybe.” He paused and bit back a sob. “Maybe she wanted to make things right. Maybe she wanted to get to know me. Do you think so, Dad? Do you think that's why she came?”
I forced myself to look at him. “Oh, son.” I squeezed his hand. “I just don't know—”
“But do you think maybe?”
I swallowed the lump—blinked back the tears. “Yeah, maybe. Just maybe you're right.”
“Is it wrong to be sad she's dead? Even though you hate her. Even though she left me. Even though she's the cause of all of this—her stealing and that man—”
“Son.” I pulled him to me and laid his head against my chest. “I don't hate your mother.”
“Then maybe I shouldn't either...”
“No you shouldn't, because I think she loved you.”

 
<><><><><>

Later that day Casey went with me to Joan's room. The nurses had argued with me to stay in bed, but I just needed to see her—just needed to know that she was alright.
She was sleeping when I entered, and the nurse smiled at me and took Casey. The door shutting behind them is what woke her.
Her dark eyes were bright as she met mine, and her lips—though not smiling—were held in a pleasant line, with the corners drawn up just slightly. “Hello, Mr. Ammin.” Her voice was so soft, cutting into my soul.
“Back to calling me that, huh?”
She laughed quietly. “Alright then. Hello, Dan.”
“That's better.” I walked over to the edge of her bed. I studied her pale, yet beautiful features. “I thought you were dead.” I was ashamed at the tears in my eyes, but she didn't seem to notice.
“I could have been. The Lord worked a miracle, I think.”
I sucked in a breath. “Joan...” I let the word linger. “I want to tell you something.”
She waited, studying my every expression, giving me the strange feeling that she already understood.
“I got saved, Joan.”
“I know.”
I crinkled a brow. “How?” I was incredulous.
She smiled at me—the most beautiful thing in the world—and she reached out and touched my hand. “I saw it in your eyes, as soon as you came in,” she whispered. “And Dan, it was lovely.”
Lovely. The word described everything I was feeling, everything my heart was screaming out. As I sat there, holding her hand, feeling the presence of the Lord surrounding us, for the first time in a long time I wasn't thinking of Cynthia. I wasn't hating her. I wasn't loving her.
I just wasn't thinking of her at all.