Page 139 of Stolen Faith

It was time to go out there and start asking some pointed questions about the Trinity Masters.

First stop, Miami.

“We could have waited for the court system,” she said.

“You believe they would have given us justice?”

Juliette sat back, staring at Franco. She’d expected him to object to the plan. Expected him to protest.

Instead, he was firmly supportive because he didn’t think the court would convict either Jonah, TiffaniGrace, or Barry.

“We’ll still have to go through with the trial.” Devon walked into the room, loosening his tie. “It would be too suspicious if all three of them died in custody.”

“And you’re sure it’ll be believable?” Franco asked.

Devon snorted. “Yes, I’m sure that I know how to take someone out and have it look like a heart attack.”

“The CIA has done it enough,” Franco said.

“Says who?” Devon crossed his arms, frowning. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Any idea when?” Juliette asked.

Devon glanced at a clock on the wall. “Not tonight. Bed?”

Once, it would have been a statement, but now, it was a question.

“Bed,” Franco said, standing and holding out his hands.

He let them into their large bedroom. They’d been renovating this house, making it perfect for a trinity.

Now they’d probably have to move. As far as the public was concerned, this was Devon and Franco’s house, and Juliette was staying with them as she recovered. If she never left, someone might ask questions that would lend credence to their enemy’s claims.

A problem for another night.

Franco and Devon undressed Juliette, kissing the few faint scars. They were no more than a few flat, pale lines across her flesh.

Then Franco and Juliette undressed Devon, gentle with his far more noticeable scars—the large misshapen impact point just above his heart and scattered smaller scars around it, like small planets around a sun that was going supernova.

Franco undressed himself, gently batting away their hands. “Too slow.”

That made Devon laugh, and it eased the quiet, pain-laced tension. Laughter had them smiling and teasing as they climbed on the bed.

* * *

Two days later, the morning news headline read, “Accused megachurch pastor found dead.”

The story went on to claim that the pastor had hanged himself in his cell, presumably because yesterday, irrefutable evidence had come to light proving that he’d killed his wife, Sally Ann Morgan, years ago. Ballistics tests, eye-witness accounts, and most damning, the blood and DNA analysis of the tissue under the wife’s fingernails were enough that the Atlanta DA was reopening the case.

Jonah hadn’t killed himself. He’d thought he was above the law; sure he would get away with it. He’d already been talking about how he was persecuted and discriminated against.

The man Devon sent in to help Jonah fall on his sword had to listen to several hours of Jonah’s pontificating to his cellmate.

Jonah died before learning that his daughter, TiffaniGrace, who was awaiting trial in a minimum-security facility, had attacked a fellow inmate and been moved to the federal penitentiary.

Jonah’s death was the main story that day, but tacked onto the end of the article was a quick soundbite saying that Barry Hausenfluck, who’d been arrested with Jonah, was in critical condition in an Atlanta hospital after suffering a massive heart attack.

He wasn’t expected to make it.

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