Why did they all talk strangely? I couldn’t understand why he called me sister, but by the way the small hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, I recognized that whatever was happening was serious.
“Sara,” Jacob reminded me. “Brother Timothy needs you to respond.”
I squeezed Jacob’s hand once to indicate I understood.
“She understands,” Jacob said.
“If you could speak,” Brother Timothy continued, “I’d ask you for a full account of the incident. I’d ask you to describe in detail your role and the aftermath. Since you’re unable to talk, we’ll begin with questions. Once I have your answers, I’ll take what I find informative back to the rest of the Commission. We’ll decide what should be passed on to Father Gabriel. Of course, the final decree regarding this transgression lies solely with him. The two of you will abide by Father Gabriel’s decision.”
My tired mind spun. What decree? Who is Father Gabriel? And by “the two of you,” does he mean Jacob and me? What have we done?
The throbbing returned to my temples as Jacob’s fingers unlaced from mine and both of his hands encased my one. I tried, again, to recall the accident, but incomplete memories of dragon-sharp teeth and fiery breath created an unfinished mosaic.
Before my mind was able to fill in the blanks or I could respond, Jacob verbally agreed to everything that Brother Timothy had just said.
“Sara, do you remember why you took Jacob’s truck the day of the incident?”
I had no recollection of having taken a truck. If Jacob and I were married, wouldn’t it be my truck too? I lowered my chin to my chest and squeezed Jacob’s hand twice.
“She said yes, Brother. She remembers.”
My face snapped toward Jacob’s voice, sending pain surging through my head. I hadn’t indicated yes—I’d squeezed twice, which meant no.
Brother Timothy continued, “Did you have your husband’s permission to drive his truck?”
“I told you that she—”
Brother Timothy interrupted Jacob’s reply. “We’re here to get answers from Sister Sara. If you’re not willing to wait for your wife’s responses, we can have Lilith hold her hand. Sister Sara, yes or no?”
I now understood why Jacob had completely covered my hand with both of his. He was going to answer the questions the way he chose, regardless of how I replied. I squeezed twice—no—and waited.
“She said yes, she had my permission. Which I believe is the same answer I gave the Commission.”
Brother Timothy went on with his questions, asking if I remembered where I’d been going, if I knew that what I’d done had been beyond my approved scope.
My approved scope?
My heart thundered in my chest with each question and each answer that Jacob gave on my behalf. In a short time, I learned details about the accident that I couldn’t recall. Apparently I had been driving Jacob’s truck to pick up supplies he needed. Since I’d been following my husband’s instructions, I hadn’t realized that driving alone outside the community was forbidden.
“Do you remember who was responsible for your incident?”
The room waited for my answer. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know who was responsible or recall anything relating to the accident; I wouldn’t be the one to answer. As the silence grew, I fidgeted against the mattress. My leg and ribs ached and even swallowing hurt. I squeezed Jacob’s hand twice.
“Yes, Brother, she remembers.”
As the voices murmured among themselves at this response, a chill passed through me, then the temperature of the room seemed to rise. I wanted to scream. Perspiration beaded on my chest and dripped uncomfortably between my breasts. Jacob’s grip tightened and I flinched as someone touched my neck.
Brother Timothy raised his voice above the din. “Sister Sara, your current physical suffering is a sign of the correction you deserve for your actions. God taught us, saying, ‘I will punish the world for its evil and the wicked for their iniquity.’ God doesn’t punish the righteous. Therefore your suffering is evidence of your evil intent.”
“Brother,” Jacob replied, my hand still in his. “She just respectfully indicated that her intent wasn’t evil. She did what I demanded. Her intent was to obey her husband. With the icy roads I should have considered her lack of driving experience before sending her to complete my errand.”
“When Sara is able to speak, you’ll both be brought before the Commission. It’ll be up to Father Gabriel to determine if correction is complete.”
“As her husband, I take responsibility for her actions. I guarantee that my wife didn’t willfully disobey the laws of The Light. If she had, I’d see to her correction myself.”
I fell back to my pillow, unable to comprehend the discussion around me. Why is this happening? Why are they discussing me, without me?
Mute as I was, with my eyes covered and my hand encased in Jacob’s, no one but my husband noticed my lack of participation. I remained still as he continued to relay my nonexistent responses, leaving me a bystander to my own story and unable to affect its outcome.
Maybe this wasn’t real, maybe it was a bad dream and the scene would soon fade. My stomach twisted as their exchange continued and they discussed my insubordination and correction. Each time Brother Timothy condemned, Jacob reminded him that my transgressions were alleged, not proven. It was as if suddenly I were on trial in my hospital room instead of in a court of law.
It wasn’t until I heard the word banishment that their conversation again registered. Whatever had been said had apparently been the parting word. Murmurs floated above the sound of various sets of feet exiting, then finally there was silence. When the door clicked closed I released my breath.
Turning toward my husband, I waited for an explanation. Nothing. I was about to pull my hand away when I felt a tug on my right arm and a woman spoke.
“Brother Jacob, Dr. Newton would like to examine Sister Sara now.”
So many brothers and sisters. So unfamiliar.
“Are you giving her more medicine?” Jacob asked.
“After the doctor comes. He’d like her to be awake.”
“Tell him he’ll need to wait until morning. She’s had enough commotion for her first day. Bring her medicine, something to drink, and let her sleep.”
I pressed my lips together in protest. Not that anyone noticed. They were doing it again. Discussing me while I was right there. Why does no one else find this wrong?
“I’m sorry,” the woman, who I assumed was a nurse, said. “The Commission hasn’t approved her intake of fluids. Refusal of nutrients is an approved decree.”
Jacob’s grip tensed. “I’m quite aware of the Commission’s approved decrees.”
“I’m sorry, Brother. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s been over a week. She needs more than what she’s getting from that needle.”
“I believe they’ll discuss it in the morning since Brother Timothy was able to see and talk to her. They should have a revised decision by tomorrow. I can’t go against . . .”
Jacob sighed and his grip remained tight. “I understand,” he conceded. “Then bring me ice chips. If we hurry before they melt, they’ll be solids and not liquids. That won’t violate the Commission’s authority.”
“Brother?”
“Bring me ice.”
CHAPTER 2
Stella
It was past three in the afternoon when I finished chasing leads—ones that seemed to go nowhere—and dragged my tired self back to the TV station. I plugged in my dead cell phone and collapsed at my desk. As I laid my head on my arm, I realized, only slightly ashamed, that I was wearing the same blouse and slacks I’d worn the day before. When I’d been out in the field, it hadn’t occurred to me, but here, I was suddenly self-conscious.
I must’ve bumped my mouse, because a light brighter than the Michigan summer sun filled my cubicle, and my monitor roared to life. The number flashing at the top of my screen mocked my exhaust
ion, alerting me to the hundreds of e-mails all in desperate need of immediate response. That’s what happened when I spent my entire day out of the office. Sighing, I scooted my chair closer and began to scroll.
Rarely did true leads pop up in my inbox. Most of them came on the street or from reliable sources. Many times they came from people who preferred to remain anonymous. It wasn’t until the really damning evidence was discovered that names and sources were needed. Even then, thanks to the First Amendment, most sources could remain undisclosed.
Today I’d spent hours with the border patrol. It was a stimulating way to spend a day, watching cars pass from the United States to Canada and vice versa for hours on end. The US Border Patrol wasn’t keen on allowing reporters or investigative journalists open access, but thankfully, I had a friend who had a friend, which was the way most of this worked. Unfortunately, today it hadn’t done me much good.
As I finished reading the second page of e-mails, my cell phone rang, its melody alerting me to my caller.
“Hello, Bernard.”
“Stella, where are you?”
“About thirty feet away,” I replied with a tired laugh.
“In my office.”
The phone went silent.
I lifted my brow and stared at the screen. Dylan, the man I’d left early this morning in his warm bed, was right; Barney, as Dylan called him, was a pompous ass. The civilized world used salutations: hello and good-bye. Shrugging away my annoyance, I pulled myself to my feet and walked to my boss’s office. Before I reached his door, he stood, walked toward me, and motioned to the chairs facing his desk. As I sat, he closed the door.
“I didn’t realize you were back,” he said, as he sat behind his desk. “How are you?”
I eyed him suspiciously. In the nearly a year I’d worked for him, I’d replied to every one of his requests for discussion. I’d dragged myself to this office, to coffee shops, bars, restaurants, and a million other places at all hours of the day and night. Never once had he stood as I approached. Never once had he greeted me with more than a shrug before beginning his rant. This new, unfamiliar adherence to etiquette frightened me more than his normal pompous behavior.
“What did you learn?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I spent half the day at the border. Around eleven I followed up on some leads at the shipyard. I talked to some people, but honestly, nothing stuck out.”
His eyes fell to his desk. Despite nearing retirement, Bernard was still a handsome man—tall, tan, fit. The only suggestions of his age were his salt-and-pepper hair and the fine lines around his eyes. Currently his hair was slicked back, his face was made up for the cameras, and he was dressed in a nice suit. Though the news wouldn’t be starting for another hour or so, judging by his attire, he’d been filming one of his stories. That meant he would be needed back on the set to introduce the story during the five and six o’clock news. As I waited for him to look back up, it hit me. I’d never known him to look away. It was one of his things, one of his one-upmanship tendencies.
Is he going to move me off this story, or fire me?
I sat forward on the edge of the seat, my nerves electrified, waking my body with a surge of adrenaline. “I’ll keep looking. You don’t need to worry. If there’s as big of a drug operation out there as they say, someone’s going to talk. I’ve got feelers all over. Don’t take me off this. I’ll get the story.”
His dark eyes peered upward, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“No one’s moving you off the story. This isn’t about the drugs.”
“But you just asked—”
“I don’t do touchy-feely shit, but it’s no secret how much we all cared about Mindy . . .”
My stomach sank. “Oh, God, h-have they, have they found her?”
“The medical examiner called for you, over an hour ago. She said she tried your cell. I tried your cell—”
“The damn battery died. I plugged it in at my desk as soon as I got here.”
“She’s not sure if it’s Mindy. She only said it’s a female meeting Mindy’s description.”
“Where did they find her?” I asked, afraid of the answer. “Was this body found in the river too?”
Bernard shook his head. “No. This one was found in an abandoned building in Highland Heights.”
“Highland Heights?” I sucked my lower lip between my teeth and fought the bubbling nausea. “Mindy wouldn’t go to Highland Heights.” It was one of the worst parts of Detroit, riddled with gangs, crime, drugs, and poverty.
“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense.” He leaned forward. “Listen, I’m due on the set in a few. If you wait, Foster can go with you. You shouldn’t go to the morgue alone. I know how hard it was last time.”
“No, thanks, Bernard. I can handle it. I need to do it for Mindy and for Mr. and Mrs. Rosemont. I promised them I would.”
“Are you sure you can drive? It’s almost rush hour and . . .”
I lifted my hand. “Please, just let me go. I’ve already wasted time. The sooner I go, the sooner we’ll know.”
“Call me and let me know what you learn. Don’t worry about coming back here tonight. There’s nothing that can’t wait, but call me.”
Nodding, I stood and rushed to my cubicle. Turning off my computer, I grabbed my partially charged cell phone and purse and headed out, all the while avoiding my coworkers’ eyes. I hoped it looked as if I were heading out to chase another lead, not to possibly identify the body of my missing best friend.
Skipping the elevator, I hurried down the back steps to the garage and got in my car. As I drove toward the Office of the Wayne County Medical Examiner, my mind filled with memories of Mindy. It was almost the end of July, and she’d been missing for nearly two weeks. I did what I’d done a thousand times since the morning she hadn’t shown up for work—I remembered.
My mind flashed back to our freshman year of college nearly ten years before. She’d been sitting across the aisle from me in a journalism seminar. As I thought back, I believed that one reason I’d noticed her was that we looked alike: blonde hair and similar build. I remembered her chewing on the cap of her pen, reading our assignment, and I’d thought I had her beat. I’d already read it. That was still my approach to everything, always sizing up my competition.
Little had I known, Mindy had already read our assignment. She was rereading, because that was who she was. It turned out we were made to be best friends. Fate paired us for our first group project and sheer determination kept us together. During the next five years we were roommates, classmates in college and a master’s program, friends, enemies, and everything in between. Though we’d do anything for each other—and had, many times—it was our competitive spirit that continually pushed us through the long hours of classes and studying, and on to our internships. Together we celebrated success and mourned loss. No matter what life threw at us—asshole professors, scumbag boyfriends, dreaded hangovers—we knew that the one constant was each other. Of course, that closeness never stopped our siblinglike rivalry, the one that drove us to be the best. We vied for the top GPA, and through it all, neither one of us backed down.
After graduate school we went our separate ways to follow our dreams. It wasn’t until Mindy landed her job at the WCJB TV station that we found our way back together. At the time I was working for a big law firm in downtown Detroit as an investigator. I’d had an internship in a crime lab as an undergraduate student and one with Homeland Security during graduate school. Those experiences had taught me how to delve into people’s personal business and spot inconsistencies. At our firm a client’s innocence or lack thereof was never at issue—finding the evidence to substantiate their innocence was my job. In only a short time, I became one of the people on whom the partners depended to find answers.
Then, when Mindy introduced me to the people at WCJB, our friendship opened the door to my current position working for Bernard Cooper, the lead investigative journalist at WCJB. Not only
did Bernard work for the top TV station in Detroit, but he also was well known in the industry. His stories were often picked up for national broadcasts. The mere mention of his name inspired fear and respect. Because of him politicians unexpectedly withdrew from elections and corporations faced millions of dollars in fines. Corruption on any level was his to expose. Whether it was a scandal involving mob bosses, gangs, or the dangers of contaminated lemons at a local restaurant chain, no story was above or beneath him. Stories were everywhere—we just had to find them.
Since Mindy’s parents lived in California, they’d authorized me to make visual confirmation should her body be found. Of course, they’d come here after her disappearance, but there was no sense summoning them each time a body matching Mindy’s description surfaced.
My reminiscing ended as I entered the county government building and took a deep breath. I’d been here only a week before, asked to identify a bloated body that, thankfully, hadn’t turned out to be Mindy. However, memories of the stench-filled examination room and the unnatural color of the body’s stretched skin brought back a rush of nausea. Swallowing the rising bile, I steadied my steps and willed my investigative mask of indifference in place.
As I descended through the winding catacombs on my way to the ME’s office, my mind spun with possibilities. While the number of homicides in Detroit had decreased since the early 1990s, so had the population. Detroit still had the dubious distinction of one of the highest violent crime rates in the nation. The city where I lived and my best friend had disappeared was dangerous, and I was about to witness another of its casualties. I’d encountered death in the course of my job—often. But that was different. That was work. This was personal.
As I rounded the final corner, I stopped and my eyes locked on the compassionate but piercing stare of Dylan Richards.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
His confident swagger disappeared as he moved silently toward me. Each step measured the time I stood rooted to the tile.
“I didn’t want you to do this alone,” he said, reaching for my hands. His warmth enveloped my fingers, making me suddenly aware of the coolness of my own body.