Chapter 13 #2
Seemed like the only way to make sure things worked out, thank you very much. Rules. A plan. Safeguard and checkpoints and…
It’s the devil’s joke to make you think you can finagle your own happy ending.
And breaking the rules had given her a glimpse of everything she’d ever wanted.
Asher. And the crazy, beautiful, temporary-but-perfect fake life they’d had.
A hero worth holding on to, as Ruthie would say.
She wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hands.
And realized she’d been here before.
Not literally. Not locked in a closet while someone she cared about was taken to be murdered.
But emotionally. The darkness. The helplessness.
The anger.
She’d been here at sixteen. Standing at her father’s grave. Unable to forgive. Unable to understand how someone who’d promised to come home had chosen to chase suspects instead.
She’d been here at twenty-eight. When her partner had gotten a witness killed. When she’d left the Marshals, swearing she’d never depend on anyone again.
And she was here now. Thirty-one years old. Locked in a closet. Having trusted Asher Morrison despite every instinct. Having torn down walls.
The darkness wasn’t new. The hurt wasn’t new.
What was new was the memory of Duke’s voice, again in her head.
The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.
And as if it came accompanied by angels singing and flashes of light, just like that, she knew why the words had stopped her cold, where she’d heard them before—her father’s funeral.
Words she’d rejected. Because if God never left, then why had her father died? Why had her partner betrayed her?
But sitting in the darkness—really sitting with it, feeling it, letting it soak into her, she saw it.
Asher, buying her pizza. Asher, making breakfast with her. Asher, dancing with her. Asher, saving her from an explosion and diving at Dmitri when he’d attacked her at the house. Asher, bailing out of an SUV, buying into her plan.
Asher the hero.
Listen—playing both sides was the only way I could build my case. I had to get close enough to gather hard evidence—
Maybe he was right. Maybe rules didn’t keep you safe. But maybe love did. Maybe love was the only thing that she could count on.
Because in the end, when she’d stood by her father’s grave…she’d still had it.
Pancake memories.
The sense that, no matter what, her father had loved her.
And so what he’d made a choice that ended up getting him killed? That didn’t mean he’d left her.
And maybe…maybe God hadn’t left her either.
Just because bad things happened, didn’t mean…
well, what had Duke said? You believe that He’s not leaving.
Even when you mess up. Even when you fail.
Even when you do things you regret. And even when terrible things happen that you don’t have any control over.
She blew out a breath, and with it, the terrible knot in her chest.
Her father had chosen to chase suspects. Because he was a cop. A protector. His choice, not God’s abandonment.
Her partner had chosen betrayal. That was his choice. His failure. Not God’s absence.
And Asher—Asher had chosen deception. Had chosen eighteen months of trying to find justice because he was complicated and broken and human.
But he hadn’t betrayed her. Hadn’t called Draven—Daphne had been wrong about that final accusation.
Maybe that’s what faith meant. Not that nothing bad ever happened, like Duke said. And not that people wouldn’t fail you or break your trust.
But that you wouldn’t be alone when it happened.
And maybe, sitting in this darkness, Daphne had a choice: Keep building walls. Keep protecting herself. Keep running from faith and trust and vulnerability.
Or believe that God was present. Even when everything fell apart.
She closed her eyes—not that she could see anyway, but, you know, prayer.
“God—I don’t know if You’re listening. I don’t know if I deserve Your help after fifteen years of ignoring You.
But—I need You. I need to believe You’re here.
That I’m not alone. That even if I can’t save him—even if I can’t fix this—You’re still present. ”
Her voice broke. Tears wet her face, soaking into her jeans where her knees pressed against her face.
“Help me,” she whispered. “Please. Help me figure out what to do. Help me have faith. Even now. Even here.”
Silence. Just the darkness. Just her breathing. Just the weight of the prayer hanging in the airless space.
Then—something. Not a voice. Not a sign. Just…peace. Small. Fragile. But present. It swept inside her and filled her chest with the sense that she wasn’t alone. That the darkness wasn’t empty.
Maybe it was faith. Or the beginning of it.
Daphne opened her eyes. Shifted her weight. Felt something dig into her hip.
The pocketknife. Asher’s pocketknife.
She pulled it out. Opened it.
Wait. She stood up. The old door opened in, toward the closet.
Which meant the hinges were on the inside.
She ran her hand over them. Three of them. Old. Standard. The kind you could remove if you had the right tool.
Like a pocketknife.
She worked the knife under the first hinge pin. Pried. Levered. Felt it give. Come loose. Fall to the floor with a small clink.
One down. Two to go.
The second pin came easier.
The third pin stuck. Rusted. Old. Refusing to budge.
Daphne worked it. Pried harder. Breathed through frustration. The blade scraped metal.
“Please,” she whispered.
The pin jerked loose. She worked it out.
All three hinges free.
And all she had to do was lever the door off its hinges and break the lock.
No problem.
She got her fingers under the bottom of the door, started to wiggle it. The door moved at the hinge, and she worked her knife into the gap, wedged it out more.
It finally moved enough to fit her fingers in.
And then she shoved the toe of the cowboy boot into the space and used it as a lever.
She wedged herself sideways and forced the door through the gap.
The lock broke. Daphne scrambled out, breathing hard.
The house was silent.
She pocketed the knife and crept out to the living room.
Empty.
And then she ran upstairs to her bedroom, where she’d left her own ankle holster with her own .380 ACP.
Except, certainly, Asher had better manpower here.
She ran down to his office. Stood in the room.
Wait. The safe room.
She walked over to his desk. Felt for the tab underneath. Pushed it.
The door opened.
She walked inside, found the gun closet and opened it.
“Well done, Ash.”
A lever-action Winchester 1894 rifle, polished to a dull shine, rested on the top hooks. Beneath it, a pump Remington 870 shotgun leaned against the wall beside boxes of mixed 12-gauge shells, each one labeled in careful marker—buck, bird, slug.
On the opposite rack sat a bolt-action Savage model 110 rifle with a long scope, a strip of masking tape across the stock reading Coyote Zero in faded letters. A Colt 45 “Peacemaker” revolver rested in a cracked leather holster, and beside it sat a small tin of .45 Colt cartridges,
Yes, that would do.
She grabbed the Winchester rifle and the Colt .45, and found a half a box of .243 Winchester soft-points. Someone—probably Asher—had written 75 grains, clean zero @ 200 yds in fading pen across the flap.
She slung the rifle over her shoulder, tucked the Colt at her back, and then dropped the cartridge and soft-point boxes into a faded ammo bag.
Then she moved to the front door. Out onto the porch.
The morning was bright. Cold. Beautiful. Mountains standing guard. Creek rushing over rocks. The smell of pine and sage and cold air.
And the driveway—empty. Just tire tracks in the dirt. Leading away. Down the ranch road.
Daphne ran toward the barn. “Duke! Are you here?”
He appeared from behind the barn. Rifle in hand. Face grim. His flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his boots dusty.
“I was down at the cabin. I saw them leave,” he said without preamble. “Saw them take Asher.”
“Where?”
“They went down the access road. Toward the old quarry.”
The old quarry. Sounded like the kind of place where you could kill someone and no one would find the body for years.
He pointed down the road.
“Call for backup!” Daphne said.
“You should wait for help!”
And probably it was foolish and would get her killed, but yeah, she absolutely understood her father as she took off down the road.