Page 44 of Facing the Enemy
My anger rose higher. “That’s not true. Let’s chat about your short story. Shall I say it’s original? Where did you come up with the idea?”
Nothing.
“The details sounded like a firsthand account. How could that be? Or did you mistake the assignment for nonfiction?”
He clenched his hands together.
I stood slowly and walked to Carson’s chair. Heat swirled through my body, the rise of fury and revenge taking over logic, emotion. My senses were locked in malicious intent.
Not this way, Risa.
I dug my fingers into Carson’s arms. “Why did you kill my brother?”
Carson tried to pull away, but I gripped him hard. “It wasn’t me.”
“Why mock me with his murder?” I bent over the kid, nose to nose.
I wanted to wrap my fingers around Carson’s throat and destroy him like he’d destroyed my brother. My sweet brother who wanted to live with purpose, who wanted to help kids stay away from drugs and alcohol. I pierced my fingernails deeper into his flesh.
Don’t give in. You aren’t a killer.
“Shut up,” I said to Gage.
“I haven’t said a word. Risa, stand down. Let’s hear what Carson has to say.”
“I want him to answer my questions.”
“He will.” His voice floated soft as though I were another person. “Give him room to breathe. This isn’t you.”
Listen to Gage.
The heat rushed through me. I shivered and released him. Blood seeped from where I’d dug my nails into his shoulder. He flinched, and my unrestrained emotions slammed into my chest.
I’d lost control, something I’d never done in the past, even with the jerks who harmed or killed children. My reasoning was for my actions never to discount testimony in court.
I wrapped my arms across my chest. Stepping back, I peered into Carson’s terrified face, then to Gage standing beside the bed. Both stared at me as if I’d morphed into something vile.
Had I turned into a monster, a detestable killer? A psychopath like Carson?
“I need air.” I rushed to the door and flung it open. Outside, the cool night air bathed my face, and in the next moment I smelled the telltale odors of unwashed bodies and sordid behavior, reminding me of how I’d tainted my vow to always act with integrity.
I walked to the front of the hotel office. Carson’s parents would be appalled at the conditions where their son took refuge, and yes, he was hiding—peeling paint, weeds for landscaping, a broken light, and a cracked window. More reminders of what a thriving and well-maintained property had once been, respected and valued. Too much like me. The woman in my mental mirror displayed another woman’s face. How far had I fallen?
Guilt slithered through me like a poisonous snake. I despised myself and who I’d become. The SAC’s warning swirled through me.“If I determine your methods of investigation warrant dismissal, I will bring charges against you and end your career.”
I blamed God for Trenton’s death, and I blamed myself for not reaching out to Mom and Dad at the restaurant. My eyes pooled with liquid regret. Had I slipped into the depths of no return? I hated this stranger, this unfeeling, decrepit excuse for a human being.
God didn’t cause evil. Those actions weren’t in His character. God used the free will of another man to take Trenton home. To a home where my brother no longer had to wrestle with addictions or unscrupulous friends, where unconditional love bathed him in the light of our Savior. If I forced myself to dwell on Trenton struggling with life’s challenges for years, then he truly lived in a better place. Why couldn’t I believe and accept he was in a better place?
Dare ... I ... Give. In. To. Pure. Truth? The thought warmed my cold body. Slightly.
Missing Trenton would never fade, and I didn’t want to put him in some remote part of my heart. That kind of wish came from a selfish, insensitive soul. For if I lost my ability to feel, then I lost what I’d once treasured. No matter how much I ached. No matter how hard the grief. No matter how difficult to face the truth.
Memories of our childhood offered snapshots of our special relationship, my little brother who’d let me paint his toenails, curl hishair, and apply makeup—much to our father’s horror. I remembered when Mom had brought him home from the hospital and placed him in my arms. I wanted to play dolls with him, dress him in dozens of outfits. When he cried, I cried too.
The bitterness of his death placed a wall between me and God. I needed to accept the impossibility of bringing my brother back. At his funeral, I despised those who’d repeated clichés as comfort or recited the all-things-work-together-for-good phrase, but now they soothed me. I now understood others’ need to help me deal with the tragedy.
How had I lost my focus with Carson?
