Page 110 of Deadly Force
But there's also hope woven through the darkness. Eliza's determination to ensure that the truth, no matter how horrific, would not be buried. One person who helped preserve this evidence even when it seemed impossible. A single voice who chose truth over comfort, justice over silence.
This is what Christians have always done. Fought for justice when everyone else stayed silent. Like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who spoke against evil and paid with his life. Like the believers who sheltered Jewish families during the Holocaust, knowing they risked everything. Like the missionaries who exposed human trafficking rings, only to disappear without a trace. Like the pastors in communist countries who preached freedom and died in prison camps. Like the modern-day believers who document persecution, who speak for the voiceless, who refuse to let evil hide in darkness, even when it costs them everything.
By the time I reach the last line, tears are sliding down my cheeks unchecked. My chest aches with the weight of what I've just unleashed into the world—forty-seven pages of Eliza's stolen evidence, condensed into a three-thousand-word article that will either open eyes or confirm willful blindness.
It won't undo what's been done. Logic and evidence rarely penetrate hearts that have already chosen a lie. They'll keep calling it healthcare. Keep looking the other way. Because acknowledging what this really is would shatter the carefully constructed justifications they've built their choices upon.
But Eliza and her child didn't die in vain. Crowley has highlighted the hypocrisy of abortion better than any activist ever could.
He has been charged not just with Eliza's death, but herunbornchild'stoo.
The evidence is undeniable for those willing to look.
Caleb
I'm doing a poor job of buttering bread one-handed for a roast beef sandwich when Mick steps in behind me.
“Brooke likes horseradish with her roast beef,” he says as he closes the kitchen door.
I nod. He didn’t come in here to tell me how to make sandwiches. This is about something else. Something more personal and infinitely more important.
Mick jerks his head toward the living room. "She’s started typing. In the flow. We won’t see her until dinner, maybe not even then."
I nod and abandon the knife. Easier to call for pizza.Again."Figured. She’s got a lot of words to get out of her system."
He crosses his arms. Stares at me for a long beat. I know that look. I've been on the receiving end of it in briefing rooms and safe houses. But this time it's different. This isn't about mission parameters or operational security. This is about his sister, and what he's asking me to understand about the responsibility I'm taking on.
"I don't do speeches," he says. "And I'm not great at subtle."
The words hang in the air between us, a warning and an invitation wrapped together. I understand what he's really saying. This conversation matters. What happens next matters. And he's not going to dance around the important parts.
I lean against the counter. "Should I be taking notes?"
"She's my only sister," he says. "And after what happened... after what you did for her... I needed to say something."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't shake my hand. Doesn't offer any of the usual masculine rituals of acceptance or approval.
But he nods once. "Thank you. For coming. And for staying. I know she didn’t make it easy."
The simple acknowledgment isn’t just gratitude, it's recognition. Recognition of what could have been lost, of what I helped preserve. Of the woman in the next room who's changing the world one keystroke at a time, and almost didn't get the chance.
I nod back. "I'd do it again."
Without hesitation. Without question. As many times as necessary, for as long as she'll let me.
He turns to go, then pauses in the doorway. The gesture feels weighted with significance, like he's giving me one last chance to understand what he's really asking of me.
"She's not about to stop chasing stories like this."
“I know. But I’m praying she’ll stop chasing them alone,” I say.
He studies me a moment longer, like he's running my name through every filter in his system. Looking for red flags, inconsistencies, reasons to doubt my intentions. I let him look. I've got nothing to hide, and everything to prove.
"If you break her heart," he says, voice light but not joking, "I'll come looking."
The threat hangs in the air between us, casual and absolute. I let a half-smile pull at the edge of my mouth. "You know where to find me, man.”
EPILOGUE
