Bullet in the Night (24 page)

Around eleven, Nick and I embraced in bed after a breathless time of closeness.

“Have I ever told you I love you tons?”

Nick laughed. “Never enough.”

“When I think of you and the kids, I get all choked up. God has been so good to us. We have health and each other. I’d like everyone to have the happiness we do.”

He stroked my head. “Me, too, sweetheart.”

“Tomorrow, I hope to connect with Angela Denton. I think she’s part of this mystery surrounding Lenora’s shooting at Wooded Hill. Only, I haven’t figured out how yet.”

Nick prayed, “Lord, give my wife wisdom and keep her safe.”

A distinct chill raced down my spine. “Amen.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I bit into a cinnamon bagel slathered with cream cheese, breakfasting at my kitchen table while watching a male cardinal enjoy his breakfast at our cedar bird feeder. Two yellow finches flitted close by, intimidated by the larger bird. When the cardinal darted off, the tiny birds flew over and confidently perched on the ledge and ate heartily while a simple, sweet idea popped into my head.

I snapped my fingers and spoke aloud to the empty room. “I know a possible way to connect with Angela.”

Denton had said walking was her only activity. She had been outdoors the day I drove back from Lenora’s. Often people had routines. If Angela walked during heavy rain, I’d bet nothing interrupted her daily regime. Perhaps I could meet her out in her natural terrain during Denton’s workday. Very logical. Very “iffy.”

I put aside my
God Calling
devotional book and stood up to pace across the wood floor. What time had I seen Angela? After I visited with Estelle the other day it must have been around twelve thirty or twelve forty-five. What was I doing today around that time? I stepped over to the counter, reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. I didn’t take switching clients lightly; fortunately, I wouldn’t have to. My calendar showed a follow-up session with a newly discharged client ending at noon. Assuming I went a few minutes over, I could get away without a problem.

I sent a text for Ellen to block out the hour in my schedule. Catching Angela on a walk was a long shot, but maybe I’d be lucky.

I downed my tea, still standing and packed my phone into my purse.

Lord, for Your honor and glory, may I be a blessing and be blessed this day.

That little daily prayer readied me for a day of surprises. My hours as a counselor were often full of them, a few too many lately. Yet, I was privileged to deal with people’s fascinating lives and see God at work guiding, sometimes admonishing, and gently healing the hurts either the world or poor choices had dealt them. I left for work with a light heart.

The morning zipped by. I devoured a PB J sandwich after I finished with my clients, then climbed into my van and whipped over to the Denton’s property. This time, I parked on the road, not far from where Nick and I had left our car the other night.

I opened the trunk, pulled out my sports bag, took off my heels, and slipped into gym shoes. Carefully laying the jacket of my pants suit in the back seat, I pulled a gray sweat shirt over my wash and wear hair. I stuck the bag in my trunk and locked the car.

After walking a few yards, I stopped to survey the area.

A field of soybeans cut the black earth into neat rows. Cows mooed in the distance. Skirting around the field, I entered a row of trees along the west side and took a path adjacent to Lenora’s property near where I’d seen Angela.

About thirty minutes later, I scanned the horizon and caught sight of a woman moving toward me. She turned north at the fringe of the woods without noticing me. I studied the figure to determine if it was Angela.

When she was fifty yards ahead of me, I called Angela’s name. The woman sped up and glanced back several times. She had to know I’d seen her. Suddenly, she disappeared into deep woods. I yelled again and quickened my steps. She re-emerged and to my surprise stopped, apparently waiting for me.

I ran up to her breathless, fearing she’d take off any minute.

Angela was dressed in a long sleeve, shirtwaist dress with cotton pants beneath. Her gaunt figure made me think of an anorexic who hadn’t recovered. The fragility of her bone structure was similar to a reed that might break if bent too far. Shoulder-length, perfectly straight hair framed a doll’s porcelain face. Only when she blinked did she seem real.

“Hi. I’m Jennifer Trevor.”

Angela’s arms hung loosely at her sides. Her face remained expressionless. Glassy glaring eyes stared straight through me as if she didn’t care one way or another what I was saying. I was within a few feet now.

“I’m a friend of Lenora’s,” I said slowly. Would the name bring light to her eyes?

Angela’s hands tightened into tiny fists. “You knew her?” Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it still.

“Yes, very well.”

Angela mumbled, “It’s awful what happened.” She wheeled about abruptly.

“Wait, don’t leave.” I touched her shoulder lightly. “I made an effort to visit you at your home, but your husband wouldn’t let me to talk to you. I must confess, I came here today hoping to find you out walking.”

She flinched. “I must get back.”

“I’m a counselor, like Lenora. I want to invite you to come to a small group counseling session. Lenora’s husband asked me to take over her clients so they wouldn’t be left unaided. Were you her client, too?”

Angela focused on the ground, saying nothing.

“Lenora had your name on her list. I’m guessing you were and hoping I’m right.”

She didn’t deny it but fidgeted with the buttons on her dress with shaky hands. She seemed to be struggling. Her cheeks paled, and a deep furrow embedded her brow. My heart went out to this wounded woman. Whatever had happened to her must have been traumatic.

I kept talking. “As I said, I’m handling Lenora’s counseling clients until she’s...better.” I tried to make my voice sound hopeful. “Would you like to come to my office tomorrow at two p.m.? We’re having a group session with a few women.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” Angela’s voice shook.

I gave her directions to my office. She listened then turned on her heel and bounded off to get away.

Angela faded out of sight over the hill, head thrust down like the first time I’d seen her in the rain.

Scripture teaches, “You have not because you ask not.” I asked, but what answer did I get? None.

Just maybe she would show up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Sandy and Carrie glanced through women’s magazines in my conference room. The wingback chair overwhelmed Carrie’s slight frame. In case Angela was coming, I intended to wait until five past the hour to begin.

The kind of counseling I had in mind was a small, personal growth group. I’d facilitated many with positive results. I hoped that would be true today.

One of my first goals was to break the isolation each woman experienced in her life that contributed to keeping her locked in dysfunction. It’s hard for women going through trauma or depression to reach out and make connections with other women. They were consumed by self-centered thoughts. Therapeutic friendships in a group setting could become lifelong or at least be a model for future relationships.

The minutes ticked by.

By seeing all three women at once, I could fit them into my schedule and still find time to work with Kirk. Three was a small number. Five was ideal, according to research data, although up to eight worked okay. By limiting the group to only three, I could be highly sensitive to individual issues.

I didn’t want to begin without Angela but finally gave up hope and began the introductions.

A minute later Ellen tapped on my door, opened it. Angela’s bowed head appeared behind her. Ellen led her in.

I blinked back tears. The air in the room stilled.
God, only You know what’s about to transpire. Guide me.

Angela’s face shone. Was it eagerness? More likely sweat? She must have walked.

A subtle change had occurred in this dear woman from the day before. She was a tad less stiff, like she’d removed her shield and hung it on a hook near the door. Or, was I only hoping she’d let herself become vulnerable?

I greeted Angela and made introductions, first names only. “Before we start, I have an update on Lenora.” I gave them the details I had.

Carrie clapped.

Sandy said, “That’s good news. Thinking of her in that coma made me creepy crawly.”

Angela remained silent, but relief showed on her face.

“Typically we begin with discussing individual and group goals. Here are my primary goals as your facilitator. To help you know yourselves better; create a safe place for discussing feelings; and work to free each of you from any emotional pain you may be dealing with like guilt, bitterness, unhealthy interactions with others, depression. It may take time, but together we can begin to move forward. Do you have any questions?”

The gals stared at me silently.

“Okay, then does everyone agree with these treatment goals? Would you like to add others, discuss, or modify them?”

“Works for me,” Sandy said.

Carrie agreed. “I like them. I want to get more confident and not be afraid to make decisions. I always worry I’m choosing wrong even about simple stuff like what to wear. I spent twenty minutes changing from one thing to another before coming today.”

Sandy looked at Carrie’s black slacks and beige blouse. “Good choices. I like your outfit.”

“Thanks.” Carrie blushed and beamed.

“Carrie, maybe you don’t know what you like because you haven’t had many chances to make choices and develop decision-making skills,” I said.

“Could be. Rob makes all the decisions and never asks my ideas about nothing,” Carrie said wistfully.

“Rarely being able to choose even little things in your life can cause loss of normal feelings of self-control. That in turn can create emotional confusion and feelings of worthlessness.”

“Got that right,” Sandy interrupted.

I shot her a smile and continued. “When you’re allowed to make decisions, it helps you feel worthwhile. As parents we train our children to become ever more independent of others while remaining dependent on God.”

“Don’t put up with anybody bossing you,” Sandy insisted in a brash voice. “Talking about emotional pain, I’ve got a pile of past hurts myself I’d like to be free of.”

“Freedom is a good goal. Getting locked up with bitterness only hurts you.” I swiveled my chair toward Sandy. “Would you like to describe some specific ways you’ve felt hurt?”

“No, but I can. I was a pawn in my parents’ fights. My dad insisted I clean the entire house and do the laundry because my mother refused to do housework. He was a slave driver, pushing me ’cause he knew Mom did nothing.”

“How did your mom react?”

Sandy tossed her head back. “She hated me for doing the chores she was neglecting to do to get back at my dad. And I ended up caught in the middle.”

“You’ve described passive aggressive behavior to a tee, common when a strong spouse dominates, and the weaker one finds ways for payback.” I maintained eye contact with Sandy. “Have you ever heard that term?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but I had no idea what it was.”

Angela leaned forward, remaining quiet but attending to every word.

“Repeated childhood experiences like you’ve described can make you passive-aggressive as well,” I inserted. “This means being compliant on the outside while inside holding onto growing hatred and sometimes fear, too. Then you might try to get even in subtle, negative ways that create tension and dysfunction.”

“Been there, done it,” Sandy said. “People think I’m fine on the outside but inside I’m not. Eventually it comes out.”

Angela spoke for the first time. “I know what you mean. I feel like a fake because I see ugly things about myself I can’t let anyone else know.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to her. I was surprised and pleased with her openness.

Sandy’s honesty may have made her feel safer.

“At least you can admit it now.” Sandy reached for a Kleenex. “It’s taken me years.”

Angela’s eyes darkened. “Have you ever abused yourself by doing what other people want because you feel guilty or simply want to avoid hassle?”

“Can’t say I have, but people say I seem so sure of myself. I’m really not.” Sandy turned her face away.

“I can’t imagine hurting myself,” Carrie said.

I stepped in. “It can happen from stifling real feelings and needs.”

Angela continued. “I’ve become good at playing a part.”

“Oh, I get that.” Carrie jumped in, “I’m not as phony as I used to be. Counseling has helped me know my feelings and work to get my needs met.”

“Without being mean to others,” I added. “Sometimes women who have neglected their own needs too long go overboard with selfish focus on themselves.”

Angela pulled up her sleeves. “I’d like to be able to say that.” Angela held her arms out so the undersides were visible. “I cut myself sometimes.”

Everyone stared. Angela’s wrists and arms had a series of scars an inch to two inches long. One had a trickle of dried, dark-red blood—recent.

Carrie gasped. She got up, knelt in front of Angela, and placed her hands tenderly over each arm. “Why?”

“Not because I want to die, but because I hate myself.” Angela’s face was expressionless.

Sandy’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t speak. Angela pulled down her blouse sleeves.

“Angela.” My jaw tightened. I worked to control my concern. “Women cut themselves when they experience extreme psychological distress. Would you like to talk about yours?”

“I think it best not to say more.”

My chest tightened. “All right, Angela, but I need to ask, have you ever contemplated suicide?”

“I’d never leave my daughter. I cut because I’m numb. My feelings are dead.” Her eyes darted around the room, stopping on nothing in particular. “Cutting gives me a sense of being alive. In some weird way, it sort of releases stuff locked in me. A voice inside tells me I deserve to suffer. I have no idea where it comes from.”