Chapter 6
Micah went still.
The truck was the same make and model as the one belonging to Travis Henderson.
But it was too far away for Micah to see the plates, and there were plenty of red trucks in Virginia. Henderson wasn’t the only man who drove one.
But the way it was parked—backed into the space, facing out, like someone who wanted a clear line of sight and a fast exit—that wasn’t nothing.
His hand drifted toward his sidearm. He didn’t draw it. He just wanted it closer.
Naomi’s door opened, and Micah stepped closer, putting himself between her and the truck without making it obvious.
He scanned the rest of the lot one more time. He saw no movement. No headlights turning on. No one sitting in the cab that he could see from this angle.
But his gut—the part of him that had kept him alive this long—was louder than it had been all day.
“You okay?” Naomi asked, picking up on something in his posture.
“Yeah.” He forced his voice to remain even. “Let’s get inside.”
Naomi squared her shoulders as if bracing herself. Micah caught the subtle tremor she tried to hide and respected her more for it. She was a strong woman.
He knew very little about her past—only that she’d moved here from New York City after some kind of incident had happened there. He was curious about the details, but she hadn’t shared. Maybe one day she would.
Or maybe that was too personal. Maybe it was better if she didn’t.
They walked toward the entrance, and Micah reached for the door. He paused, a flicker of unease tightening his gut even more.
He glanced behind him, looking for trouble one more time.
He saw no one.
But that didn’t mean trouble wasn’t close.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and old coffee, a combination that made Naomi’s stomach tighten the moment she stepped inside.
Her mind drifted back in time to three years ago. The smell was the same. The lights were the same. The hollow, echoing sound of her own footsteps on tile, moving toward something she didn’t want to face was the same.
Sarah . . .
The memory surfaced without warning. Memories like these didn’t fade no matter how many years passed.
Walking through those wide, too-bright hallways. Her mom’s hand gripping hers so tight it hurt. The nurse saying words that didn’t make sense at first.
She has severe head trauma and is in a medically induced coma. We’ll know more in the next forty-eight hours.
In the coming hours as they sat in the waiting room, Richard had explained what happened. He’d called 911 himself. Had told them he’d come home from the hardware store and found Sarah at the bottom of the stairs. Said she must have tripped. Fallen.
The security footage from the hardware store had backed him up. It had been time-stamped, placing him there—buying plywood and screws—right around the time Sarah fell. And he’d been careful. He’d thought of everything.
Except Sarah hadn’t tripped.
Naomi had known it the moment she heard what happened. She’d known Richard was somehow responsible.
But Richard was smart. He’d staged the scene carefully—and for a long time, it had worked.
What he hadn’t thought of was Sarah’s smart watch.
She’d worn the simple fitness tracker every day. When investigators finally thought to pull its data, they found something the hardware store footage couldn’t explain away: a sudden, arrhythmic spike.
The pattern was consistent with extreme fear or physical struggle. The timestamp placed it an hour before security cameras showed Richard arrived at the store.
The store was twenty-five minutes away—which put him with Sarah when her heartrate spikes.
The math didn’t work.
He’d planned for the big things. He’d forgotten the small ones.
At the hospital, the doctors had discovered Sarah was six weeks pregnant—and that she’d lost the baby because of her fall.
Naomi’s breath hitched at the thought. She stopped walking, one hand braced against the wall, and forced herself to breathe through the memories.
Micah was beside her in an instant. He didn’t touch her, didn’t crowd her. He simply stood close enough that she could feel his steady presence.
“You okay?” he murmured.
She nodded, not yet trusting her voice.
The worst part—the part that still sat like a stone in her chest—had been the decision that followed.
Sarah had been on life support for two weeks. She’d had no brain activity. No chance of recovery. And Richard, as her husband, had the legal right to make the call.
He’d chosen to let her go. To take her off life support.
Naomi had begged him not to. Had tried to fight it, to get a court order, anything. But the law was clear.
Richard was her next of kin. He had the authority.
And he’d used it.
Sarah had died on a Tuesday morning. The machines had gone silent one by one, and Naomi had stood in that room with her mom and siblings and watched the last piece of her sister disappear.
Richard had cried at the funeral. People had said he looked devastated.
It took another six months before police had enough evidence to arrest him.
Before Micah had enough evidence to arrest him.
For that, Naomi would always be grateful. When others had given up, when others hadn’t believed them, Micah had been there.
Naomi straightened and pulled her hand away from the wall. She curled her fingers together and held them low, hoping Micah wouldn’t notice the way they shook.
The fluorescent lights were too bright. The hallway was too wide. Every sound echoed—heels on tile, a cart rattling past, the distant cry of a baby.
A baby.
She swallowed and forced herself forward, one step at a time, her boots squeaking faintly against the floor. Her mind kept circling the same impossible truth.
Richard Harding’s baby.
Her sister’s murderer had a child. A fragile, innocent life that had done nothing to deserve the weight of his sins—or the mess he’d left behind.
And now Naomi was here, considering taking responsibility for his child.
What would Richard think of that?
She didn’t have to guess. He’d hate it. He’d see it as theft. As provocation. As something to punish.
Her pulse quickened.
He would make her life as difficult as possible. Sure, he was in prison. But he had supporters out there who were willing to do his dirty work.
Still . . . a baby’s life hung in the balance, and Naomi had never been very good at turning away from that kind of need.
Lord, now more than ever I need Your wisdom.