Chapter 13
That’s what she got for going to sleep with an investigation churning in her head.
Harley had stared at the ceiling fan for so long, she didn’t know when she finally dropped off.
Just that, suddenly she was standing on the shore of their lake, the water black and cold.
And on the other shore, her father. She knew him as clearly as if he’d called her name out of heaven and woken her up.
He stood alive and whole, his familiar red-and-black flannel jacket stark against a rising early morning lake mist. The scene held that peculiar dream logic .
. . of course he’d walk into her thoughts with his calm, sheriff’s voice.
Of course he’d have answers.
“Dad?” Her voice echoed wrong, like she was underwater.
He waved his hand, and she tried to lift hers through a sort of soup. Struggled.
Then his mouth moved, forming words that dissolved into vapor.
“I can’t hear you!” She tried to step into the water, to cross, but her feet were cemented on shore. “Dad, please—”
He pointed behind her, urgency in his gesture.
“What?”
Again his lips moved, this time forming shapes she almost recognized. Almost—
The fog thickened, wrapping around his chest, his shoulders. Dark water lapped at his boots.
“No! Dad, wait—”
She might have even shouted.
Her eyes snapped open, the image of her father still vivid.
Moonlight spilled through gauzy curtains, painting silver stripes across unfamiliar walls. Right. She was still at the Bowies’. Maybe she should have gone home last night, but . . .
But Jericho. And the way he’d kissed her and . . .
She didn’t want to be alone. Maybe not ever again.
Orlando’s weight shifted at the foot of the bed. His head lifted, ears pricked toward her face.
“Just a dream, boy.”
The digital clock blazed 2:47 a.m.
Nice. And now she was wide awake and circling back over the events of the past few days. She should roll over and clutch her pillow for dear life, and maybe when she woke up, life would reset.
The last seven—maybe even sixteen—years erased.
Orlando got up. Stretched and jumped off the bed. Walked to the door and whined.
“Really? It’s two in the morning.” But her stomach gurgled, and she hadn’t exactly let him out before bed, so . . . “Okay.” She kicked off the quilts. “Come on. Kitchen run.”
She pulled on a sweatshirt over her pajama top. One of Jericho’s. He’d given it to her that first night, to warm her up.
The shirt reached past her hips, over her pajama bottoms. She pulled on wool socks and headed out into the hall.
The stairs creaked as she descended. Orlando scampered down in front of her.
A lamp glowed in the corner of the great room, and she paused, seeing Kennedy dressed in a robe and pajamas and slippers, reading in one of the overstuffed chairs.
“Hey,” she whispered.
Kennedy looked up. “Can’t sleep either?” For her part, Kennedy appeared tired, wan, but she smiled at Harley.
“Brain won’t shut off.” Harley padded toward the kitchen. “Want some warm milk?”
“Already ahead of you.” Kennedy raised a mug. “Although I added some hot cocoa to my milk.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “I heated it up in a pot on the stove. There’s enough for two.”
“Smells good.”
“Art colony recipe. Vanilla, nutmeg, semisweet chocolate chips.”
“I think I like your version of milk.”
Kennedy smiled at her as Harley headed to the kitchen and poured herself a mug of warm cocoa.
Then she opened the back door for Orlando.
The dog sat, right there, and looked up at her, as if confused.
“Really? Okay, pal. But don’t come crying to me in the morning when your bladder’s full.” She closed the door.
The dog sniffed at her chocolate.
“Nothing doin’, champ.” But she did stop by the fridge and pull out one of Jericho’s fancy dog treats. The Bernie took it gently from her palm. Such a sweet dog. She’d miss—
What?
The thought just whipped through her, like a cold breeze. Maybe someone needed to inform her brain that her heart had decided to stay.
She returned to the living room. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” Kennedy gestured to the sofa. “Insomnia loves company. It’s better than old reruns of Friends.”
“Maybe,” Harley said. She settled on the sofa and then patted the cushion. Orlando looked at her.
Kennedy chuckled. “Oh, don’t tell Hudson.”
“Really?”
“It’s fine. I’m kidding.”
Orlando jumped up and then sweetly put his head on her lap.
“That dog loves you.”
“I don’t know. Jericho says that there is this thing with injured dogs, where they go to the person who makes them feel the safest.” Harley ran her fingers through his soft black hair. “In my case, that would be Jericho. So I don’t know what Orlando’s problem is.”
“Dogs are smart. They can sense fear.”
“Then this one has his sniffer off. Although, he was dead-on today while looking for my nephew.”
“I didn’t know you had a nephew.” Kennedy had closed her book.
“Yeah, me either. It’s a long story. But . . . anyway . . .” She picked up the dog’s snout, met his eyes. “You did good today, O-dog.”
He gave her a kiss on the chin, and his tail thumped.
“Maybe you just smell good,” Kennedy said.
“That’s it. Call me Bella.”
Kennedy frowned.
“Twilight. Edward. Never mind. What are you reading?”
Kennedy held up the thick book. “A Bible just for grieving women. Pastor Neil’s wife, Sarah, gave it to me. Supposed to help, I guess.”
“And?”
“It is. It does.” She opened the book up. “Actually, I’ve just been reading the Psalms. Trying to get into the mindset of hope.”
Harley took a sip of cocoa. So good.
“David is such a poet and, despite his sorrow and fear, he always remembers that God is in charge. I guess I need to remember that too.”
Harley drew in a breath, the words with Jericho rounding back to her. “I’m scared too!”
Where they came from, she didn’t know, but frankly . . . yes.
Most of the time, yes, she woke up afraid.
Kennedy’s gaze had settled on her.
“What?”
“Just thinking, you know . . . how hope changes everything. I think that’s why David kept writing about it over and over.”
Harley frowned.
“There was this study done about words. Like, life and love and light . . . positive words. A researcher took a bottle of water and said nice things to it.”
“Like what kind of nice things?”
“I don’t know. ‘I love you,’ ‘you’re pretty,’ ‘don’t be afraid, you’re safe’?”
Harley nodded. “Okay . . .”
“And then he said mean things to a different bottle of water.”
“You’re making this up.”
“Totally not. I saw it on the internet.” She winked. “But seriously, he said nasty things like . . . ‘you’re not safe.’ Or ‘you’re ugly.’ ‘Bad things are going to happen to you.’”
“Your life is going to implode and you’ll lose everything you love?” She’d sort of meant it as a joke, but . . . yeah.
Kennedy drew in a breath. “Yeah. Things fear would say, I guess.”
“Mm.” Harley took another sip.
“Then he froze the bottles and looked at the water under a microscope. All the crystals from the tortured bottle were misshapen, chaotic, and cluttered. Ugly. But . . .” She ran her hand over her Bible. “The loved bottle was filled with beautiful crystals, perfectly formed.”
“Huh.”
“Right? So, I don’t know. I got this idea that whenever fear and even grief told me that I’ll never be okay, that we’ll never have another child, that I’ve lost everything, I’d read a psalm.
And especially the ones where David says that God loves us.
That he doesn’t abandon us. That he has a good plan for our lives. That’s hope.”
Kennedy took a sip of her hot cocoa. “Our bodies are sixty percent water. Seems that it would make sense to speak hope and light into them.”
Harley stared into the fire. Traced the mug’s rim. “I ran out of hope a long time ago, I think.”
Kennedy cocked her head. “No, you didn’t.
You had just enough left to come back here.
To work with Jericho. And for his dog to sniff out hope in you.
I think that’s why he’s drawn to you. And I think that’s why Jericho is too.
Because although he’s a protector, you’re a believer.
You act because you believe in something good . . . and that’s hope.”
“Problem is, I seem to drag other people into danger with me.”
“Oh please, really?” She leaned forward. “Jericho follows you because he wants to, Harley. He has choices—and sure, it’s his overactive protective gene that gets him into trouble, but it’s not just you. Hello, he’s a rescuer. So, don’t let that lie trap you.”
She glanced down at the Bernie. His tail thumped.
“Did you know that the Bible says ‘do not fear’ or ‘do not be afraid’ more times than any other command? Three hundred and sixty-five times, actually.” Kennedy palmed the Bible.
“Because God knows it’s our default. Fight or flight.
The problem is, neither of those actions solve the problem, do they? ”
Huh.
“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes. Maybe. Probably. Someone has to be.”
Kennedy raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t mean it like . . . I mean, the world is full of heroes. I always wanted to be like my dad. Bringing justice. Keeping people safe.”
“Life isn’t safe, Harley. And God knows this. That’s why he tells us his perfect love drives out fear. And God’s love for us? That’s the only perfect thing in this broken world. We don’t have to fight for ourselves. God is big enough to protect us.”
“You really believe that? After everything?”
“Yes. And that’s what I keep reminding myself.” But Kennedy’s voice cracked. “Faith isn’t the absence of darkness. It’s choosing to believe in God’s love, his happy ending, even when we can’t see it.”
“I always dreamed”—the words slipped out before she could catch them—“back then, I mean, that Jericho and I . . .” She pressed her lips together.
“Would find your way to each other?” Kennedy set her mug aside. “Maybe you weren’t ready then. Maybe God knew you both needed to walk through fire first. To learn that safety isn’t found in running or fighting. It’s found in surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”