Page 7 of King of Praise
The truck’s engine roars to life, heat slowly seeping from the vents. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, debating. The meeting with Zeke laid important groundwork. I should start working on Francesca Barone and figure out an angle to pull her to our side. But Naomi’s missed call nags at me.
Traffic crawls through downtown Columbus, brake lights glowing red in the gathering dusk. My unease grows with each passing minute. By the time I reach my building, the knot in my stomach has twisted into a cold weight of dread.
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protesting creak of my knee. The dread crystalizes into ice in my veins when I reach my floor. My apartment door hangs ajar, the frame on one side splintered like kindling.
Training takes over. I approach silently, scanning for movement, threats, ambush points. But what I find stops me cold.
Lucas—my son—lies face-up on my floor, a puddle of blood beneath him. One of my kitchen knives protrudes from his chest right next to his heart. And there, huddled on the floor of the kitchen like a wounded animal, is Naomi—covered in blood, her green eyes wide with shock and terror.
Powder paces the perimeter of the scene, tail puffed to twice its size. Her distressed meows seem very far away as I try to process what I’m seeing.
My son. Dead.
The boy I lost to Sandra’s manipulation decades ago. The man who grew into someone I couldn’t recognize—a monster wearing my son’s face. Now he lies still, his blood soaking my floor.
And Naomi … Christ.
The quiet strength that first drew me to her is shattered. She stares through me, beyond me, trapped in whatever horror played out here.
Years of experience kick in, letting me assess the scene with clinical detachment. Clearly this was self-defense—the splintered door, the bruises darkening on her throat, the split lip, the defensive wounds on her arms. But that won’t matter to the police. Not with Sandra’s connections. Not with the complicated tangle of relationships involved.
Your son’s wife. Who you’ve been harboring. Who you’ve been watching with something more than fatherly concern for weeks now.
Grief and guilt war in my chest, tangled with shameful relief that Lucas can never hurt her again. I push it all down.
Later. I’ll deal with it later.
“Naomi.” I keep my voice soft, steady. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink.
I move closer, careful not to startle her. Blood has begun to dry on her skin, her flowered dress stiff with it. The dress I’d complimented just this morning, entranced by how it made her look soft and strong at once.
My fingers find her pulse—rapid but steady. Her skin feels cold. Shock, probably. I need to get her warm, get her clean. I need tohandlethis.
I pull out my phone, dialing Eli. He answers on the first ring.
“Need you at my place. Cleaning job.”
A pause. “How bad?”
I look at my dead son, at the blood-covered woman I’ve been trying not to fall for. “Bad. Bring the kit.”
“Twenty minutes.”
I end the call, knowing Eli will understand what needs to be done. He always does.
Naomi hasn’t moved, barely seems to be breathing. I crouch in front of her, moving slowly.
“Hey. I’m going to help you up now, okay?” No response. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t resist as I gather her into my arms. She weighs almost nothing, bird-bones and trembling muscle. I carry her to the bathroom, setting her gently on the closed toilet lid while I start the shower.
Steam fills the small space as I help her undress with careful efficiency. I try to avert my eyes, to maintain what privacy I can, but I don’t miss the evidence of Lucas’s final attack—fresh bruises blooming purple on her ribs, cuts joining the partially healed ones scattered across her skin.
Rage rises hot in my throat. I should have seen this coming, should have known Lucas wouldn’t let her go so easily, should have protected her better.
Should have put him down years ago, when you first saw the darkness growing in him.
I push the thought away. I need to focus on the now. I need to get the blood off her skin, out of her hair, all while keeping my touch clinical despite the fierce protectiveness threatening to overwhelm me.
