Page 116 of At Her Will

One of the officers had stuck with Vera, telling the judge the mother wasn’t a flight risk, and verifying she was unquestionably the victim of a serious domestic abuse situation. She was back with Dequan within a couple hours.

So it had been a worthwhile day, though a long one. And not just for her. Rev had had a church commitment tonight, leading a prayer circle at the homeless shelter. He’d warned her it usually led to one-on-ones with some of the guests, and a possible overnight to give further succor to lost and hurting souls. He was going to have breakfast with her, though. Since she’d given him a key, the thought of him coming to wake her was appealing.

She closed the door of her detached garage, putting the Aston Martin to bed for the night, and headed for her back porch. She was going to have a hot bath and a glass of wine. Terron, her neighbor, was still up, his upstairs light on. An economics professor, he was often up late with his lesson plans, grading assignments and helping students who contacted him through the college’s messaging system.

The scrape of a shoe on her porch, a movement in the shadows, had her grabbing for her pepper spray. She opened her mouth to scream her loudest, but the figure lunged, arm sweeping forward. Pain exploded through her skull, spinning her around and dropping her against her metal chairs. She grabbed them as she went down, hoping they’d make enough racket to draw Terron’s attention.

Except he wore earphones that blasted seventies rock music at him while he was working.

Her attacker landed on her. Despite her spinning head, she fought, kicking and punching, wiggling and trying to force a scream out of her frozen throat. A grunt said she’d succeeded in hurting him. She’d also thrown the asshole off of her. Her mosaic table fell to the boards as he sent it toppling. He cursed and she was hit again, dazing her further.

In the next horrifying moment, her mouth was muffled, a cloth jammed into it, a bag over her head shutting out light. The panic was almost worse than the pain in her skull.

“Had to wait longer for you than I thought,” a male voice grumbled. “Should have known. A witch prefers the devil’s hours.”

Her shriek against the cloth was strangled, jaw and limbs going rigid as agonizing electricity rocketed through them. She scrambled to hold onto consciousness, knowing her life depended on it, but with the Taser and the head blow, the battle was lost.

Everything went dark.

At eight in the morning, Rev paused in front of Vera’s house, thinking of her curvy body nested in her bed, the chestnut-colored skin of her arm and shoulder visible, her lush curves barely clad in something silky. Yesterday, when she’d told him to wake her for breakfast, her tone suggested they might not make it out, so he’d brought some. Two pastries and coffees from the café down the street she liked. If she wanted something more substantial, he’d go get it, but she wasn’t normally a heavy breakfast person.

As he went around the house and climbed the steps to the kitchen entrance she’d told him to use, he noticed the chairs she kept flush against the siding had been adjusted, facing one another. The mosaic table between them had cracks, a couple tiles missing.

Maybe she’d had company last night and someone had knocked it over. He rapped his knuckles on the back door. If she was already up, he didn’t want to be presumptuous, just walking in on her. That key was a gift he wouldn’t disrespect.

Yesterday, he’d taken out his ring of keys and held that one in his hand, as if it held the warmth of her body. Beau had caught him at it. When Rev admitted Vera had given him her key, Beau had told him he was acting like a girl who’d gotten engaged, staring at the sparkly diamond on her finger. But his friend had squeezed his shoulder, the ribbing meant to be good-natured.

As Rev listened for the sound of her stirring behind the door, he noticed a color that didn’t fit with the colors of her azaleas. He moved to the railing and peered down.

His mind froze.

It was her purse, the red one with little pearls and gold on it. She wore her black skirt and red blouse with it, and a gold chain belt.

In the next instant, the coffee and pastries were left behind and he was in the house. Turning the key in the lock wasted precious seconds. He almost forced the door open on its frame before the deadbolt drew back.

He called her name as he strode through the rooms and to her bedroom. Her bed was still made. No coffee cup in the sink, no TV remote tossed on the couch before she’d gone to bed. She was neat, but she wasn’t obsessive about it. She liked a house that looked like someone lived there.

He returned to the porch to retrieve the purse, then thought better of it. Fingerprints. The police would want to see where everything was. But then he saw a scrap of white stuck between two of her potted plants. When he crouched down to look closer at it, his heart thudded in his ears.

New Orleans had its share of crime. But he didn’t know of many criminals who carried wallet cards with the service and event schedule at Rev’s church. The special, more detailed kind printed for volunteers, including the ushers.

No. No.No.

It just wasn’t possible.

But in Rev’s gut, he knew it was.

When he dialed the church office, Mrs. Byrd answered.

“This is Rev, Mrs. Byrd.”

“Why Rev, using a cell phone. Miracles are happening every day. I?—”

“Where’s Witford?”

His terse tone had her pausing. “He picked up a message left on the machine by Tyson. Said he had the package Witford told him to get, and he’d brought it to the old mill. When I asked Witford about it, he said it was supplies they want to store there, for the upcoming revival. Witford took Simon with him to help sort them out.”

Simon and Tyson were the two ushers who’d shared Witford and Tisha’s distrust of Veracity. Rev had talked to them about it, but they’d brushed off his concerns. Much as Witford had, when he’d shut down further conversation with Rev about her.

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