Authors: Erica Spindler
As they walked in, the owner called out a greeting. They returned it and ambled over to the bar.
“How’s it going, Sam?”
“S’okay. Business is steady.” He wiped the bar top. “What’re you three doing out so late?”
“Celebrating a job well done,” Chris answered, sliding onto one of the bar stools.
“We restored the windows at Sisters of Mercy,” Deni added.
Sam’s face puckered. “Poor Father Girod. He was a hell of a great guy.”
“He was,” Mira agreed, taking the stool next to Deni. “How did you know him?”
“Went to Sisters of Mercy my whole life. He baptized both my kids and presided over Maggie’s funeral. May she rest in peace.” He crossed himself, then turned his attention to the reason for their visit. “The usual?”
When they all agreed, he set about making cosmos for Mira and Deni and got a bottle of Abita Amber for Chris. He set the drinks in front of them along with a bowl of pretzels. “As old as Father Girod was, after Katrina he was out in the heat, helping gut flooded homes. Can you believe that?”
They said they couldn’t, and after a couple more moments, he excused himself to help another customer. Mira lifted her glass. “To you two, for working your asses off. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Deni agreed. “Slave driver.”
She laughed. “I am a little intense when it comes to my windows.”
“I loved it,” Chris said. “It made me feel like I was really doing something important. You know, making a difference.”
Deni looked at him, grinning hugely. “Isn’t it cool! I knew you’d love it!”
Chris had been a great find, and it had been Deni who had found him. Chris was a carpenter and handyman for the New Orleans archdiocese, and Deni had met him while doing prep work for a window at St. Rita’s. They hit it off and started dating.
“Your being with us really made a difference, Chris,” Mira said. “Thank you.”
“Does that mean we can sleep in tomorrow?” Deni asked hopefully.
“It does. Take the entire day off if you want.”
“You know me better than that, but a few extra hours of sleep would totally rock.”
Chris and Deni starting talking to each other about their plans for the upcoming weekend; Mira fell silent, sipped her drink and listened to them. She remembered being that way with Jeff—totally lost in each other, in being a couple. She wondered if she would ever feel that way again.
“Are you okay, Mira?”
She looked at Chris, realizing how long she had been quiet. And how exhausted she suddenly felt.
“I hate to be the wet blanket, but suddenly I can hardly keep my eyes open. And unlike you two, I have to be up early for an appointment with Dr. Jasper.”
Her therapist, who had been with her through it all, the deepest and darkest times, the good, bad and ugly.
“You want me to drive you home?” Chris asked. “I could pick you up in the morning?”
“And interrupt your sleep? No way. Just get me to the studio; my car knows the way from there.”
For a moment he looked like he might argue, but he didn’t. They each called goodbye to Sam and headed out.
As they cleared the door, Mira noticed a man huddled on the sidewalk at the corner of the building. One of the city’s many homeless, she thought. The picture of misery, he sat head down and knees drawn up, hugging himself, rocking back and forth.
“That poor guy,” she said. “Maybe he needs help?”
Deni caught her arm. “Don’t get too close. He may be dangerous.”
“C’mon, Deni,” she said, gently shaking off her friend’s hand. “What could he do to me?”
“He may have something and be contagious.”
“She’s right,” Chris said.
“I can’t believe you two.” She started toward the man. Deni hung back but Chris fell in step behind her.
The man didn’t seem to notice when she stopped beside him. He had long, dark, stringy hair. With his head resting on his knees, it fell forward, hiding his face. Even though it was August, he wore an army fatigue jacket and boots. She wondered if he was a vet and felt even worse for him.
“Hello,” she said. “Do you need some help?”
He lifted his head. The light was behind him so she couldn’t clearly make out his face, but she had the impression of hawkish features and a dark, intense gaze.
“The Lord protects his lambs,” he said. “They shall not want.”
“That’s true,” she replied softly. “But He also wants us to help each other. Have you had anything to eat tonight?”
He simply stared at her. She reached into her purse and drew out a twenty-dollar bill. She held it out. “Promise me you’ll get something to eat with this.”
“The very hairs on your head are numbered. Do not be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.”
“Mira,” Chris said, touching her elbow, “come on.”
She ignored him. “Please take it,” she said. “You need it, so I’m not leaving until you do.”
He silently studied her a moment, then reached up and took the bill. Without a word, he tucked it into his coat pocket and returned his head to his knees.
“He didn’t even say thank you,” Deni whispered as they fell into step together. “That’s just rude.”
“I didn’t do it for his thanks. If I was in his position, I hope someone would do the same for me.”
She had been in that position, Mira realized. Alone in her pain. Shutting out the world, refusing help.
She glanced back at the man. He had lifted his head and was watching them walk away. She sensed his longing. To belong. To be part of the world again.
A lump formed in her throat and she looked away. Was that his longing she sensed? Or was it her own?
CHAPTER TEN
Friday, August 12
1:30
A.M.
At Stacy’s scream, Malone came fully awake. He found her sitting up beside him, trembling so violently the bed shook. He sat up and gathered her against him.
She clung to him and he pressed his cheek to the top of her head and rocked her slightly. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
As the moments ticked past, her trembling ceased and her breathing evened. Still, he didn’t loosen his grip.
He couldn’t. When she relived the nightmare, so did he. His emotions ran the gamut from thankful to terrified. He closed his eyes, drawing in a quiet, steadying breath. And worried. Her nightmares seemed to be getting worse instead of better; they were coming more, not less, frequently.
Stacy slipped out of his arms and drew the sheet to her chin, turning her head away. “Don’t do that,” he murmured. “Don’t shut me out.”
“I can only imagine what you must be thinking,” she said, looking at him, eyes bright with tears. “The badass you fell in love with has turned into a quivering mass of … of girly goo.”
“Girly goo?” He laughed and pulled her back against his chest. “What the hell is that?”
“This. Me. Weepy and timid. Clingy.”
“Look, Stacy”—he tipped her face up to his—“yeah, I fell in love with your swagger. But I also fell in love with the part of you that wants to save everyone and everything. The part that tears up during those chick flicks you make me watch. I fell in love with your unfailing honesty and fair-mindedness, your devotion to family and doing the right thing.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I love every part of you, Stacy Killian.”
“Even the girly goo part?”
“Even that.”
She rubbed her nose against his. “I am pretty great, aren’t I?”
He laughed again. “Did I mention your sense of humor?”
“I wasn’t being funny.”
“Oh, yes, you were.” He lay down, bringing her with him. He tenderly kissed the angry scar below her right clavicle.
She stiffened. “Won’t I look charming in my strapless wedding gown?”
“To me, it’s beautiful.” He trailed his finger lightly over its ridges. “You should love it, too. Show it off on our wedding day. Immortalize it in our photographs.”
“You’re nuts.”
He leaned up on an elbow and gazed down at her. “You probably saved that child’s life. You didn’t hesitate. You knew what you saw and acted on it. That child is alive and home with her parents because of you. I couldn’t be prouder of you or that scar.”
She searched his gaze, struggling, he saw, with her emotions. “I keep thinking about that day. Wondering if I could have done something differently.”
“What do you mean, do something differently? You saved a child’s life, Stacy.”
“But I got shot. Almost killed. I had to take him out, right there in front of all those people … families with children. If I’d called for backup—”
“That monster might have gotten that little girl into his van. You know the stats. Once the kid’s in a vehicle, probability of a recovery drops dramatically.”
“I know. And I—” She shuddered. “Jane’s so traumatized by it she’s afraid of letting the kids out of her sight for a minute and wakes up half a dozen times a night to go check on them. The kids are having nightmares about their aunt Stacy bleeding all over the sidewalk. I hate that I exposed them to that.”
He threaded his fingers through her hair. The blond strands against his fingers always reminded him of summer. “You didn’t, sweetheart. That sick son of a bitch is the one who exposed them. You’re the white knight.”
She was silent a moment. When she spoke, desperation colored her tone. “Why me, Spencer? Why was it me who was there? Why, with so many people around, was I the only one who saw him snatch that little girl? Even her parents were oblivious.”
“I don’t know. But I do know her parents thank God you were.”
Moments passed with just the thrum of her heart against his chest. He broke the silence. “Maybe you being there wasn’t even about you. Have you considered that?”
“How so?”
“Maybe it was about that little girl?”
She rolled onto her side, facing him. She placed her hands on his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick.
“For what?”
“For being here. For loving me.”
He pulled her closer to him, all the things he wanted to say bottling up in his chest. Things about being unable to breathe without her, about loving her with an intensity that terrified him.
Since he couldn’t say them, he simply held her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, August 12
8:35
A.M.
Mira sat across from her therapist, exhausted to the bone yet strangely energized. The words tumbled one over the other as she told the doctor how, for the past two days, she, Deni and Chris had worked around the clock to save the Sisters of Mercy windows.
Dr. Jasper had heard about the vandalism and murder. Everyone in New Orleans had—it had been splashed from every news outlet. Father Girod had been very popular. The community was outraged; his funeral had taken on the quality of a rock concert. Because of the vandalism, the service had been held at St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square in the French Quarter. The church had been filled to overflowing, mourners spilling out onto the square.
“The detective I spoke to thought my urgency over the windows was weird,” Mira said.
“Did he?”
“Yes.” She rubbed her palms on her thighs, the summer-weight denim rough against them. “But Father Girod loved those windows. To him, they were sacred. He would have wanted me to react that way.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “One hundred percent.” Mira fell silent a moment, then went on. “The detective even asked where I was the night it happened and if I thought someone could have done it to get back at me.”
“Do you think that might be a possibility?”
“There’s only one person who hates me that much, and I hardly think he would stoop so low.”
“Your ex–father-in-law.”
Mira agreed. “I just can’t picture the high and mighty Anton Gallier breaking into a church, spray cans in tow. Though he could have hired it done.”
The last she had actually considered a possibility. But that wasn’t his style either. Hands-on cruelty was what he preferred. His own peculiar brand.
“What would be the fun in that?” she said sarcastically. “He’d want to see my reaction. Know for sure how badly he hurt me.”
“You stayed sober through this?”
“Yes.” Mira caught herself looking guiltily away, as it all came crashing back: awaking in the middle of the night to the river of grief pouring over her, swallowing her. Her desperate search for pharmacological relief.
Mira clasped her hands in her lap, feeling the steep drop from hero to zero. Just the week before, she and Dr. Jasper had spoken of ending their weekly sessions. Mira was ready, they had both thought so.
Now she had to tell her she had fallen from grace.
Even as the familiar urge to dodge the truth tugged at her, she met the therapist’s eyes directly. “I relapsed. Monday night. Before all this happened.”
Dr. Jasper’s expression registered neither surprise nor disappointment. The therapist knew her better than anyone since Jeff and wouldn’t make excuses for her. But she wouldn’t condemn her either.
“Where did you get the Xanax, Mira?”
“Not on the street, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I didn’t steal it from a friend.” She had resorted to both before—as well as doctor hopping and visits to so-called pill factories. “I tore the house apart. I found one in a piece of my carry-on luggage.”
“And if you hadn’t? What would you have done?”
Mira hesitated. Would she have hooked up with one of her reliable sources? Headed out in the middle of the night, alone, without a thought for her safety or anything else but her need for oblivion? She wished she could answer that she wouldn’t have.
But she couldn’t. And she despised herself for it.
Dr. Jasper leaned forward. “You’re in recovery, Mira. It’s a process. A journey.”
“Screw that. I want to be pissed at myself.”
“You’ve done incredibly well. It’s been almost a year.” Dr. Jasper crossed her legs, the movement of fabric against fabric making a rustling noise. The therapist was the epitome of elegance and well-heeled beauty. Although Mira knew her to be a decade older than her own thirty-three, they looked close in age. “What do you think precipitated this relapse?”