Page 36 of King of Praise
Their voices tremble with remembered pain but also triumph.
They got out. They survived. They’re rebuilding.
And so am I.
The streetlights castlong shadows across the empty parking lot as I hurry toward Micah’s truck, my heart still light from the evening’s meeting. The constant weight of isolation has lifted, replaced by something dangerously close to hope. My footsteps echo against the asphalt, each one carrying me further from the safe circle of understanding I found inside and back toward the complicated reality of my life in hiding.
Micah’s broad frame fills the driver’s seat, his profile illuminated intermittently by passing headlights. He straightens as I approach, dark eyes scanning the surroundings before focusing on me with an intensity that sends familiar warmth through my chest. The passenger door creaks as I climb in, the familiar scent of leather and his cologne wrapping around me like a protective blanket.
“Everything okay?” His deep voice rumbles through the quiet cab. The underlying tension in his words reminds me that this brief taste of normalcy came with considerable risk.
I nod, settling into the worn seat. “More than okay.” The conviction in my voice surprises us both. “Eve mentioned something interesting about Lucas’s case.”
Micah’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Oh?”
“She says there’s clear evidence linking his death to drug dealers. It seems the detective on the case considers it a pretty straightforward case.”
Some of the rigid tension leaves his shoulders, though concern still lines his face. “That’s good news. Though it might not stop Sandra from pushing her own theories.”
The mention of my former mother-in-law sends a chill down my spine despite the truck’s warm interior. Micha’s told me of her threats, and I’ve seen the worry they create in him. Sandra Hunt’s devotion to her son bordered on obsession during our marriage. His death has only intensified that fervor.
“Thank you,” I say softly, needing to change the subject. “For bringing me tonight. For taking the risk. I needed this more than I realized.”
Micah pulls out of the parking lot, his movements precise and controlled. “You shouldn’t have to live in complete isolation. Just be careful until the case is closed. We can’t afford mistakes.”
We. The word settles in my chest, warming places long cold from Lucas’s cruelty. Micah includes me in his calculations now, factors my well-being into his decisions. It’s so different from Lucas’s controlling possessiveness or Sandra’s smothering manipulation.
I push all thoughts of her aside and focus on the positive. My life may be complicated, but I’ve got so much to be thankful for—Micah’s protection, safety from my abuser, and good friends who will do anything to help me heal.
Unexpected tears blur my vision as I realize what I’ve found in that circle of survivors. Not just support or understanding, but genuine friendship. These women really see me. They see beyond the facade of the abused wife or the desperate fugitive. They offer connection without judgment, acceptance without condition.
I wipe my eyes quickly, hoping Micah hasn’t noticed my emotional state. But of course he has. Those dark eyes miss nothing, especially where my well-being is concerned.
“You’re crying.” It’s not quite a question.
“Happy tears,” I assure him, managing a watery smile. “It’s just … I haven’t had real friends in so long. Lucas isolated me from everyone except his mother. Then after I left him, I was too scared to get close to anyone. But these women? They understand. They’ve been there. And I have you to thank for that.”
Micah shifts in his seat as if my last sentence makes him uncomfortable. He’s such a modest man. He processes this in silence, his profile thoughtful in the dashboard lights. Finally, he says, “Everyone needs people they can trust. Just be smart about what you share.”
The warning in his tone reminds me of the precarious nature of our situation. These women may be my friends, may even suspect some of my secrets, but they can never know the full truth about Lucas’s death. That burden belongs only to Micah and me, a dark intimacy forged in blood and necessity.
We take the exit off the highway, leaving the city’s glow behind for darker, more isolated roads. The trees press close to the pavement, their bare winter branches creating twisted shadows in our headlights. Soon we’ll reach the cabin.
Before we parted, Olivia invited me to a day of shopping. She suggested meeting close to Violet Confidence, the store Lydia manages, next week. The prospect both thrills andterrifies me. An afternoon of normal friendship, of shopping and conversation, sounds wonderful. But it comes at the risk of exposure, the chance of being recognized or followed.
“Olivia asked me to go shopping,” I say carefully, testing the waters.
Micah’s jaw tightens. “When?”
“Next week sometime. We haven’t set an exact day,” I rush to add, “I know it’s risky, but she’s smart about these things. You know about her mafia connections. She knows how to be discreet.”
He takes a curve faster than necessary, making me grab the door handle. “Her mafia connection is exactly what worries me. Vincent Vitale isn’t the type to let go easily. If he’s having Olivia watched—”
“She’s been free of him for months,” I argue, though uncertainty creeps into my voice. “Nicolo Moretti himself approved their divorce. She said he’s very traditional about certain things. He believes men who abuse women are weak.”
Micah lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Nicolo’s ‘traditions’ serve his interests first. Everything else is negotiable.” He glances at me briefly. “I’ll think about it. Maybe we can arrange something secure.”
It’s not a no, which from Micah counts as enthusiastic support. I settle back in my seat, hope unfurling cautiously in my chest. “Thank you. For understanding. For everything.”
