Page 21 of Too Late

Was it his house that was leaving him this way? Or was it Chloe?

Was she safe?

He didn’t have any reason to believehewasn’t safe.

Even though he normally turned lights out as he left rooms, he didn’t tonight. There was something heavy, spiritually. He just wished he knew what.

Care to share, Lord? Give me wisdom and discernment, please. Keep Chloe safe.

He checked his whole house but found nothing out of place—no evidence anyone had been there since he’d left this morning.

He retrieved his hiking backpack from the front hall and set it next to his SAR pack in the laundry room off the kitchen.

After getting a glass of water, he settled at the kitchen table with his Bible. He needed to seek the Lord, not only for Chloe’s physical safety, but also for emotional safety—hers and his. Was he a fool for wanting more with her? Who was Owen? What if whatever reared its ugly head in her today was more than he could handle?

It’s not yours to handle.

He knew the source of that admonition. He opened to his favorite psalm. Chapter 121. And he read. But he didn’t stop at the end of that psalm. He kept reading. Immersing himself in God’s Word. It was amazing how the Psalms were filled with the writers crying out for God’s help, and how often they recognized that God was their refuge, where their safety was found.

Help Chloe to find her refuge in You. Would You use me to help her heal from her past? I’m Your willing servant.

A crash sounded in his backyard, and he jumped up.

He skirted the table, turned the deck light on, and drew back the curtains.

Nothing.

He went to his hiking pack and grabbed his bear spray.Paranoid much?He shook his head at himself, but he was on edge, so even if needless, he was going to be extra cautious.

After grabbing his large Mag-lite off the shelf by the door, he opened the door and shined the light into the backyard.

Nothing.

He walked around the side of the house. The trash can had been knocked over.

Flashing the light around, he looked for a raccoon, the most likely suspect.

Nothing.

This was stupid. He walked to the trash can and picked it up. Very little trash had fallen out. Even if trash had been picked up five days ago, he was a single man with little waste. Now, his recycle bin would have been another story.

He directed the beam of his flashlight across the ground to make sure he caught everything.

A wrapper.

He bent to pick it up but paused. A Halls cough drop. He didn’t use that brand, plus he hadn’t had a cough drop since he’d had the flu last spring.

He picked it up and threw it away. Chances were someone had just stuck it in the trash can as they walked by. Either that or the raccoon had a cold.

Chapter Seven

InGabe’skitchen,Chloeset Poirot’s now-full water dish on the floor and scratched the dog’s head. She checked her watch. Ten o’clock. She really should go to bed, but she was afraid of how fitful her night would be.

She knelt beside Poirot. “At least your paw seems to be feeling better. Grandpa made you sit in the den all day, didn’t he?”

Poirot nudged her arm.

“I know you want to go for a walk, but it isn’t going to happen. It’s too late, and you still have to take it easy. And I need a shower.”

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