Page 22 of Every Deadly Suspicion

“I’m just not ready to leave. I’ve almost got my degree in criminal justice; you know I’ve always wanted to be a cop. It’s not just that, Jared. My church home is here.”

“It always comes back to that church, doesn’t it?” Jared spoke sharper than he’d intended.

“The way you say that—” She shook her head. “Church is my family.”

“I’m sorry. You know I struggle with what you believe. All that ‘God is good’ talk. I hate to see you be deceived. If he was good, why did my mom have to die when I was just a kid?”

“I don’t have an answer that will satisfy you. This will always be a barrier in our relationship. It comes back to God—I believe, and you don’t.”

Jared felt like screaming. She was right—this was the only issue that came between them in all the years they’d been together. He couldn’t fathom why it was such a big deal to her.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, it does. I don’t want to be a jerk.”

“I don’t want you to leave, Jared. But I won’t stop you, if it’s what you really want.”

He could admit now how much it had hurt when Hanna said no, and how angry he’d been. He’d initially told her he wanted to leave to see the world, and that was mostly true. But when she said no to traveling with him, he tried to run away from her and the memory of how happy he’d been when they were together.

Jared thought that eventually he could forget Hanna and build a life somewhere new, someplace with a few more layers. He’d spent years bouncing from state to state, confident the exciting life he sought was out there. He’d climbed mountains and skied in Colorado, then changed things up and found his way to New Mexico to build houses in the desert sun. After that there was Florida, New York, Canada, and many other places in between.

When Jared had left home, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for. What he did know for sure was that Dry Oaks was too tedious, too limiting. He wanted to be alive, not just live, and somehow the small town restricted him. Everyone knew him, and he knew everyone. He was certain that by leaving he’d find something different, something better.

“What do you expect to find?”his father had asked.

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

Jared never saw it. Some places he liked better than others, and he stayed there longer. But always, over time, the same restlessness enveloped him, and he had to move on. He began to dread moving on as much as he dreaded staying. It was an odd conundrum that had twisted him in knots.

Then the day nine months ago stopped him cold.

He’d been working on a friend’s roof just outside of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Wherever Jared landed he’d find work. He was good with his hands and a trained welder. When he finished stapling in the last remaining roof tile, he stood and looked around. In the distance the snowcapped Sawtooth Mountains stood majestic. He’d been helping his friends build this house for six months. Now his part was finished, and he could move on.

He sighed, trying to put a name to what he was feeling, but he couldn’t. He knew what hewasn’tfeeling. There was no joy in him, no sense of accomplishment, no excitement to move on. There was no sense that he should stay here in Idaho either. He felt simply bland. His emotions as dull as a midnight radio talk show.

A vehicle in the distance approached the house. Ken was back from town, and it would be time for lunch. Jared grabbed his tool bag and headed for the ladder. By the time he got down and threw his tools in his truck, Ken climbed out of his car.

“Got something for you, Jared.”

“Yeah?”

Ken walked over to him, holding out what looked like a battered letter. “Kind of a miracle this found you. It’s a few months old.”

Jared took the letter and turned it over in his hands. When he’d first started traveling, he’d been good about calling and corresponding to let his father know where to send his mail. General delivery, usually. But in the past few years, he’d lived off the gridand been sporadic in his correspondence, and consequently, any mail he got was spotty.“You have to write letters to get letters,”an old man had told him once.

Because a sort of depression had been building inside him for months, Jared had not been good about keeping in touch with his father lately.

But this letter was not from his dad. It was from his uncle Gary. It had been mailed to the last place Jared had stayed for any length of time: Colorado. Jared agreed, it was a miracle it had found him here in Idaho, six months later.

He leaned against his truck and opened the battered, stained letter.

Dear Jared,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m mailing it to the last address your father had for you. Maybe before it gets to you, you’ll call and this will be unnecessary. But I have to give you some bad news. Your father passed away yesterday...

Jared reread the sentence twice, and his knees gave way. He slid down the truck, landing on his butt with his back to the rear tire. It was hard to breathe as he reread the same sentence over and over, the realization hitting him like a kick from a mule.

He continued to read through blurry, watery eyes.

He was working in the yard, and he had a massive stroke. The doctor says he was gone before he hit the ground. We’re holding off making arrangements until we hear from you. But please know, we can’t wait too long.

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