Imposter Con

Chapter 1 –  The Imposter

Patrick stepped out of his truck and looked across the parking lot of Bethany Southern Baptist Church. He had attended this church before. The asphalt stretched in the same shape he remembered from fifty-five years earlier. He stood still for a moment, letting the warm Tucson air settle around him. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the pavement. He walked slowly toward the main building, taking in the familiar footprint of the place. The classrooms had once been dusty, cramped, and dim. Now the windows gleamed, the paint was fresh, and the landscaping looked professionally maintained.

He had chosen a clean button-down shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. He wanted to be trusted but not flashy. He wanted people to see him as humble, simple and safe.

He paused near the entrance and studied the brickwork. “It was not like this,” he murmured. His voice sounded strange to him, as if he were speaking to a ghost. He stepped inside and felt the cool air of the hallway. The scent of cleaning products mixed with something floral. He remembered the old smell of chalk dust and worn hymnals. Everything felt newer, brighter, and far more polished than the church he had known as a boy.

‘It is cleaner. It is richer. It is safer. They have money now.’

He looked at the way the sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows. That hadn’t changed. There were framed photographs on the wall next to the raised dais. Some of the pictures were on older women who looked like they might be widows.

‘Find the weak points. Find the people who trust too easily.’

He walked down the hallway, passing more framed photographs of mission trips and children’s choirs. He stopped at one picture of a group of teenagers holding Bibles. Their faces were bright and hopeful. He stared at them for a long moment.

‘They have no idea what the world will do to them.’

He turned a corner and entered a larger hallway that led toward the sanctuary. The carpet was thick and soft under his shoes. He remembered thin carpet that had been worn through in places. He remembered sitting in a metal folding chair during youth meetings. He remembered the pastor’s voice booming through an old speaker system that crackled whenever he raised his volume.

A woman approached him from the opposite direction. She wore a navy skirt and a cream blouse, and her hair was styled neatly. She carried a stack of papers and smiled warmly. “Hello there. Can I help you with something?”

 She shifted the papers in her arms. “My name is Angie. I work in the office.”

Patrick returned the smile. “I am not sure. I have not been in a church for a long time.”

“Are you visiting?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I felt drawn here. Something told me I should come.”

‘She believes that. Good.’

She gestured toward the sanctuary. “Would you like to see the church?”

“Yes,” he said. “I want to understand everything.”

As they walked, he studied the pews, the choir loft, the pulpit. Angie said, “We are a friendly congregation. People here care about each other.”

Patrick nodded. “That is exactly what I hoped to find.”

‘Keep her comfortable. Keep her open.’

Are you new to the area?”

“No. I have lived here before. A long time ago.”

She nodded. “Well, we are always happy to welcome people back. Are you looking for a church home?”

He let his shoulders sag slightly, as if uncertain. “I do not know. I am trying to understand faith. I never did before.”

Her expression softened. “Would you like someone to talk to? We have an excellent pastor who would be glad to meet with you.”

“I would like that,” he said.

Dr. Samuel R. Whitford stepped out of his office, adjusting his glasses. “Hello there. I do not think we have met. I’m the pastor here. My name is Whitford.”

“I’m Patrick Kelleher.”

“What brings you to Bethany?”

Patrick offered a gentle smile. “I am searching for guidance. I have felt lost. I wondered if your ministry could help me.”

The pastor’s expression softened. “We would be honored to help. Do you have questions about our beliefs?”

Patrick knew all about their beliefs. When he was a boy, they had been the center of his universe. He was no longer a boy and he had no intention of letting them know his real objective.

“Yes,” Patrick asked. “What does your church teach about finding purpose?”

‘Make him think you are sincere. Make him trust you.’

Dr. Whitford said, “Purpose begins with surrender. We walk with Christ and let Him lead.”

Patrick nodded slowly. “That is what I want. Someone to lead me.”

Angie clasped her hands. “Would you like to join us Sunday?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “After meeting you, I would like that very much.”

“You might want to attend one of our Bible study groups as well,” Dr. Whitford added.

“I would like that,” Patrick said.

“Can I sign you up now?” Angie asked with an encouraging smile.”

Patrick shook his head gently. “Not yet. I want to look around first.”

“Of course,” she said. “You are welcome to explore. We have Bible study groups, community events, and Sunday services. You might enjoy the Sunday morning service. It is very uplifting.”

He nodded again. “I will come. I am trying to learn.”

“I have an appointment,” Dr. Whitford said. “I’ll leave you in the good care of Angie here.”

He extended a hand and Patrick took it eagerly.”

Angie smiled again. “Let me show you something.” She gestured toward a bulletin board mounted on the wall. “This has all our weekly activities. You can see what we offer.”

Patrick stepped closer and studied the board. It was filled with colorful flyers. He saw announcements for women’s groups, men’s breakfasts, youth nights, senior luncheons, and Bible studies. He read each one carefully.

Patrick paused in the empty hallway and let his eyes linger on the bulletin board longer than necessary, studying each flyer with the quiet focus of a man choosing more than a church.

‘Women’s fellowship. Senior Ministry. Widow support group. That is useful. Very useful.’

Angie pointed to a flyer. “This group meets on Sunday right after the service. They study the Gospel of Mathew. It is a small group, very friendly.”

He nodded slowly. “Do many people come?”

“A good number,” she said. “Mostly older members. They enjoy the fellowship.”

‘Older members. Lonely members. Vulnerable members. Those were what he was after. Angie was no good for his purposes. She was too young, too confident and too happy. I need a bird with a broken wing.’

She pointed to another flyer. “This one is for our Sunday school classes. We have several options. You can choose whichever feels right.”

He studied the names listed. He saw a class for seniors led by a man named Pastor Reynolds. He saw another class for widows led by a woman named Margaret. He saw a mixed adult class that met in the fellowship hall.

‘Widows. That is the one. That is where I will start.’

He kept his voice gentle. “There is a lot here. More than I expected.”

“We try to offer something for everyone,” Angie said. “Are you looking for a particular kind of group?”

“I am not sure,” he said. “I want to learn about Jesus. I never understood Him.”

She smiled warmly. “You are in the right place. We would love to help you.”

He nodded again. “Thank you. You have been very kind.”

“Would you like a brochure?” she asked.

“Yes. That would help.”

She handed him a folded pamphlet. “This explains our ministries. You can read it at home.”

He accepted it. “Thank you.”

“I need to take these papers to the office,” she said. “Feel free to look around. If you have questions, come find me.”

“I will,” he said.

She walked away, her heels clicking softly on the carpet. Patrick watched her turn into the office and close the door behind her. He stood alone in the hallway, holding the brochure.

He unfolded it and scanned the pages. He saw photographs of smiling families, groups of seniors gathered around tables, and children holding craft projects. He read descriptions of ministries designed to support people in need.

‘They are open. They are trusting. They are ready to welcome anyone who walks through the door.’

He walked the length of the corridor with slow, deliberate steps, memorizing doors, exits, and the rhythm of the building as if he were mapping a place he intended to use.

He walked slowly toward the sanctuary. The double doors were closed, but he pushed one open and stepped inside. The room was dim, lit only by a few wall sconces. The pews were polished and new. The carpet was deep burgundy. The pulpit stood at the front, gleaming under a soft light.

He walked down the aisle and stopped halfway. He looked at the pulpit and remembered the old wooden one from his youth. He remembered sitting in the back row, restless and impatient. He remembered the pastor’s sermons about sin and redemption. He remembered feeling nothing.

‘I feel nothing now. But they do. They believe every word.’

He turned and looked at the rows of pews. He imagined them filled with people. He imagined their faces. He imagined their trust. His expression remained calm while his mind shifted through possibilities.

‘One of them will be the right one. I will know when I see her.’

He walked back up the aisle and stepped into the hallway again. He folded the brochure and slipped it into his pocket. He looked once more at the bulletin board, studying the flyers with careful attention.

‘Wednesday night. Sunday morning. I will come back. I will watch. I will listen. I will choose.’

He turned toward the exit and walked out into the warm evening air. The parking lot stretched before him, unchanged in shape but transformed in every other way. He stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle around him.

‘This will work. This place will give me what I need.’

He walked to his truck, opened the door, and climbed inside. He started the engine and pulled out of the lot, already planning his next visit.

            *           *           *

The following Sunday, Patrick saw the sanctuary glowing with morning light that filtered through tall stained‑glass windows. The glow scattered soft colors across the polished pews. Patrick stood near the back, his hands folded loosely, his eyes moving with quiet precision. The air smelled faintly of furniture polish and old hymnals, a mixture of reverence and routine. The ceiling arched high above him, painted white and trimmed with gold, and the sound of the choir drifted like a slow tide through the room. He watched the congregation rise and sit, rise and sit, a rhythm that felt mechanical yet comforting.

He let his gaze travel along the rows until it stopped on her. She sat alone, halfway down the right side, a pale figure in a sea of color. Her hair caught the light in muted tones, and her hands rested motionless on her lap. She did not sing. She did not look around. Her eyes were fixed somewhere far away, as if she were staring through the wall into another world.

She looked wounded and vulnerable. She didn’t speak to anyone or even make eye contact. She looked fragile in the way a porcelain cup is fragile. She was beautiful, but he thought one good hard knock could shatter her.

‘She is my bird with the broken wing. She does not even know it.’

She turned her face and he saw how sad and lonely she looked. For a moment, Patrick felt a small twist of pity inside his head. It did not last. Viet Nam had burned that softness out of him.

Patrick remembered the day he dropped out of high school and signed his name at the Army recruiting office. He had traded in his naïve faith and bible for a helmet, rifle and field pack.

He remembered the heat of Viet Nam, the noise, the fear, and the way it hardened him. He remembered the courtroom where the judge sentenced him for wire fraud, and the two years he spent in prison learning how to read people and how to lie without hesitation. He had been in and out of trouble ever since, a man shaped by conflict and survival rather than conscience.

The woman sat very still. Her face had a gaunt and joyless look. Her clothes looked expensive, but they no longer fit her quite right. She had obviously lost weight. He wondered if she was grieving. Perhaps she had lost her husband recently. A woman walked by and said hello. His target did not speak. She lowered her chine a quarter of an inch. She smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

Then the pastor’s voice echoed from the pulpit, deep and steady, speaking of mercy and renewal. Patrick listened without hearing. His attention stayed on the woman. The people around her smiled and nodded, but she remained still, untouched by the warmth that filled the room. The sunlight touched her face, revealing faint lines of fatigue and something softer beneath, despair, perhaps, or resignation.

He shifted slightly, careful not to draw attention. The carpet beneath his shoes was thick and burgundy, muffling every sound. The pews gleamed with fresh varnish, and the brass fixtures caught the light like small flames. Everything about the church spoke of prosperity and care. It was not the dusty place he remembered from his youth. It was cleaner, richer, safer.

‘They have built a fortress of faith. But even fortresses have doors.’

When the service ended, the congregation began to move. Voices rose in gentle conversation, laughter, greetings. Patrick waited, pretending to study the hymnbook. The woman stood slowly, clutching her purse as if it were a shield. She moved down the aisle without speaking to anyone. Her steps were careful, deliberate, almost fragile.

He followed at a distance, blending with the flow of people. She turned down a side hallway lined with framed photographs of mission trips and youth choirs. The air there was cooler, quieter. She stopped at a door marked A‑19 and slipped inside.

Patrick paused near the bulletin board beside the door. Flyers and schedules covered it in neat rows. He scanned them quickly, reading titles and times. The class in A‑19 studied the Book of Matthew. The same group met each Sunday after services.

‘Perfect. She will be there. She will be waiting for someone to notice her.’

He stepped back, letting the hallway empty. The sound of voices faded behind the closed door. He looked once more at the sign, memorizing it, then turned toward the exit.

Outside, the sun had climbed higher, washing the parking lot in gold. He walked to his truck, the gravel crunching softly under his shoes. He opened the door, sat behind the wheel, and looked at the church one last time.

‘I have found her. I know where to begin.’

He started the engine and drove away, the reflection of stained glass still flickering in his mind.

Chapter 2 – The Victim

Darleen Swenson woke with a sharp pull in her lower back, the kind that made her breathe in through her teeth. Her legs ached as if she had walked miles the day before, although she had barely left the house. She blinked at the ceiling, unsure for a moment what day it was. The room felt dim and stale, as if the night had not fully ended. She rubbed her forehead and found a mild headache waiting for her.

‘Why am I so tired again?’

She pushed herself upright, wincing as her joints protested. The clock on the nightstand glowed its quiet numbers. Sunday. The realization struck her with a jolt. She whispered, “Oh no, I am going to be late for church.”

She swung her feet to the floor and steadied herself before standing. The carpet felt cool under her toes. As she stepped into the hallway, she paused in front of the framed picture of Wayne. His familiar smile looked back at her, gentle and steady. She touched the frame lightly.

“I miss you,” she said.

‘It still hurts, but it is a pain I know. A pain I have lived with for years.’

Next to Wayne’s picture hung Terry’s. She stopped again, her breath catching. His loss was different, raw and sharp, only six months old. She stared at his face, the one she still expected to see in the kitchen some mornings.

“I do not know how to do this without you,” she whispered. The loss of her second husband was an open wound.

‘Maybe I should stay home. Maybe I cannot make it today.’

She closed her eyes and let the thought sit for a moment. Then she shook her head.

“No. I need to go.”

She moved into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Her reflection looked older than she felt, or perhaps exactly as old as she felt. She dressed quickly, choosing a simple blouse and slacks, then brushed her hair with slow, deliberate strokes.

In the garage, her Tesla waited in its usual silence. She saw the charging cable still latched to the port and almost gave up. Life was so hard. Even a small task seemed insurmountable.

“Take strength from God,” she said aloud.

After a deep breath, she pressed the button on the handle and pulled it free. She hung the cord on its hook with a tired sigh, then opened the car door and eased herself into the seat.

She slid into the driver’s seat and exhaled.

“All right. Let’s go.”

The car hummed to life. As she backed out of the driveway, the Tucson sun poured through the windshield, bright and hot despite the season. It was two weeks before Christmas, yet the sky was a hard blue and the light felt almost cruel in its intensity.

‘Everyone else is getting ready for the holidays. I am just trying to get through the day.’

She turned onto the main road and headed toward Bethany Southern Baptist Church near Broadway and Craycroft. Traffic was light. The sun flashed across the hood of the car, making her squint.

“I should have left earlier,” she muttered.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. She felt old. She felt alone. She felt like someone who had already lived the part of her life that mattered, and now she was simply moving through the rest because she did not know what else to do.

‘Just get to church. Just sit in the sanctuary. Just breathe.’

She drove on.

When she got to the church, she stood outside for a moment collecting her thoughts. She had been coming here forever but, since Terry died, it was hard.

Once she was inside the church, Darleen sat alone in the pew, her hands folded in her lap as the sanctuary filled with quiet voices and the soft rustle of hymnals. She breathed in slowly, letting the familiar scent of old wood and warm fabric settle her nerves. When the pastor began to speak, she lifted her head and listened. His voice carried through the room with a steady calm that made her shoulders loosen.

‘Stay here. Listen. Let something hold you up for a while.’

The sermon moved gently from scripture to encouragement. She whispered, “I needed to hear that,” although no one sat close enough to notice. The words felt like a hand on her back, guiding her forward, reminding her that she was not entirely alone. She blinked up at the stained-glass windows as the light shifted across the colors. The reds and blues glowed like embers, warm and alive.

The choir began a hymn, and she closed her eyes for a moment. “This is beautiful,” she murmured. The music rose around her, filling the sanctuary with a soft swell that eased the tightness in her chest. She let the sound wash over her, grateful for the way it steadied her breathing.

‘Just sit. Just listen. Let the music carry some of the weight.’

She opened her eyes again and watched the sunlight pour through the glass, scattering bright patches across the floor. The colors reminded her of Christmases long past, when she had sat beside Wayne, and later beside Terry. She felt the ache of their absence, but the light softened it, turning the pain into something quieter.

She whispered, “I miss you both,” then straightened her back and tried to focus on the hymn. The melody rose and fell, gentle and familiar. She followed the words on the page, her voice barely audible, yet present enough to remind her that she was still part of something.

‘You can keep going. You can sit here and breathe. You can make it through this hour.’

The pastor returned to the pulpit and continued his message. She listened with careful attention, taking strength from each sentence. The sanctuary felt safe, held together by faith and routine. She let herself lean into it, even if only for a little while.

Darleen sat in the pew long after most people had already filed out of the sanctuary. The sunlight through the stained glass painted soft colors across her skirt, but she did not seem to notice. Her hands rested lightly on her purse, fingers still and pale, as if she were afraid that any movement might draw attention. The choir’s final notes had faded, yet she remained motionless, staring at the far wall with an expression that looked almost translucent.

‘If I move, I will break. I can feel it.’

Her breathing stayed shallow, careful, measured. She had learned to breathe that way in the months after Terry died, when every inhale felt like a weight pressing against her ribs. The sanctuary around her felt too large, too bright, too full of voices she could not bear to join. People passed her on their way out, offering polite smiles she did not return. She kept her eyes lowered, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze.

‘They do not know me. They do not know what I lost.’

The pastor’s voice echoed faintly from the hallway as he greeted members leaving the building. She listened without listening, her mind drifting like dust in a sunbeam. The pew beneath her felt solid, but she felt fragile, as if one sharp word or one unexpected touch could shatter her into pieces too small to gather.

She finally stood, her movements slow and deliberate. Her legs felt unsteady, but she steadied herself with a hand on the pew. The sanctuary seemed to tilt slightly, though she knew it was only her grief shifting inside her. She walked toward the aisle, keeping her gaze fixed on the carpet so she would not have to see anyone’s face.

‘Just get through the morning. That is all you have to do.’

She moved down the hallway lined with framed photographs of mission trips and children’s choirs. She did not look at them. She had walked this hallway every Sunday since Terry’s death, hoping routine would dull the ache. It had not. The ache lived with her, quiet and constant, like a shadow she could not outrun.

She reached the door marked A‑19 and paused. The class studying the Book of Matthew met inside. She attended every week, though she rarely spoke. The others greeted her kindly, but she felt like a ghost drifting through their conversations. She opened the door and slipped inside, choosing a seat near the corner where she could listen without being seen.

‘Maybe today will be easier. Maybe.’

She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the others to arrive, unaware that someone had watched her from the hallway, unaware that her quiet grief had drawn the attention of a man who saw her fragility not as something to comfort, but as something to use.

            *           *           *

The next Sunday, Patrick entered Classroom A‑19 with the same quiet precision he used in every decision. The room smelled faintly of old carpet and chalk dust. Folding chairs formed a loose circle, and the fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

He had found the bulletin board to be quite useful. There was a hyperlink to the church directory. They had obligingly provided the names of many members with pictures. His target was named Darleen Swenson. In the bulletin archive, he found the details of her husband’s funeral which had taken place six months earlier. The announcement had said: In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to the American Cancer Society.

So, he was dealing with a recent widow whose husband might had suffered a lingering death from cancer. That made her perfect for his purposes.

Darleen sat near the far wall, her Bible open on her lap. Her posture was small and careful. She did not look at him. She did not look at anyone.

She was wearing a white blouse and a long loose skirt. Once again, he noticed that they did not quite fit right.

‘Stay quiet. Stay small,’ he told himself.

Patrick chose a seat two chairs away from her. He kept his hands folded and his expression mild. The class leader, Bobby, stood near the whiteboard with a warm smile.

“Good morning, everyone,” Bobby said. “We are still in Matthew chapter five. Does anyone want to start us off?”

No one spoke. Darleen kept her eyes on the page, her fingers resting lightly on the margin. Patrick watched her without turning his head. He listened to the soft rustle of her turning a page. He noticed the way her breath caught when Bobby asked, “Any thoughts on the passage?”

‘Do not speak. Do not draw attention.’

Patrick remained silent. He wanted her to feel his presence without understanding it. He wanted her to sense steadiness behind her, a quiet anchor she could not name.

The class continued with gentle discussion. Bobby asked questions. Members offered comments. Darleen stayed silent. Patrick watched the slight tremble in her hands ease as the hour passed.

When the class ended, Bobby approached him with an easy smile.

“Hello, my name is Bobby Franklin. We haven’t met.”

“I’m Patrick Kelleher.”

“I was surprised to see you in here today. This is one of our advanced classes.”

“Dr. Whitford suggested I attend,” Patrick said. The lie flowed easily off his tongue. He didn’t think this Bobby would check and, if he did, Patrick could always say he had misunderstood the Pastor.

“Oh, I see,” Bobby said with a surprised look. “So, you have met the Pastor?”

“I have. He was quite pleased with the idea that I attend your class. He said you’re one of the best.”

Bobby’s chest swelled with the compliment.

‘He will be easy to manipulate.’

“Well, in that case, we’re glad to have you with us today. Are you planning to join us regularly?”

Patrick returned the smile. “I believe I will.”

            *           *           *

Patrick returned to Classroom A‑19 the following week with the same quiet purpose. The chairs were arranged in a familiar circle, and the fluorescent lights cast a pale glow across the whiteboard. Darleen sat in her usual place, her Bible open, her posture small and careful. She did not look at him. She never seemed to look at anything but the book in front of her.

‘Stay quiet. Stay small.’

Bobby greeted the group with his usual cheerful tone. “Good afternoon, everyone. We are continuing in Matthew chapter six. Any thoughts before we begin?”

Patrick waited. He had prepared a question during the week, subtle and precise, designed to sound sincere rather than challenging. When Bobby paused, Patrick lifted his eyes.

“I wondered about something,” Patrick said. “If Jesus teaches secrecy in giving, why does he also praise public acts of faith?”

Bobby brightened. “Great question. The idea is simple. Jesus wants sincerity, not performance.”

Patrick nodded once. “Then why does he reward visible obedience? Would that not encourage performance?”

Bobby blinked. “Well, it is really about the heart. The heart matters most.”

Patrick kept his voice mild. “If the heart matters most, why mention the reward at all?”

Bobby’s mouth opened, then closed. His cheeks flushed. “It is, ah, it is complicated.”

Darleen looked up for the first time. Her voice was soft but steady. “The reward is not the point. The point is alignment. Jesus describes the reward to show the contrast between genuine devotion and false devotion.”

Patrick turned slightly toward her. “That is a clear explanation. Thank you.”

She lowered her eyes, but he saw the faint lift in her expression. She was pleased.

Class ended. She gathered her things slowly. Patrick approached with calm steps. “Your answer was thoughtful. I appreciated it.”

She looked up meeting his gaze for the first time. He gave her a warm smile.

She lowered her eyes at once. Her shoulders tightened. She did not smile back. She did not invite more conversation.

‘She is wary. She does not want contact.’

As she started to walk away, Patrick turned slightly toward her. “That was a very clear explanation. Thank you. The pastor and Angie suggested I take this class. They thought it would help me.”

She gathered her things with careful movements, keeping her Bible close to her chest.

She hesitated. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was polite but distant. “I should go.”

She stepped away before he could say more.

            *           *           *

The following week, he asked another difficult question in class and Darleen had to help Bobby answer it. She looked at Patrick as she spoke and he thought he detected a hint of warmth.

After class, he waited for her at the door and thanked her again.

“You’re welcome,” she said. Her voice held a fragile warmth. “I could explain more if you like?”

Patrick offered a gentle smile. “I would enjoy that, but I promised to help at the Veterans Hospital this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

He saw the disappointment. He let it settle.

“My name is Patrick Kelleher,” he said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kelleher. I’m Darleen Swenson.”

“Perhaps we can talk another time,” Patrick said.

He left her wanting more.

Chapter 3 – The Ensnarement

Darleen walked into Classroom A‑19 with a quiet sense of anticipation she had not felt in years. The folding chairs were arranged in their usual circle, and the fluorescent lights gave the room a soft glow. She took her seat near the wall, smoothing the cover of her Bible with careful fingers. She glanced toward the door, wondering if Patrick would come in.

‘Will he be here today? I didn’t see him at the service.’

She had asked about him. Angie in the front office had met him but didn’t know much about him. No one else she asked could provide any information. Some of them had given her a curious look when she asked, so she decided not to make any further inquiries. There was something about him that intrigued her. He seemed so guileless, so willing to admit that there were things he did not understand. She was so tired of all the people putting on airs, pretending to be great biblical scholars when they knew so little. Patrick was like a breath of fresh air.

He arrived a moment later, offering her a polite nod before choosing a seat not quite next to her. His presence felt steady, calm, and attentive. She had noticed that he listened closely whenever she spoke, and he asked questions that showed he had been thinking about the passages during the week.

Bobby began the class. “We are continuing in Matthew chapter seven. Any thoughts before we begin?”

Patrick looked toward her. “I wondered something. When Jesus warns about false teachers, how do we tell the difference between a mistaken teacher and a deceptive one?”

Bobby answered quickly. “It is simple. A deceptive teacher knows he is wrong.”

Patrick tilted his head. “If a deceptive teacher knows he is wrong, why does Jesus say they come in sheep’s clothing?”

Bobby hesitated. “Well, it is, ah, symbolic.”

Darleen reached out and touched Patrick’s arm. He smiled at her.

Darleen spoke before she realized she had moved. “The symbol shows that deception is hidden. A deceptive teacher knows his intent, but the people do not. That is why Jesus warns the flock.”

Patrick smiled gently. “Thank you. That makes sense.”

Her cheeks warmed. She looked down at her Bible, feeling a small spark of pride.

‘He listens to me. He values what I say.’

Over the next few weeks, their conversations grew. At first, they spoke only in class or while walking toward the parking lot. Patrick asked questions that showed genuine curiosity. “Why does Matthew emphasize fulfillment of prophecy?” “Why does Jesus teach in parables?” “What does forgiveness really mean?”

She answered each one, surprised by how easily the words came. She had always loved Scripture, but she had never felt needed in this way. She knew she was showing off but told herself she was just participating in the discussion.

Several weeks went by and the more she learned about Patrick, the more she liked.

One afternoon, as they reached the parking lot, Patrick asked, “Would you like to get coffee sometime?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes. I would like that Patrick.”

“Call me Wreck.”

“Wreck?”

“Yes. I had a coach in high school. He said I was the worst player he had ever seen on a football field. He said I turned every play into a disaster. He said my name shouldn’t be Pat rick, it should be Pat Wreck.”

She laughed.

“The name sort of stuck. All my friends call me that.”

“Okay,” she said. “You will be Wreck and I will be Darl.”

“Deal,” he said with a sunrise smile and shook her hand.

Coffee became lunch. Lunch became dinner at a small restaurant with warm lighting and quiet music. She found herself talking more than she expected. She told him about her favorite passages, about the comfort she found in prayer, about the way grief had changed her.

“When Waid died,” she said, “It was hard. But when Terry died it didn’t just hurt, it reopened the first wound. It made me feel like someone had torn my heart out. All I have left is the Church.”

He listened with steady eyes and gentle questions. “What helped you through the hardest days?” “What made you keep coming to church?” “What gives you hope now?”

She felt something inside her shift, something that had been locked away for months. He understood. He knew when to speak and when to remain silent. She found herself leaning on him. He made her feel calm and safe. It was almost as if he were protecting her from her own grief.

‘He opened my coffin. He let in light and air.’

She walked to her car after dinner with a feeling she had almost forgotten. She felt seen. She felt appreciated. She felt alive.

And she was starting to rely on him.

            *           *           *

Darleen stood in the center of her kitchen and looked around with nervous eyes. Tonight would be the first time Wreck had been in her house and she wanted everything to be perfect.

She had cleaned the counters three times, polished the table legs, and rearranged the place settings until everything felt perfectly aligned. The scent of roasted chicken filled the air, warm and comforting. She smoothed her apron and checked the clock again.

‘Will he like the meal?’

It was the first time she had invited anyone into her home since Terry died. The thought made her chest tighten. She walked into the living room and adjusted a pillow on the sofa, then stepped back to study the room. The lamp cast a soft glow across the carpet. Her framed photographs sat neatly on the shelf.

Everything looked calm, orderly, and welcoming.

‘Do not let anything go wrong.’

The doorbell rang. She froze for a moment, then hurried to the door. When she opened it, Wreck stood on the porch with a gentle smile. He wore a clean shirt and held a small bouquet of flowers.

“Good evening, Darl,” he said. “I hope I am not too early?”

“No, not at all,” she said. “Please come in.”

He stepped inside and looked around with quiet appreciation. “Your home is lovely. It feels peaceful.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you. I tried to make everything nice.”

“You succeeded,” he said. “May I ask what smells so good?”

“Dinner,” she said. “I made roasted chicken. I hope you like it?”

“I am sure I will,” he said.

She led him to the dining table. He pulled out her chair before taking his own. She noticed the small gesture and felt a flutter of gratitude. They began to eat, and she watched him take the first bite.

“This is wonderful,” he said. “You are an excellent cook.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I wanted it to be special.”

He looked at her with steady eyes. “It is special because you made it.”

She felt her breath catch. She had not heard words like that in a long time. She took a sip of water to steady herself. “Would you like more chicken?”

“Yes, please,” he said. “If you do not mind?”

She served him another portion, her hands trembling slightly. He noticed but did not comment. Instead, he asked gentle questions. “How long have you lived here?” “Did you and Terry choose this house together?” “What made you decide to invite me tonight?”

She answered each one, surprised by how easily the words came. “I wanted to share a meal with you. You have been kind. You listen. You make me feel comfortable.”

Wreck nodded. “I am honored you trust me.”

She looked down at her plate, feeling a warmth she had not felt in months.

‘He is safe. He is steady. He cares.’

After dinner, they moved to the living room. He admired her photographs and asked about her family. She found herself talking freely, without fear. When he finally stood to leave, she felt a small ache.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said. “I enjoyed every moment.”

“So did I,” she said.

When the door closed behind him, she stood in the quiet room and felt something new.

She trusted him.

Wednesday night, Darleen arranged the Bible study materials neatly on the coffee table, then stepped back to look at the room. The lamp cast a warm glow across the carpet, and the sofa cushions were perfectly straight. She smoothed her red skirt and adjusted the collar of her white blouse. Her black high heels felt a little too tall, but she wanted to look nice for Wreck. She took a slow breath and tried to calm her nerves.

‘Will he think I’m overdressed? Will he think I look foolish?’

The doorbell rang. She hurried to the door and opened it. Wreck stood on the porch wearing jeans and a plain tee shirt. He looked relaxed, almost casual, and he smiled when he saw her.

“Hi, Darl,” he said. “I hope I am not too early?”

“No, you are right on time,” she said. “Please come in.”

He stepped inside and looked around with quiet appreciation. “Your living room feels peaceful. I like it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I tried to make it comfortable.”

He glanced at the table. “You did not cook tonight, did you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “You told me I did not need to cook for you.”

“I meant it,” he said. “I enjoy studying the Bible with you. That is more than enough.”

Her cheeks warmed. She gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

They sat with their Bibles open between them. She felt strangely relaxed, more than she had in months.

When he leaned forward, she felt his knee touch her leg. It felt warm and cordial.

Wreck asked gentle questions. “Why does Jesus speak so often about the heart?” “What does true obedience look like?” “Why do some people struggle to believe?”

‘He understands me. He respects me.’

They reached a passage in Matthew that spoke of revelation and understanding. Wreck stared at the page for a long moment. His expression changed. Something in his eyes softened, then brightened, as if a light had turned on inside him.

“I think I understand,” he said quietly. “I finally see what Jesus meant.”

Darleen felt her breath catch. She saw the shift in him, the clarity, the sincerity.

They both stood up. Their eyes were close.

Joy rose in her chest so quickly she could not contain it. She moved toward him and threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Wreck,” she said. “I am so happy. You understand. You really understand.”

He held her gently, his voice calm.

“Thank you, Darleen. You helped me see it.”

She stepped back, her hands trembling slightly, her heart full.

‘He trusts me. He believes me. He is safe.’

She felt no fear. No hesitation. No doubt.

Then she stiffened. His hand had moved a little too low for her comfort. After all, she had just hugged him to show how happy she was at his discovery. She gave him a disapproving look and tried to step away.

“Wreck, please,” she protested.

He kissed her and let his hand move back over her hips. When she tried to push him away, he put a big hand on her left breast.

She felt faint. She had never imagined him touching her like that. He was supposed to be her friend. She didn’t like being handled.

She felt disappointed, angry and a little scared. She pushed at his chest. When he did not let her go, she tried to kick him.

“Patrick,” she snarled. “Let me go. Don’t touch me like that.”

When he still refused to release her, she tried to slap him. She heard him laugh as he blocked her blow and that infuriated her.

She began to fight like an animal. She tried to tear her arm away from him but that just made him grin. He seemed to think it was funny that a woman would fight.

She was frightened by his strength and determination.

She glared at him and tried to pull away.

“I want to kiss you,” he said calmly.

She shook her head. “No. You can’t.”

When she tried to push him away, he seized her wrist and pulled hard. She was propelled forward and slammed into his chest. It felt as hard and curved as a warrior’s shield. He wrapped long arms around her shoulders and forced her against his body. She felt something hard and demanding press against her stomach. She felt faint when she realized it was his erection.

She lowered her face, refusing to look at him.

“You smell nice,” he said as he held her tight. “I don’t recognize the fragrance.”

“Let go.”

This kind of sexual aggression was unexpected. She had been thinking they were just friends, two people interested in studying the Bible. Obviously, he felt otherwise.

She knew the neighbors were too far away to hear if she cried out. She was alone with this man who had obviously gotten the wrong idea from her embrace.  

“Wreck, stop. Please stop,” she cried trying to soften her voice. “What is the matter with you?”

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her off the floor. He was so strong! How was she supposed to fight him? He was six feet one and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. She was five feet four and weighed a hundred and fifteen.

She felt his hand slide over her stomach and down between her legs. She thought she was going to pass out. He moved his hand up, taking her skirt with it.

She heard an unfocused, animal sound and realized it was coming from her own throat. He forced her back against the wall and kissed her hard. No one had ever treated her so roughly in her entire life.

“Get off me,” she cried. “Get off.”

She felt the blood beating in her throat. He ignored her complaint and began to stroke her body.

Her head filled with senseless images. She thought back to Waid’s funeral, to her childhood in Iowa, to the sound of the choir on Sunday mornings. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She had trusted this man. She had believed she knew him.

Now he was taking possession of her like a victorious soldier might grab an enemy woman to use her for his pleasure.

There was great danger here. She was alone with this man after dark in an emotionally charged situation. She had invited him for a quiet little talk in her quiet little house, but now they might end up in her quiet little bedroom. She couldn’t let that happen.

“Patrick, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “You’re better than this. Stop. Please stop.”

Darleen was beside herself with fear, revulsion and loathing. How could he act this way? She had been nice to him. She had let him into her life, into her home. She had helped him with his Bible study. She had trusted him. He was the only one she had trusted in the last six months and now he had betrayed that trust.

He pulled her skirt out of his way and touched her. He touched her!

“You son of a bitch,” she cried, stumbling over the unfamiliar curse words. “Let me go!”

He was not impressed and tried to kiss her again. She turned her head away, refusing him. She felt his hands on her breasts, between her legs and running up her back to crush her against his chest.

She hit him with clubbed fists, but it was like pounding on a granite slab.

She began to sob violently, twisting and kicking to no avail.

He reached out a big paw and grabbed the front of her blouse. The fabric tore exposing her black lace bra. Her thoughts were wild as he began to tear off the rest of her clothing.

Then her blouse was gone. Her bra and panties followed, and she knew what he was going to do to her.

He took her into the bedroom. Her bed looked like an execution chamber.

No one had been in this room since Terry had died. It was a violation, a defilement. She wanted to smash him. She wanted to hurt him the way he was hurting her, but she understood, at some profound level, that he was much too strong to resist.

He turned her and kissed her, and she felt the cool air against her naked flesh.

She realized that he just might tumble her onto her bed and shuck her out of her skirt. He had stepped back to look at her. She could see by his expression, by the way he swallowed and licked his lips and slowly shifted his weight, that he was capable of it, and was thinking about it, and would soon be beyond control.

She had never imagined that he might treat her this way.

“Please leave me,” she said, trying to sound unafraid, but her voice broke as she said the words.

He shook his head and moved closer. When he kissed her again, she slapped him across the face with all her strength. He grabbed her and fondled her roughly. Then he pushed her. She cried out as she fell back onto the bed.

“Don’t tease me, Darl,” he said. “Please.”

She slapped him again but this time her heart wasn’t in it. The blow landed without effect. She realized what had happened. When she hugged him, he thought she was ready to go all the way. She wasn’t, but he didn’t know that. She should have let him know just what she expected of him, just where her boundaries lay.

“What do you want?” she demanded, voice breaking.

“You know what I want.”

She tried to roll off the bed, but he grabbed her and moved between her legs. He put both hands on her hips, and she felt his hardness graze the inside of her left thigh.

Then the penetration. He was huge and it hurt so much she bit her tongue. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about what he was doing to her. He began to move in and out of her and all she could do was twist and turn and kick her legs.

It seemed to go on for a long time. She felt an incredible heat begin to build down there between her legs. She didn’t know what it was.

He began a cyclic repetition. As he pulled out, he squeezed her hips around his massive shaft. As he thrust in, he released the pressure on her lower body to make the penetration deeper and harder.

Wetly, heatedly, he drew her toward him, then lowered her back on the bed. She felt the ridges and bulges of his enormous shank as it tore through the oily folds of her ravaged depths.

He lifted her with both hands. Now the only part of Darleen’s body that was in contact with the bed was her shoulders. He pulled her eight inches above the mattress, and her back was arching and her legs were kicking. He was grinding away, rolling his leviathan member against her feminine self. He was rolling it back and forth, compressing it, kneading it with his swollen flesh.

Then her body, like some kind of damaged mechanical doll, began to respond to him. She didn’t want it to happen. She didn’t want to feel anything, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t control herself.

The heat she felt was incredible. She felt a bright blue bolt of carnal lightning run up her spine and explode in the back of her brain. She thought she was going to melt away from the feverish response of her body.

She began to shake as he smashed the base of his shaft against her most sensitive organ. She was hot and wet and tight. His hard hands were gripping her hips, pulling her onto him, and she twisted and turned trying to increase his pressure, increase his penetration.

Then, all of a sudden, she seemed to explode in a series of long, uncontrollable contractions that embarrassed her.

“Ah,” she cried. “Ahhhh. Ahhhh. Ahhhh.” She was filled with ardent fire all the way up to her throat.

She sobbed and screamed. It was all too much for her. She couldn’t help herself any longer. Her body wanted this and she let it. She no longer knew where she was or who she was with. She didn’t care. She only wanted the delicious heat to continue.

Chapter 4 – Bonding

Dr. Samuel R. Whitford drove toward the church with the morning sun glowing across the windshield. The desert sky was pale gold, fading into soft blue near the mountains. He kept both hands on the wheel, his brow furrowed. The road curved gently past the wash, and the shadows of mesquite trees stretched long across the pavement. He felt uneasy, as if something in his congregation had shifted and he had not yet seen the full shape of it.

‘Darleen is not herself. She is drifting. I must pay attention.’

He turned into the church parking lot and let the engine idle for a moment. The sanctuary windows reflected the sunlight like sheets of fire. He stepped out of the car and walked toward his office, feeling the weight of responsibility settle across his shoulders.

Inside, the office smelled faintly of dusty old books and furniture polish. The blinds were half open, letting in narrow bands of light that striped the carpet. He set his briefcase on the desk and sat down, rubbing his temples.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “Sam?” Angie’s voice carried a note of concern.

“Come in,” he said.

She entered with a small smile. “You looked troubled when you walked in. Is everything all right?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I am not sure. I have been thinking about Darleen Swenson.”

Angie sat across from him. “What about her?”

“She has been spending time with Patrick Kelleher,” Sam said. “More time than I expected.”

Angie tilted her head. “Is that bad? I think Darleen could use a little cheering up.”

Sam sighed. “Darleen is sad and vulnerable. I am worried that Kelleher could take advantage of her.”

Angie folded her hands. “What makes you think that?”

Sam looked toward the window. The sunlight caught the dust in the air, turning it into drifting sparks. “I never trusted Mr. Kelleher. He has shifty eyes. He watches people too closely. He listens too intently. It feels calculated.”

Angie raised an eyebrow. “Calculated? Are you sure you are not imagining things?”

“I spoke with Bobby Franklin,” Sam said. “Bobby told me that Kelleher has been asking questions that stumped him.”

Angie laughed softly. “Well, Bobby is not the brightest member of our congregation.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “But he is an experienced leader of that Bible study group. Kelleher claims to be new to our religion. How could he ask such inciteful questions after so little time?”

“Maybe he is just studying hard,” Angie said.

Sam shook his head. “There is more. Kelleher has been hanging around Darleen. He watches her closely. He follows her after class. He asks her questions that seem personal.”

Angie’s smile faded. “Do you think he is trying to manipulate her?”

‘I must protect her. She has suffered enough.’

“I am worried,” Sam said quietly. “She is lonely. She is grieving. She may not see danger clearly.”

Angie leaned forward. “Would you like me to speak with Darleen?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “Let us wait a bit and see how things develop.”

Angie nodded, but her eyes remained troubled. “All right. But I hope she knows what she is doing.”

Sam looked out the window again, watching the last of the sunlight fade. “I hope so too,” he said. “I truly do.”

            *           *           *

The morning sun was shining through her bedroom window when Darleen awoke. Wreck lay beside her. They were both naked. The memories of the night before came crashing down on her like a mudslide. He had taken her, had forced her. She had said no and she meant it, but he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down.

Her mind replayed every lift and stroke, every invasion. It had gone on and on. Time had ceased to exist and there was only his rough boosting and shifting her into a new position and the endless, pulsating terror of his long hard use of her.

Her lips were swollen; there was a long sooty bruise on her right thigh.

During the night, he had taken her three times.

The first time he took her was a nightmare.

She’d had two husbands, and there was one other man beside them when she was in college, but her husbands and the other man weren’t like Patrick Kelleher. She was ashamed of what had happened. He forced her. She had fought him for a long time, but he was too strong and determined. He was after her like some kind of animal, and he was too rough.

And that brought her to the thing she had been so desperately trying to force out of her memory. If he had taken her quickly, she could have been a helpless vessel for him merely enduring the rape. But he had been so determined, so patient and shrewd that he had awakened her traitor body. While her helpless soul watched, her body, like some kind of mad windup toy, had bucked and heaved grasping powerfully.

Afterwards, he said he was sorry and he was tender and loving. She was so physically and emotionally exhausted she didn’t even argue with him.

The second time, she tried playing dead, but he was patient and animal sly. He had turned her and kept doggedly at her. He had kissed her ear and moved his hands over her body like he knew it from a former life. She could tell when he felt her response. She tried to force it back, but her long hunger, all the emotions and tensions of the last six months, her desperate loneliness conspired against her.

When playing dead didn’t work, she tried to fight him again, but he was just so big. She fought him futilely, like a child’s mud dam trying to hold back a raging river.

“No,” she had cried, her thoughts incoherent, knowing only that she must stop the touch of his hand. “No! Oh, damn you! Oh, Patrick Kelleher stop!” And she had rolled away from him, sitting up, her

eyes squinched with tears, and saying, “Leave me alone. Please leave me alone.”

But he did not leave her alone. He was knowing and cunning. He had a frightening knowledge of her body, and she had responded once again.

She could not quite comprehend how he could make that happen to her. She wasn’t a sheltered virgin, but she was stunned by what he did. It was beyond her experience, over and above anything she had imagined.

He had become her lover no matter how reluctant she had been. He had taken her and induced a sensuous response in her. She wondered if the death of two husbands had turned her into a neurotic head case headed for a mental breakdown anyway. Maybe this man had merely hastened the process.

The third time, she knew she couldn’t fight him or resist him in some other way. When she felt the gentle pressure of his big hand, she submitted. She felt him stroke her from the small of her back up toward her shoulders.

He had roused her in the middle of the night. Sleep had beaten down the hard wiry edge of desire in her, but then it all came back, but not as before. It came back as a floating warmness, and she abandoned herself to it completely, breathing through her open mouth, and his touch was a caress, and his hand was strong and warm.

He ran the flat of his hand over her stomach and down between her legs. There was such a fantastic jolt of carnal energy that it changed her. What he was doing no longer seemed so rough, and she did not care if he came after her again. It was all turned into a dream she could not quite wake up from. She felt all soft and dreamy and stupid, and she didn’t care what anybody thought.

There were only two facts: He wanted her and she wanted him.

Nothing else mattered. He was a powerful man and all that night he never did slack off. She went off into a kind of a daze because it was simply too much, and there was no way of stopping him. Finally, she didn’t want to, because she got used to living in that daze.

            *           *           *

Angie drove toward Darleen’s house with the late afternoon sun glowing across the hood of her car. The sky was soft blue, fading into a warm peach near the horizon. She tapped the steering wheel lightly as she turned onto Darleen’s street. The neighborhood looked peaceful, with tidy yards and quiet driveways. Angie felt hopeful.

Then she felt delighted to see Patrick Kelleher’s big truck parked in Darleen’s driveway.

‘Darleen deserves love. She has been alone too long.’

She parked at the curb and stepped out. The air smelled faintly of mesquite and warm pavement. She walked toward the front door, her heels clicking softly on the walkway. She thought of Dr. Whitford’s concerns, but she did not share them. Patrick seemed polite enough. He seemed attentive. She believed Darleen needed someone who would take care of her.

‘Sam worries too much. Darleen needs companionship, not caution.’

Angie reached the porch and lifted her hand to knock. Before her knuckles touched the door, she heard a faint sound from inside. At first, she thought it was the air conditioner humming through the vents. She tilted her head and listened more closely. The rhythm was too steady. Too soft. Too alive.

She stepped back slightly. The sound pulsed through the quiet house, gentle and persistent. It reminded her of a heartbeat, slow and warm. She smiled as she recognized it, a sound as eternal, clinical and inevitable as life itself.

‘They are together. They are not lonely. This is good.’

Angie felt guilty for listening. It was an invasion of their privacy, but she told herself she was only doing it to make sure Darleen was safe.

She folded her hands in front of her and looked at the door with a sense of reassurance. Perhaps Dr. Whitford would disapprove. He always tried to protect his congregation, sometimes too fiercely. But Angie knew what she heard. It was a pure and unsullied rustle of bodies making love, moving together, with no hint of nastiness or harm. It sounded like comfort. It sounded like healing.

She whispered, “Darleen will be just fine.”

The life pulse increased in frequency and volume. Then it changed into the deep breathing of a long-distance runner. It got deeper and faster, a huffing and a panting. Then there was the unmistakable, fervent, have-mercy cries of a woman in culmination.

Angie turned and walked back toward her car, the warm evening light stretching long shadows across the pavement. She felt peaceful, certain that Darleen had finally found someone who would keep her from facing the world alone.

            *           *           *

Darleen awoke before sunrise, her heart already beating too fast. The bedroom felt quiet, almost too quiet, and the soft morning light crept across the quilt in pale stripes. Wreck lay beside her, naked.

She sat up slowly, pressing her hands against the mattress as if she needed something solid beneath her. Her thoughts rushed back to Wednesday night, to the moment she had leaped to her feet and thrown her arms around Wreck’s neck.

‘Why did I do that?’

She touched her forehead and closed her eyes. The memory felt warm and frightening at the same time. She had felt so much joy when he understood the passage, so much relief, so much connection. She had acted without thinking. She had acted from her heart, not her mind.

‘What happened to my judgment? I let him into my life. I trusted him.’

She stood and walked to the dresser, staring at her reflection. Her hair was mussed from sleep, her eyes still tired. There was a soreness between her legs from his hard use of her.

She whispered, “What did I do?” The sound of her own voice startled her. She had not spoken aloud in her bedroom for months.

She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to breathe slowly. “Was it wrong?” she asked the empty room. “Did I cross a line?” She pressed her hands together. “Did he think I meant something more? Did he take it as an invitation? Is that what started all of this?”

Her thoughts spun. She had been thinking of Wreck as a friend, even as her student. She had enjoyed teaching him, guiding him, watching him grow. She had not expected closeness. She had not expected her own arms around his neck. She had not expected the warmth she felt when he held her. She had certainly not expected him to leap on her like a tiger. She had not expected to respond to him the way she had. It was shameful.

‘What does he think of me now? Does he think I’m cheap?’

She stood again and paced across the room. The carpet felt soft under her bare feet. She looked toward the window, then toward the door, then back at the bed. It was hard to think. She shook her head trying to clear away the daze. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

‘How do I feel about him? How does he feel about me?” she asked, trying to puzzle things out. “Did he want that hug?” She swallowed hard. “Did he love me? Is that why he took me like that? Did he just want to use me for sex?’

The word frightened her. She pressed her hand to her chest. “No,” she whispered. “He cannot think badly of me. I did not plan this.” She shook her head. “I did not want anything to happen.”

‘Will anyone believe me? They have all seen us together. They know we’re a couple.’

But something had happened. She knew it. She felt it in her bones. Her heart had moved without permission. Her heart had reached for him. It wasn’t just her heart. Her body had tightened up in clenchings and tremorings. She had bucked hand heaved like a biblical harlot. Her heels were as round as those of any tramp.

‘Did I want sex? No. I have fallen in love with him. I’m sure of it.’

She sat down next to him, her hands trembling. She whispered, “How did this happen?” She looked toward the Bible on her nightstand. “What am I supposed to do now?” She felt tears gather in her eyes. “What if I misunderstood him?” She wiped her cheek. “What if he did not feel anything at all?”

If she could just think it through. If her head would clear up, maybe she could figure it all out.

She closed her eyes and breathed slowly. The truth settled over her like a heavy blanket.

‘He loves me. I am sure he loves me. He must. And I love him. I want him. I want him in my bed.’

She did not want it to be true. She did not want to feel this way. She did not want her heart to lead her mind.

But it had.

And she was frightened.

She remembered going to the zoo when she was a kid. She was excited and a little bit scared. She knew there would be wild animals, and she didn’t know what they might do. The tiger mesmerized her. He was so big and powerful. She had seen the muscles ripple under his black and orange striped coat. She was afraid he might tear right through the steel cage and attack her. His great somber eyes stared at her and she couldn’t look away. If he had pounced, she wouldn’t have even tried to run. She wanted to stay right there and watch him. She wanted to pet him.

Wreck was like that tiger. He was powerful and determined and he captivated her. She had respected his determination to understand the Bible. She had recognized his intelligence. She had not suspected how ruthless and dangerous he could become. She had never dreamed he had such potency, such an uncontrollable appetite for sex.

He had first taken her on Wednesday night. In the days since then, he taken her over and over again. She lost track of the days, then the hours. At some point she had fallen into a haze of physical and mental exhaustion. She had never known anyone with such powerful physical needs. The first time he had compelled her, but for the next three days he had slowly and carefully seduced her.

Looking back, she could see that their entire relationship had been one long seduction. She had been flattered at first. He told her she was smart and inciteful. Then he told her she was beautiful. She had been charmed, blinded by his words and her own ego.

After she stopped fighting him, she began to do whatever he asked of her. He had taught her things about her own body she had never imagined possible. She watched him carefully. She anticipated his needs and tried to please him. He never failed to satisfy her when they made love. She reached a peak of sexuality she never knew was possible. She would begin to lubricate as soon as he looked at her. She was always ready and he knew it, took advantage of it, used it to his benefit.

He kept telling her she was a wonderful lover. She didn’t believe him, but he obviously liked making love to her. His sensory awareness of her enlarged and extended her own. She couldn’t get enough. Her orgasms were so prolonged and intense they drove away any concern, any memory of what she had given up to have him.

He was taming her, teaching her, controlling her and she let him. Her body seemed to have a mind of its own and she couldn’t control herself. After a while, she didn’t want to control herself. She just wanted to immerse herself in the rolling, gasping flesh of total infatuation.

She might have stayed right there for the rest of her life, but on Sunday morning he insisted that they go to church. She realized that he thought she was too dazed and too confused to try to escape or ask for help.

In a way, he was right. She was foggy, but she had no intention of asking for help. Maybe he thought she was his victim, but she felt more like he had rescued her. After the second loss of a husband, she had been hollowed out, Wreck was the one who pulled her back into the world, even if his grip was too tight and his rules too sharp. She knew there was danger in that kind of salvation, the kind that comes with a price, but in the quiet moments she couldn’t deny it: she felt like his rescuee, not his captive

Besides, she had grown accustomed to giving him what he wanted. She would go to church if that was his wish. Darleen never could explain it cleanly, even to herself, but she wanted to please him. She owed him. He had awakened her body, triggered a carnal physical reaction, but he had also awakened her from black depression. To use biblical terms, he had resurrected her.

So, she would do as he asked. She walked over to the closet and began to sort through her clothes. He helped her dress. She thought it funny that he had a hard time helping her put on her bra. He certainly had no trouble taking it off.

When he finished dressing her, she looked in the mirror. The results were surprisingly good. Her plaid jacket and dark pants looked quite respectable. Wreck had even hung a couple of strands of pearls around her neck. No one looking at her would guess what she had been doing for the past few days.

He held her arm as they walked into the church and he sat close beside her during the sermon. She did not look at anyone, nor did she hear a word the pastor said. All she could think of was getting back to her house and getting back into bed.

When they did, he took her while she was still wearing her Sunday best. He seemed to like taking her in nice clothes. It was just one more strange characteristic she had to accept.

When he finished with her, he let her get up and take a shower. He had fallen asleep by the time she returned. She lay down beside him and tried to think. He was an animal, driven by lust. But she wasn’t any better. The more often he took her, the more she wanted him to take her again. It was appalling, but she just couldn’t help herself.

She decided there was only one way to handle the situation. Once she made up her mind, she found it easy to fall asleep.

Chapter 5 – Marriage

Darleen stood in her living room early Monday morning, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up her purse. Her head had cleared up a little. The daze wasn’t gone, but it had diminished. Now that she could think better, she had made up her mind. She would not wait. She would not drift in uncertainty. She walked to the hallway and called out, “Wreck, are you ready?”

He stepped out of the guest room, calm and steady. “Ready for what?”

“We are going back to church,” she said. “I want to speak with Dr. Whitford.”

He looked surprised. “This morning?”

“Yes,” she said. “Right now.”

‘Do not hesitate. Do not let fear stop you.’

They drove in silence. Her heart beat fast, but her resolve stayed firm. When they reached the church, she walked ahead of Wreck and pushed open the office door. Dr. Samuel R. Whitford looked up from his desk with a warm smile.

“Darleen,” he said. “Patrick. What brings you two here?”

She sat down without waiting to be invited. “We want to get married.”

The pastor’s eyes widened. “Married? Well, my goodness. I am happy for you both. Truly.”

Patrick sat beside her, quiet and attentive.

She continued, “I want to do it right away.”

“How soon?” the pastor asked.

“Now,” Darleen said without hesitation. “Today. I want to do it right away.”

Dr. Whitford’s smile faded. “Right away? Darleen, perhaps you should take a little time. Marriage is a big decision. It is sacred. It deserves patience.”

To her shock, Wreck nodded. “He is right. We should think carefully. We can take our time. I want you to be sure you’re ready.”

She felt her stomach twist. “Think carefully? After everything we have shared? After everything we feel?”

Patrick spoke gently. “I only mean that we should be wise.”

Her anger rose fast and sharp. She stood up. “Listen to me, you two idiots. One thing I learned from burying two husbands is that we have very little time on this earth. It’s a short life, isn’t it?

My only regret about Terry is that I waited too long to marry him. I lost almost a whole year I could have spent as his wife. I am not going to make the same mistake again.”

The pastor looked stunned. Patrick looked thoughtful, almost pleased. She didn’t understand his reaction, but she didn’t have time to worry about it.

Dr. Whitford cleared his throat. “If you are certain, I will perform the ceremony. But I am worried about you, Darleen.”

“I am certain,” she said. “I know what I want.”

Patrick nodded. “If you’re sure, then I’ll support you. Let us do it.”

They moved to the small meeting room beside the office. Angie from the front desk and the custodian were called in as witnesses. Dr. Whitford opened his Bible and spoke the familiar words. Darleen felt her breath steady as she repeated her vows. Patrick’s voice stayed calm and warm.

When the pastor said, “You are now husband and wife,” she felt a rush of relief.

‘This is right. This is my path.’

Angie stepped over to them and put her arms around Darleen.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kelleher, I am so happy for you. You make a beautiful couple.”

That night, Darleen went to bed with Patrick as his wife.

            *           *           *

Wreck woke in Darleen’s bed and stretched his arms with a satisfied smile. The morning light came through the curtains in soft yellow stripes. He felt pleased with himself. The meeting in the pastor’s office had gone exactly as he wanted. The pastor had been suspicious, but Wreck had reassured him by telling Darleen to wait. If anyone ever asked, he was on record advising patience. It was Darleen who had insisted on marrying right away.

‘Perfect. No one will blame me. They will blame her eagerness.’

Darleen stepped into the room holding her Bible.

“Come to bed,” he said, patting the mattress.

“Don’t you ever get enough?” sounding very prim and proper.

“Not with you around,” he said with a laugh.

“All right,” she said, letting her shoulders sag a little. 

“I like your new hairdo,” he said. “It makes you look younger and very attractive.”

“I got them to take me in on short notice,” she said. “I wanted to look good for you.”

“You do. You always look wonderful. Now come to bed.”

“Wreck, I’ll give you what you want. You know that. But first, we need to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“I want to go to San Diego.”

He looked up. “San Diego? Why do you want to go there?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. “I have a house there. Terry always wanted a house on the beach. He bought one right on the beach, but when it was still under construction, a man offered him twenty thousand dollars more than he paid. Terry sold it and bought a house a block from the beach. While that house was under construction, another man bought it from Terry for twenty-five thousand dollars more. By the time it was all done, Terry had a house six blocks from the beach that he owned free and clear.”

Wreck stared at her. “You own that house outright?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is ours now.”

‘She has even more money than I thought. A house near the beach in San Diego must be worth a million dollars.’

“That house was from my former life,” she said. “I’m your woman now. I need to exorcise my demons. There are so many memories of Terry in that house. I’ve been afraid to go back. Now I want you there. I want you to take me there. I want to christen every room in the house.”

“Christen?”

“You know what I mean,” she said with a blush. “I want you to take me in every room. That will erase the memories. That will let me start my new life.”

Wreck stood up and reached for his shirt. “Okay. We’ll go. I need to go home to pack first,” he said. “Things have happened so fast that I haven’t had time to move in. If we are going to San Diego, I should bring a few things.”

Darleen stepped into the doorway with a calm smile. “There is no need.”

He turned toward her. “No need? Why not?”

She walked farther into the room; her hands folded lightly in front of her. “We maintained the house in San Diego. There are extra clothes in the closets and food in the pantry. We even keep a car there.”

Wreck blinked. “You keep a car there?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes Terry and I would fly over on Friday night and fly back to Tucson on Sunday. It was easy. If you need anything, you can buy it in San Diego.”

‘She is not worried about money at all. This is better than I imagined.’

Wreck smiled. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” she said. “We can leave whenever you want.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her with a pleased expression. “You really want to go today?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want you to drive me and I want to show you the house. I want you to . . . To do what I said.”

‘She trusts me completely. She is ready to give me everything.’

Wreck nodded. “All right. Let us go to San Diego.”

Darleen smiled softly and stepped closer. “I am glad.”

He watched her. He was thinking of the pastor’s office, thinking of how he had told her to wait. If anyone ever questioned the marriage, he could say he had advised patience. She had been the one in a hurry. Everything had worked out perfectly.

‘No one will suspect me. And she has more money than I thought.’

He stood and reached for her hand. “Let us get on the road.”

Darleen had been quiet since they left her house. She was hushed but not withdrawn. Her silence felt deliberate. Every glance, every touch, every word seemed measured, as if she were composing something in her mind and testing it out on him in small pieces.

Wreck did not notice at first. He was still thinking about the pastor’s eyes when Darleen told him they were getting married. That man might become a problem at some point in the future. Wreck had seen suspicion there, a kind of sharpness that made him uneasy.

Darleen watched him from the passenger seat, her brown eyes half lidded, her lips parted slightly. He realized she was thinking about the drive, about the many times she had made it with Terry. She reached over and adjusted the collar of his shirt, her fingers brushing his neck. “You chose this shirt for the drive,” she said. “I like it.”

Wreck laughed, a little embarrassed. “It is comfortable.”

She did not pull her hand away. “You are comfortable,” she said softly, almost to herself.

He did not know what to say to that. The road stretched ahead, empty and sunlit, and he felt the strange weight of her gaze on him. She was being sweet, maybe a little flirty, but it did not feel like the usual Darleen. There was something underneath it, something urgent.

Just before they reached Casa Grande, Wreck turned onto I-8, the long freeway that would take them all the way to the Pacific Ocean. The land became bleak. It was some of the most desolate wasteland in the world. The soil was tan brown and baked by the sun until it was as hard as concrete. Few plants could survive in it. The greasewood bushes looked parched and wilted. Large areas were bare sand. Even the mountains were distant and blurred in the haze.

As they passed Gila Bend, she unbuckled her seat belt and curled up on the seat with her head resting on his right thigh. Her breathing slowed, and he realized she was fast asleep.

When she was at church, dressed in fine clothes, she had a presence that increased her stature. But here, sleeping like a baby, she seemed small and vulnerable.

He had to remind himself that he was in this for the money. It would not do to get attached to a woman he intended to rob and desert.

When they reached Yuma, Wreck stopped at a local steak house that had remarkably good food. Darleen was refreshed from her long nap and carried on a spirited conversation.

Wreck watched her across the table as she lifted her glass and smiled. She looked refreshed from her nap, but he could see something fragile underneath her cheerfulness. She spoke lightly, yet her voice carried a faint tremor.

“San Diego is beautiful,” she said. “The air feels different there. Softer. Terry used to say it smelled like salt and hope.”

‘She is trying to sound normal. She is still hurting.’

She stirred her drink with her straw and looked toward the window. “We used to walk near the water on Saturday mornings. He liked the boats. I liked the gulls. They always looked like they were laughing.”

Wreck nodded. “You must miss it.”

She folded her hands. “I do. I want you to see it. I want you to see the house. It will be our place now.”

‘She is trying to hide her wounds. She does not want me to see how shaken she is.’

She looked down at her napkin. “I hope you will be comfortable there. It feels strange to go back. It feels strange to sleep in Terry’s house with someone else.”

Wreck kept his expression calm. “Strange how?”

She gave a shy smile. “It is just a feeling. Nothing bad. I want you there. I want us there. I only hope the house feels right to you.”

‘She is clinging to me. She needs me.’

She looked up again. “You will like it. The kitchen is bright. The windows face the ocean. It is a peaceful place.”

            *           *           *

After they arrived in San Diego, Wreck helped Darleen get the house in order. He ran to the grocery store for milk and bread. They were both tired after the long drive, so they went to bed early.

The next morning, she took him down to the beach. She seemed very much at home standing next to the water. He knew he had picked the right woman for his purposes. This had been her place. She had been strong then, full of confidence. Now she was wounded and vulnerable.

Sometime in the night, Wreck awakened slowly, aware before his eyes opened that Darleen was near him. She drifted into the room, touching his shoulder, whispering his name. There was no surprise in it. Some part of him had expected her to come. She was a lady and she was his lady.

Her presence had become a soft, delicate event, scented with her perfume and powder. She was wearing a purple lace nightie open at the throat. It moved when she moved, clinging just enough to show the familiar lines of her figure, the gentle way she carried herself.

She looked scared and a little defiant. It was the first time she had tried to look tempting. Up to now, he had always been the aggressor.

She licked her lips and smoothed the garment against her body. Her eyes got a soft and dreamy look. She moved close, her arms opening to embrace him. She presented the warm elegant length of herself. Her eyes were huge and her skin incredibly smooth as he stroked her. She stretched up to nuzzle his neck, her breath trembling. She gave him small, hurried kisses on his cheek and forehead, touching his hands as if she needed to anchor herself.

‘She is trying to hold onto me. She is afraid of slipping away.’

Her caresses were quick and light, and her body turned and glowed and glided and changed in her luxurious presentation of self, her mouth saying I love you. Her hair was sweet in darkness. Her body was in endless movement. She used all of herself and he could almost feel her purring.

Her movements were restless and nervous. She leaned against him, shifted, curled close, her hair brushing his face, her voice saying darling in a soft, breaking whisper. She reminded him of a frightened creature seeking shelter, nudging toward warmth, trying to find something solid in the haze that had taken her.

He wanted to steady her. He wanted to guide her back into calmness, to help her breathe, to help her settle. He spoke gently, matching her pace, offering quiet words and steady hands, trying to meet her where she was.

He knew her body well. He knew what she liked, what she loved and what drove her crazy. They moved together in an intimate minuet. His body would advance and hers would respond. He felt her body heat rise. The room was filled with her scent.

But suddenly it was not going well. She would rise toward some fragile peak of emotion, and he would arouse her to sweet frenzy. She would press against him, then pull away. He knew where to touch her, how to hold her. Each time she would react with craving, then fall back in frustration.

When he tried to join them, she pushed at his chest. She sobbed aloud and pulled away from him, curling into herself at the edge of the bed, her back turned, her shoulders tight. He reached toward her, but her muscles were locked.

“Darleen, dear.”

“Do not touch me.”

“Please, honey, you just…”

“I can’t. I just can’t,” she said in a thin, breaking voice, dragging the words out as if they hurt her.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You tried too soon. That’s all it is. Give it time.”

“I love you,” she moaned.

“I love you too. It will be okay.”

“No. No, it won’t. I can’t do this. I can’t turn my mind off. He’s right here in the room. Terry is here watching me. He’s glaring at me.”

“I know. I understand.”

She got up. He couldn’t see her in the darkness, but he heard the rustle of her nightie, felt the bed shift as she stood.

Water ran in the bathroom. There was a sliver of yellow light beneath the door. She was in there a long time.

Then she was back in his arms, and the nightie fell away and there was just the silky warmth of her naked flesh. He was patient and she began to respond to his touch. After a long time, he felt her body began to shake in what he recognized as her pre-orgasmic stages. He redoubled his efforts and soon she was arching and bucking and there was a tremendous inhalation and sudden cries of joy and completion.

“Wasn’t too soon,” she said with a soft laugh. “Wasn’t too soon at all.”

            *           *           *

After that first time in San Diego, Wreck began to take her often and powerfully. It was like the times back in Tucson. He was after her constantly. She knew it was because he loved her, but it was all too much. She fell back into the pattern from before. She was in the daze again. Her brain felt slow and tired and muddy. She couldn’t clear it. Strange images kept floating in front of her eyes.

Her mind was clouded and disoriented. Her world had shifted into something strange and alien. It gave her a feeling of primitive urges, simple desires. Wreck was a powerful man. He took her as often as he could, which was very often. She accepted it. She accepted everything he did to her.

This new world seemed unreal. She was traveling across ground that had an uncomfortable give to it. Her feet would sink into it as she moved. Reality was like a soft fabric she was walking over. It shifted and gave with each step. She worried that the surface might be thin in places and she could fall through. She thought it would be very dark and black down there.

Darleen moved through her days as if she were floating. The weeks after the wedding blurred together. Her life was now made up of beds and arcs. There was the bed in Tucson, the bed in San Diego. There was the long arc from Tucson to San Diego, the arc back again. She followed those curves without thinking. Wreck took her in one bed. She traveled along one arc and lay down with him in the other bed. Everything felt predetermined, as if she were tracing a pattern she had memorized long ago.

Her life had turned into a dream she couldn’t quite wake up from. She went around feeling all yielding and ready for anything Wreck wanted. He took her in the beds, but it was much more than that. He took her in his truck, in the bathroom, on the kitchen counter and on the living room floor. He took her in the morning and the afternoon. The nights were made up of brief naps between intense episodes of wild sex. And all the time, all the long and intense times, she had only one thought. He wants me. He wants me and I want him and nothing else matters very much.

‘Do not think. Just move. Just breathe.’

Her clothes no longer mattered. She wore her church dresses when she had to, her traveling clothes when they drove, and the rest of the time she drifted through the house naked or in her silk robe from Paris. Terry had bought it for her years ago. She barely remembered the trip now. She only remembered the robe, the way it whispered against her skin, the way it made her feel like she was gliding instead of walking.

‘Wreck fills my mind. There is no room for anything else.’

Her life with Wreck was so intense that she could not think about anything but him. His presence filled every corner of her thoughts. When he spoke, she listened. When he moved, she watched. When he reached for her hand, she felt her breath catch. She tried to think about the house in San Diego, about the ocean, about the long drives she used to take with Terry, but the memories slipped away like mist.

She stayed in the daze. It was comfortable. She got used to living that way.

It lasted days, then weeks. She cooked without tasting the food. She cleaned without seeing the rooms. She sat on the sofa and stared at the window, watching the light change but not noticing the time. Wreck would speak to her, and she would answer softly, automatically, as if her voice belonged to someone else.

‘Stay close to him. Do not drift away. He is the only thing that feels real.’

In Tucson, she still went to church. He insisted on it, but there was little else in her life except Wreck. He loved her. She was sure of it. But he wanted her and that was much more important. No one had ever wanted her the way Wreck wanted her. She had never wanted anyone the way she wanted him.

She followed him from Tucson to San Diego and back again, moving through the arcs of her life with quiet obedience, unable to imagine anything beyond him.

There was nothing that had gone before. The past faded away and there was only Wreck. He filled her present. He was a force of nature. He was a powerful man, and he wouldn’t stop. Her physical response to him was such a release that she didn’t even know who she was when it was over. It was like a drug, and she knew she could no longer survive without it.

Chapter 6 – Execution of the Plan

The office of Stephen Carrow felt like another world. The carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps, and the tall windows poured bright light across polished wood and framed certificates. Everything looked expensive. Everything looked old. Terry had always said this place reminded him of the kind of rooms where serious men made serious decisions.

Darleen stood near the leather sofa, glad that she had worn her striped blouse and blue skirt.

She felt small in the vastness of the office, and it gave her comfort to know she was presentable.

Stephen Carrow stepped forward. His suit was dark and perfectly pressed. His silver hair caught the sunlight. “Mrs. Whitaker, it is good to see you. How have you been?”

Wreck stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s Mrs. Kelleher now. I’m Patrick Kelleher.”

“Oh, I see,” Carrow said looking awkward. He seemed to want to say more but hesitated.

Darleen gave a faint smile. “To answer your question Stephen, I have been managing.”

The man gave her another look. This time he seemed hesitant and concerned. She ignored him.

“Wreck, that’s what I call him, Patrick is the one who wants to talk to you. I’ve never understood what all this investment business is about. Terry always took care of it and now Patrick will.”

Wreck stood beside her, calm and confident. “We need to make some changes,” he said. “I understand that Terry left her a large portfolio.”

“Yes,” the investment manager said. “It’s not a really great deal of money, but it is enough to take care of properly.”

“We are going to change the risk tolerance,” Wreck said.

Carrow looked troubled. “Terry, Mr. Whitaker, and I spent a great deal of time setting up the accounts to optimize both income and growth. Perhaps I could brief you on it before we make any changes, Mr. Kelleher.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Wreck said.

Carrow glanced at Darleen, but she just nodded.

Wreck seemed to take a deep breath. Then he said, “We want to convert everything into cash.”

Stephen blinked. “Everything? Stocks, bonds, long-term holdings? All of it?”

Wreck nodded. “Yes. Sell it all. Move the money into her checking account. It is a joint account now.”

Darleen looked at the windows. The mountains outside were blue and distant. Sunlight glowed across the glass like a warm veil. She felt peaceful just looking at it. She did not want to think about money. She did not want to think about anything complicated. She wondered how long this was going to take.

‘Wreck knows what he is doing. I trust him. I do not want to deal with this.’

Stephen cleared his throat. “Darleen, may I ask why you want to liquidate everything? Terry built this portfolio carefully. He wanted long term stability.”

She turned toward him. “Patrick thinks it is best.”

Stephen frowned. “But do you think it is best? Do you understand what this means? You will lose the growth. You will lose the protection. You will lose the structure Terry put in place.”

Wreck spoke again. “We need flexibility. Cash gives us that.”

Stephen looked directly at Darleen. “Are you sure? This is a major change. I must hear it from you.”

She felt Wreck’s presence beside her, steady and warm. She felt her heart lift when she looked at him. His confidence made her feel safe. His voice made her feel calm. She did not want to question him. She did not want to disappoint him.

‘I love him. I want him to be happy. I do not care about the money.’

She said, “Do whatever Patrick says.”

Stephen’s expression tightened. He walked to his desk and opened a folder. The papers inside looked crisp and important. “I must caution you,” he said. “This is not a typical decision. It is not wise. It is not in line with Terry’s intentions.”

Wreck stepped closer. “We understand. Please proceed.”

Stephen looked at Darleen again. “You truly want this?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

‘He is my husband now. I must stand with him.’

Stephen sighed and reached for his pen. The sunlight glinted off the gold clip. “Very well,” he said. “I will begin the process.”

Darleen watched the mountains through the window. The world looked bright and calm. She felt light, almost floating. She did not care about the papers. She did not care about the warnings. She cared only about Wreck. She wanted him to take her home, to take her to bed.

She whispered, “Thank you, Stephen.”

And the advisor lowered his eyes, disturbed but obedient.

            *           *           *

Dr. Samuel R. Whitford sat behind his desk, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds. The phone call had been brief, but the tone in Stephen Carrow’s voice had carried weight. Stephen was one of the deacons and Dr. Whitford knew he was a serious man. Now Carrow stood in the doorway, hat in hand, his expression uneasy.

“Come in, Stephen,” Whitford said. “You sounded troubled. What is it?”

Carrow stepped forward and took the chair opposite the desk. “It’s about Darleen Swenson,” he said quietly. “I thought you ought to know what she’s been doing.”

Whitford folded his hands. “Go on.”

“She came to my office with that man, Patrick Kelleher,” Carrow said. “He told her to sell everything. Stocks, bonds, savings certificates. She agreed to it all. Said she wanted the money in her checking account. It’s a joint account now.”

Whitford frowned. “A joint account? With him?”

“Yes,” Carrow said. “I tried to talk her out of it. I reminded her that Terry set up those investments carefully. She wouldn’t listen. She kept looking at Kelleher like he hung the moon.”

‘She is blind to him. She cannot see what he is doing.’

Whitford leaned back, his voice low. “You think he’s manipulating her?”

Carrow nodded. “He laughs, but his eyes don’t smile. He has cold eyes. I think he’s been loving her up until she can’t think straight. I’ve seen it before. He’s after something. Maybe it’s her money. What he is doing to her is wicked, but I don’t see what we can do about it. She’s certainly over twenty‑one. There’s no evidence that he forced her. He just confused her and found a way to control her.”

Whitford sighed. “I feared as much. She has been different lately. Distracted. Almost radiant, but not in a healthy way.”

Carrow rubbed his forehead. “I hate to say it, Reverend, but she’s not thinking clearly. She signs whatever he tells her to sign.”

‘Lord, give me wisdom. Help me find a way to reach her before she loses everything.’

Whitford stood and walked to the window. The churchyard was quiet, the Palo Verde trees still in the heat.

“Stephen, you did right to tell me. I will speak with her. Perhaps she will listen.”

Carrow shook his head. “I hope so. But I doubt it. She looks at him like he’s the answer to every prayer.”

Whitford turned back. “Then I will pray harder. And I will keep my eyes open.”

Carrow rose. “If you need me to testify about what she did, I’ll do it. I kept copies of the transfer orders.”

“That may be wise,” Whitford said. “Thank you, Stephen.”

Carrow nodded and left the office. The door closed softly behind him.

Whitford stood alone, staring at the cross on the wall. He felt the weight of it pressing on his conscience.

He whispered, “She is lost in her own heart, and he is guiding her deeper into it.”

‘She will not hear me. She will only hear him. But I must try.’

He sat down again, folded his hands, and began to pray.

            *           *           *

Wreck sat on the couch in the living room on Saturday night with the sound of an action movie filling the space. The television flashed with explosions and fast cars, but he barely paid attention. He was more aware of Darleen beside him. She sat close, almost pressed against him, and every few minutes she glanced at him instead of the screen. She tried to look interested, but he could tell she was not following the plot.

She shifted slightly and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her relax, and he knew she was enjoying the quiet more than the movie. It was the first evening he had not taken her to bed. She seemed grateful for the change. Her breathing slowed, and she leaned into him as if she had been waiting for a moment where he did not demand anything from her.

He stayed still and let her rest. It was easier than talking. It was easier than thinking about the pastor or the financial advisor or the questions that had begun to circle around him. She was quiet, and he liked that. She did not ask him anything. She did not question him. She simply stayed close.

He watched the screen without really seeing it. He could feel her contentment in the way she settled against him. She was happy to be near him. She did not care about the movie at all. She cared about him.

When the movie ended, she lifted her head and looked at him with a gentle smile. “Thank you for watching with me.”

“It was fine,” he said.

She touched his arm lightly. “I liked sitting with you.”

He nodded. She walked with him down the hallway when they went to bed. He judged that she needed sleep and this would be a good time to refrain from sex. He had conditioned her to obey. She would do what he wanted, but she had been looking like a zombie. For his next purpose, he wanted her to look rested and aware of her surroundings. He took her in his arms and she sighed with satisfaction. She stayed close all night.

Sunday morning arrived with sunlight filling the kitchen. Wreck stood near the counter while she stirred sugar into her coffee. She looked peaceful, bright-eyed and rested, as if the night before had soothed her.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We are going to church.”

She froze. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” he said. “People expect you there.”

She set her spoon down and frowned. “I only went because Terry liked it. And after he died, it helped me feel less alone. I do not need it now.”

“You need to go,” he said. “Come on.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “All right. If you want me to.”

He watched her walk toward the bedroom. She did not want to go, but she would go because he told her to. She trusted him completely. She did not question his reasons. She did not doubt him. She simply obeyed.

They arrived at Bethany Southern Baptist Church just before the service began. Darleen walked beside him with her head slightly lowered. Wreck saw Reverend Whitford watching them from the doorway. The pastor greeted them warmly, but his eyes stayed on Wreck with a quiet intensity.

After the service, Whitford approached them in the foyer. “Darleen, could you meet with me in my office for a moment?”

Wreck answered before she could speak. “I will go with her.”

Whitford nodded, but his expression tightened. They followed him into the office, where Angie’s desk sat neatly arranged and the smell of old books filled the air. Whitford closed the door and gestured for them to sit.

“Darleen,” he said, “Bobby Franklin is having trouble with the Bible study group. He asked if you might consider attending again. You were always a steadying presence.”

Darleen looked surprised. “Me? Why would he want me?”

“You have experience,” Whitford said. “And you have a way of calming people.”

Wreck watched the pastor carefully. Whitford’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to Darleen. The pastor was studying him, measuring him, trying to understand what influence he had over her. Wreck felt the weight of that scrutiny.

“Do you think I should go?” Darleen asked.

Whitford kept his gaze steady. “I think it would be good for you. And good for the group.”

Wreck could see the pastor’s intention. He wanted Darleen in the class so he could watch Wreck more closely. He wanted to see what Wreck was doing. He wanted to understand why Darleen had changed so much.

“I will think about it,” Darleen said softly.

Whitford nodded. “That is all I ask.”

They left the office and stepped back into the foyer. Angie hurried toward them with a bright smile. She threw her arms around Darleen.

“Why Darleen,” she said, “you are glowing. I can see that marriage agrees with you.”

Darleen blushed deeply. Whitford gave Angie a sharp look, but she did not seem to notice.

She squeezed Darleen’s hands and said, “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Darleen said. “I am happy.”

Wreck watched her face. She was glowing, just as Angie said. She looked thrilled to be standing there with him. She did not see the pastor’s concern. She did not see the advisors’ warnings. She saw only him.

He took all of it in. Angie’s enthusiasm. Darleen’s blush. Whitford’s suspicious stare. The pastor was worried. Wreck could see it in the way Whitford’s jaw tightened and in the way his eyes followed him as they walked toward the door.

Outside, the sun was bright, and the parking lot shimmered with heat. Darleen slipped her hand into Wreck’s arm.

“Do you think I should go to the class?” she asked.

“If you want to,” he said.

She looked up at him. “I only want what you want.”

He did not answer. He opened the car door for her and watched her climb inside. She trusted him completely. She did not question him. She did not doubt him. She did not see the pastor’s concern or the advisors’ warnings. She saw only him.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, he thought about Whitford’s eyes. The pastor was not fooled. He knew something was wrong. He knew Darleen was too devoted, too eager, too willing to follow Wreck without hesitation.

Wreck started the engine and glanced at her again. She smiled at him with quiet affection. She was glowing. And everyone could see it.

He drove home with her, aware that the pastor would be watching him now. Aware that the Bible study class was not a simple request. It was a way for Whitford to understand what Wreck was up to.

Wreck kept his eyes on the road and said nothing. He knew the pastor was right to be suspicious. He knew Darleen was too infatuated to see what he was making her do.

And he knew the story was far from over.

            *           *           *

After they drove home from church, Darleen tried to muster her courage. There were things she wanted from Wreck, things she needed. She wanted to ask him for them, but she was afraid he would get mad. She decided to start slowly.

Darleen stood in the kitchen after lunch, drying her hands on a towel while Wreck read the news on his iPad at the table. She felt a small spark of courage, something she had not felt in weeks. She cleared her throat softly.

“Could we go out for a walk later?” she asked, watching him closely. “I would like to get some fresh air.”

He looked up. “A walk? Sure. If you want.”

She felt a flutter of relief. She had asked for something. She had not waited for him to decide.

‘He said yes. I can ask for things. I can do that.’

She stepped closer. “And maybe tomorrow, could we go to the store? I want to pick out a new night gown.”

He nodded again. “All right. Whatever you want.”

She felt warmth spread through her chest. She was not pushing him. She was simply asking. And he was letting her. She felt herself returning, piece by piece.

That night, she followed him into the bedroom. Darleen sat down on the edge of the bed while Wreck folded his shirt and placed it on the dresser. She watched him quietly, feeling a new sense of courage rising in her chest. She wanted to tell him something, something she had never dared to say before. She took a breath.

Before she could speak, he turned and scooped her up in his big arms. He began to pull at her clothes, and she felt the abrasive brush of his bristled chin cut across her bare shoulder.

“Oww,” she cried. “You should shave before you decide to ravish me.”

Her words startled her. She had been surprised and hurt when he grabbed her and she spoke without thinking. For a moment, she was frightened, he was such a towering hunk of solid meat that he made her feel fragile and feminine. Then she saw the concern in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said.

It was okay. He wasn’t upset with her.

“Please give me a minute,” she said softly happy that they weren’t going to have a fight.

She changed into her new lace nightie and went into the bathroom. She didn’t like how it looked when she saw it in the mirror, so she changed into her older purple one that she knew he liked.

She stayed in there a long time, trying to compose her next request. When she came out, Wreck was lying on his back.

He was naked and the lamp light cast shadows across his body. She could see that he was becoming enlarged in anticipation of her. She felt her face growing warm as she noticed the throbs of his massive gristled shaft. His powerful heart was pumping blood into it.

‘He’s ready to take me,’ she thought. ‘He’s always ready to take me.’

“Wreck, can I ask you something?” she said trying to look desirable. She wanted him in a good mood before she made the next request. She wished her heart would stop beating so fast.

“Looking like that, you can ask me anything, Darleen. Who do you want me to kill?”

She laughed, feeling a gush of relief.

“Could you be a little more gentle with me?” she asked. “I like when you slow down. It makes me feel closer to you.”

He looked at her with a curious expression. “Gentle? You want that?”

She nodded. “Yes. It makes me feel cared for.”

‘Please do not be upset. Please understand.’

He sat beside her. “All right. If that is what you want.”

Relief washed through her. She felt her shoulders loosen and her heartbeat settle. She had asked for something important, and he had listened. She felt stronger, more present, more herself than she had in weeks.

“There’s something else,” she added. “I would like to be on top.”

“On top?”

“Yes. You are so big and strong. You tower over me. Sometimes I would like to be on top, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t mind at all. You can ride me. You can ride me like a wild bull.”

She did.

            *           *           *

Darleen sat on the edge of her bed in the quiet Tucson house. This time, after sex, they had slept twined in the deep innocence of slumber she remembered from her childhood. It was the first time she had felt such a profound connection with her new lover. She looked at the massive frame of the man lying on her bed. On the farm back in Iowa, they had a big gray stallion that she liked to ride. Wreck was like that horse. He was a vast chunk of sinew and bone, far larger than she was. But she had tamed that horse, and she was learning to tame Wreck.

The air was heavy with heat and memory. The ceiling fan turned lazily above her, stirring nothing. She felt like she had slain a demon. It had taken all her courage to ask Wreck to let her decide how they made love. To her surprise, and her delight, he had agreed readily. It made her feel alive.

She had been thinking about the years that had led her here, the men who had shaped her, the ones who had taken more than they gave. Waid had been the first to make her feel small. He never looked at her after sex, never asked if she was all right. Terry had prayed before and after, whispering apologies to God while she lay beside him, wondering if she was the sin he feared.

Wreck had been worse: he had taken what he wanted, and she had learned to go still, to survive. Even when he triggered a massive response, it was something he did to her and not something they did together.

Now she was done surviving. She wanted to live. She had been hiding in this house, waiting to die because she thought she had been a bad wife. It had given her a paralyzing conviction of evil.

Whatever else he might have done, Wreck woke her up. He brought her back to life. Looking back, it seemed like he had broken open her grave and brought her back from the dead. Maybe he had to be so rough and violent to get through to her. In any case, she was herself again. Her life was like it used to be, and she knew that was a gift from Wreck. She believed he was the only one who could have done it, and she was grateful.

Still, she wasn’t willing to submit to his use of her. There had to be more and now she could see how that could happen.

“Wreck,” she said, her voice steady. “I need you to listen.”

He turned from the window. “What is it?”

“I loved being on top. I loved riding you.”

“I loved it too,” he said with a gentle smile. “You are a wonderful lover.”

“I want more of that,” she said. “I want things to change,” she said. “I want to decide what happens. I want to be part of it.”

He frowned. “You think I don’t let you?”

“You take,” she said quietly. “You always take. I want to give, but I want to choose how.”

‘He does not understand yet. He thinks this is about blame. It is not. It is about power, and I am claiming mine.’

He crossed his arms. “You want control?”

“I want respect,” she said. “I want you to see me as someone who matters.”

‘This is what strength feels like. It is not loud. It is calm. It is mine.’

He looked at her for a long moment. “All right,” he said finally. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to be you lover, but I want it to be a partnership. I want you to give as well as take.”

“I will try harder,” he said and she could see the sincerity in his face.

She felt her shoulders loosen, her heartbeat steady. The room seemed brighter, the air lighter. For the first time in years, she felt the ground beneath her feet. She had spoken, and he had listened. Now, with Wreck agreeing to her demands, she felt empowered. She felt an intoxicating sense of control and proficiency. It gave her confidence.

She was not a shadow anymore. She was Darleen.

Chapter 7 – The Getaway

Darleen sat in the leather chair across from Terry’s old lawyer, the Tucson sunlight slanting through the blinds and striping the carpet. The office smelled like paper and dust and the faint trace of cologne that clung to the wood. She felt steady, almost calm, because Wreck had asked her for something important. He had trusted her. He had said he needed her. Gratitude had bloomed so quickly that she had agreed before she even thought about it.

Wreck sat beside her, his posture relaxed. The lawyer, Mr. Halpern, looked at the document on his desk with a tight expression.

“You want to give your husband a power of attorney?” he asked. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want to do it.”

He leaned forward. “Darleen, Arizona is a common law state. Your husband already owns half of everything. You do not need to sign this.”

Wreck spoke before she could. “That only applies to property acquired during the marriage. Her house in San Diego is separate property. Her savings are separate property. This gives me the ability to help her manage things.”

Halpern frowned. “That is not entirely accurate.”

‘He is talking to Wreck like Wreck is a child. He is talking to me like I am confused. I am not confused. I know what I want. I know what I am doing.’

Darleen straightened. “I asked Wreck to help me. I want him to have that power of attorney,” she said with no sign of subserviency. Wreck love for her, his willingness to please her, had given her a confidence which she had not known before.

Halpern looked at her with concern. “Darleen . . . “

“I think you’d better start calling me Mrs. Kelleher.”

Halpern was startled. “Of course,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to sound familiar. Mrs. Kelleher, it’s just that I worked for Terry many years. I know the history. I know how careful he was. I do not think this is wise.”

She felt heat rise in her chest. “Are you refusing to do what I asked?”

“I am trying to protect you,” he said gently. “You do not need to sign away authority. You already have a stable arrangement.”

She stood up. “I know you were Terry’s lawyer for many years, but if you do not do what I tell you to do, you are not going to be mine for much longer.”

‘There. I said it. I am not weak. I am not frightened. I am choosing this. I am choosing him. I am choosing my life.’

Wreck’s eyes seemed to flicker with satisfaction, subtle and warm. He was proud of her.

Halpern sighed. “If this is truly what you want, I will prepare the papers.”

“It is what I want,” she said firmly.

‘They listened. Wreck listened. And now the lawyer has listened too. I am not being carried anymore. I am walking. I am deciding. I am strong.’

As they left, she saw Wreck’s posture straighten and support her actions. It gave her comfort to know he was on her side. He would protect her.

            *           *           *

Wreck moved through Darleen’s world with a quiet, calculated patience. He had converted her stocks and bonds months earlier, back when she still trembled at the sound of his voice and apologized for things she had not done. That money had already become cash, already tucked into accounts he controlled, already transformed into something he could move without leaving fingerprints. Now he had something even better. He had her signature on a power of attorney. She had given it to him with gratitude in her eyes. She had believed he needed her. She had believed she was helping him. She had believed she was becoming strong.

He knew she felt proud of herself. He encouraged it. Pride made her predictable and vulnerable.

He began with the San Diego property. The house sat near the ocean, bright and expensive, a perfect piece of collateral. The bank manager greeted him politely. Wreck smiled. “I want a mortgage on the property,” he said. “Eight hundred thousand.” The manager asked a few questions. Wreck answered them smoothly. The loan went through. He walked out of the bank with the paperwork in his hand and the ocean behind him.

In Tucson, the banks were more cautious. He asked for two hundred thousand as a second mortgage. They hesitated. He pressed. They agreed. It was enough. A million dollars in total. Clean. Accessible.

He began buying gold bars. At first, he bought one-ounce bars. They were easy to carry, easy to hide. Then he discovered the ten-ounce bars. He liked them immediately. Compact. Heavy. Valuable. Ten of them fit neatly into his carry-on bag. Together, they weighed a little over six pounds and were worth almost half a million dollars. He held one in his hand and admired the dense weight.

He made a go bag. He packed the gold bars in a tight row. He added one hundred one-hundred-dollar bills, one hundred fifty-dollar bills, and one hundred twenty-dollar bills. He got two fake passports and two fake driver’s licenses. He zipped the bag and placed it behind Darleen’s winter coats in the closet. He checked it every morning.

Darleen watched him with trust in her eyes. She asked him questions. “Are you sure everything is going smoothly?” she asked. “Do you need help with anything?” she asked.

He smiled at her. “Everything is fine,” he said.

‘She thinks I am helping her. She thinks I am protecting her. She thinks she is becoming strong. She has no idea what I am doing. She has no idea how close I am to leaving.’

He walked through the Tucson house and looked at the desert through the window. He imagined carrying the go bag through the airport. He imagined walking away from her. He imagined the gold in his hands.

Darleen sat at the kitchen table and smiled at him when he came home. “Did you get everything done?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything is taken care of.”

‘She trusts me completely. She gave me everything. She will never see it coming.’

He kept the go bag close. He kept his plans quiet. He waited.

Wreck stood in the Tucson bedroom and looked at the go bag hidden behind Darleen’s winter coats. He had checked it again that morning. The gold bars were lined up in a perfect row, each one dense and compact. The cash was sorted into neat stacks. He felt a calm satisfaction settle over him. Everything was ready. He did not intend to leave yet, but he wanted the option. He wanted the freedom to walk out the door whenever he chose.

He sat on the edge of the bed and imagined the path he would take. He would fly to Dallas under his own name. No one would question that. From Dallas, he would use the first identification to fly to Mexico City. He had practiced the signature until it felt natural. From Mexico City, he would use the second identification to fly to Rio. He liked the idea of Rio. He liked the heat, the anonymity, the ocean.

He pictured himself in a small apartment near the sea. He pictured a young Brazilian mistress bringing him a drink while he sat on a balcony and watched the surf roll in. He pictured the gold stashed in a safety deposit box. He pictured the cash tucked into a drawer. He pictured a life without Darleen, without Tucson, without anyone who knew his name.

‘She has no idea what I am planning. She thinks I am helping her. She thinks I am protecting her. She thinks she is becoming strong. She does not understand that strength is something I take, not something I give.’

He walked into the kitchen. Darleen was slicing fruit. She looked up and smiled. “Are you going out today?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I have errands.”

“Do you need help?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “You should rest.”

She smiled. “Are you planning to wear me out later?” she asked with a laugh.

“Absolutely.”

Darleen gave him a humid look, then returned to her work. He watched her for a moment. She moved with a new confidence. She spoke more directly. She believed she was becoming assertive. He had encouraged it. Assertiveness made her feel secure. Security made her predictable.

‘She trusts me completely. She thinks she is choosing her life. She does not see that I am shaping it for her.’

He stepped outside and felt the Tucson heat settle on his shoulders. He walked to the car and sat behind the wheel. He did not drive anywhere important. He did not need to. The mortgages were already in place. The money was already accessible. The gold was already purchased. The identifications were already prepared.

He started the engine and let it idle. He did not leave. Planning was enough for now. Planning was power.

‘When the moment comes, I will be ready. She will never see it coming.’

He turned off the engine and went back inside. The go bag waited in the closet, silent and patient, just like him.

After they drove to San Diego, Darleen went out and sat on an old wooden bench. The breeze whipped her lovely hair into a big red cloud. She smiled and glanced at the waves breaking softly on the shore. Her expression was mildly defiant.

She seemed to be indicating that the outdoor setting was a place of nature as opposed to the bedroom where she had been spending most of her time.

Her dress was quite short and displayed her nice legs. When she moved, it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a damn thing under the thin cotton fabric. She must have left the rest of her stuff in the room after they made love.

He said, “Darl my love, you are not decent. If you don’t watch out, sitting there like that, I might just take you right here on the beach.”

Her smile widened. “Big talk. If this dress gets you all worked up, why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”

When he didn’t move, she said, “If Terry could have seen me dressed this way he would have been outraged. He was a bit of a prude.”

“So, you feel comfortable talking about your late husband?” he asked.

“Husbands,” she said with another smile. “I had two of them, you know. Well, now I guess the count is up to three.”

He returned her smile, walked over to her and sat beside her. When neither of them spoke, she slipped off her ballet slippers and began to move her toes through the sand. She looked as pretty and slender as a high school cheerleader.

Wreck realized that he was growing quite fond of her. He told himself that wouldn’t do. He was supposed to be a ruthless con man about to rob and desert her.

Before he could speak, she said, “Don’t laugh darling, but I’m happy. I feel beautifully irresponsible and very happy. I don’t have to worry if my outfit is modest or if my mortgage has been paid. I don’t have to wonder if Terry or Waid would approve. I’m in love with you. You understand that, of course.”

“Sure,” he said. “Of course.”

“You are always so nice to me. I loved them, but they could be difficult. You are never difficult. You are wonderful. Making love with you is the most fantastic thing that’s ever happened to me. Being here in San Diego, at this house, wouldn’t even be possible for me if you weren’t here to take care of me. I’m content to think of spending the rest of my life letting you care for me and taking care of you in any way I can.”

“Me too.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable dear?” I can’t help it. I know you don’t like all the lovey dovey stuff. I know you like to pretend you’re John Wayne. But I’m so happy I can’t keep it in. I’m mad about you and that’s just the way it is.”

She laughed quickly and glanced around to make sure no one could overhear her.

“If anybody had told me six months ago that I’d be sitting on this beach in an old cotton dress with no undies on, talking sentimentally about happiness . . . “

Her eyes grew large and serious and she said, “Well, I’ve just bared my soul. Hadn’t you better do something about it?”

            *           *           *

Wreck lay beside Darleen in the quiet bedroom, the soft sound of the ocean drifting through the open window.

She rested her head on his shoulder with a peaceful expression. Her breathing was slow and contented. He stared at the ceiling and felt the familiar pull of calculation begin to move through his thoughts. He had planned everything. He had the gold. He had the cash. He had the identifications. He had the go bag hidden in the closet. He could leave whenever he wanted.

She shifted slightly and touched his chest. “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I am fine.”

She smiled and closed her eyes again. She looked serene, almost girlish. Sex agreed with her. He watched her for a long moment.

‘She is trying so hard to please me. She is giving me everything she has. She thinks I am her future. She thinks I am her safety. She thinks I am her happiness.’

He turned his head slightly and looked at the window. The breeze moved the curtains. He imagined the path he had planned. He would fly to Dallas under his own name. From Dallas, he would use the first identification to fly to Mexico City. From Mexico City, he would use the second identification to fly to Rio. He had rehearsed the details. He had memorized the signatures. He had practiced the mannerisms. He had imagined the apartment near the sea. He had imagined the young Brazilian mistress in his bed as he listened to the surf.

Wreck didn’t have any experience with hookers. He never had to bother. There was plenty of free tail for a man who knew how to talk to women. Finding one would be a new experience. He wasn’t sure how he would do it.

A Brazilian mistress could be a problem. She could be a tease or a lush or even sick. She might want to fall in love and make him marry her. She might even be two months along and looking for somebody to take care of the kid. She could be a nut or mentally unstable. She could be in trouble with the local police.

Even if there were none of those difficulties, she might have no talent for sex. A twenty-year-old might look good, but there was no guarantee for how she would be in bed. And there would be no one to talk to. Her conversation would probably be limited to makeup, clothes and K-pop music.

Darleen had none of those problems. She knew how to look good and dress well enough for him to take anywhere. She didn’t drink and she didn’t smoke. You could dress her in burlap and roll her in mud, and she would still be a lady.

Darleen was faithful and lately she had made his bed a very busy place. What she lacked in ability, she made up for in enthusiasm. He knew just how each evening was going to end up, and he knew she was good at it and getting better.

‘Brazil sounds good. It sounds free. It sounds simple. But it is not simple. It is dangerous. It is uncertain. It is a gamble.’

He thought about Rio. He thought about the instability. He thought about the governments that changed without warning. He thought about the police. He thought about the possibility of being caught. He thought about the fact that he would be a fugitive from justice. He thought about the impossibility of ever returning to the United States safely.

‘If anything goes wrong, I lose everything. If anyone recognizes me, I lose everything. If the identification fails, I lose everything. If the government changes, I lose everything.’

Darleen opened her eyes and moved close. She was warm and fragrant.

“You are quiet,” she said. “Are you thinking about something?”

“Just resting,” he said.

She touched his cheek. “I hope you are happy,” she said. “I am trying to make you happy.”

He nodded. “You are doing fine.”

She smiled again and closed her eyes. She looked peaceful. She looked trusting. She looked devoted.

‘She is an adequate lover. She is trying hard. She is grateful. She is obedient. She is affectionate. She is easy to manage. She is easy to keep. She is easy to control. And she is rich.’

He thought about the money. He already controlled it. He had the mortgages. He had the cash. He had the gold. He had the power of attorney. He had everything he needed. He did not need to flee to Rio to enjoy the benefits. He already had them.

‘If I stay, I have the money. If I stay, I have the house. If I stay, I have her trust. If I stay, I have her devotion. If I stay, I have safety. If I stay, I have comfort. If I stay, I have control.’

He looked at her again. She was smiling faintly in her sleep. Her red hair lay across the pillow in soft waves. She looked young. She looked hopeful. She looked like someone who believed she had found the right man.

She whispered softly, “I love you.”

He felt a small shift inside him, something he did not expect. It was not affection. It was not guilt. It was something quieter. It was the realization that she was not a threat. She was not a burden. She was not a complication. She was an asset. She was a source of comfort. She was a source of stability. She was a source of admiration.

‘If I leave, I lose all of this. If I leave, I lose the comfort and the safety. If I leave, I lose her admiration. If I leave, I lose the control and the rest of her money. If I leave, I lose the life I have built.’

‘I haven’t broken any laws yet. People might think the gold and the mortgages were bad choices, but they could not indite me. As long as I stay, they can’t touch me.’

‘On the other hand, I have dreamed of Rio de Janeiro for years. The seashore beckons. The mistress could be fantastic.’

He got up quietly and went to the closet. He reached for the go bag.

He exhaled slowly.

She opened her eyes again. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said as he walked over to her. “I am fine.”

She touched his hand. “I hope you’ll stay with me,” she said. “I hope you’ll stay forever.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Her eyes were warm and trusting. She waited for his answer.

He nodded. “I am staying,” he said wondering if it was true.

Her face lit with relief. “Good,” she whispered. “That makes me happy.”

She closed her eyes again and rested her head on his shoulder.

Wreck stared at the ceiling feeling Darleen’s soft movements as she breathed.

‘Rio is uncertain. Rio is dangerous. Rio is a gamble. Staying is safe. Staying is comfortable. Staying is profitable. Staying is easy.’

He closed his eyes.

He had made his decision.

He would stay.

Epilogue

Pastor Whitford never stopped watching Wreck. He greeted the man politely, shook his hand when required, and bowed his head during the same prayers, but the doubt never left him. Something in Wreck’s eyes told him the man was not honest. Whitford could never prove anything, and without proof he had no authority to interfere, so he tolerated Wreck the way a shepherd tolerates a wolf that refuses to show its teeth.

Angie saw none of that. She believed in love the way some people believe in sunrise, certain it will come again no matter how dark the night feels. She was sure Darleen had chosen well. Angie raised three boys who gave her seven grandchildren, and she stayed married for sixty-two years. Her faith in marriage was unshakable, and she carried it like a lantern through every season of her life.

Wreck stayed with Darleen and enjoyed her money. He never admitted it aloud, but he often wondered if he should have gone to Rio. The thought came to him in quiet moments, drifting through his mind like a breeze through an open window. He never acted on it. He never left.

Darleen was deliriously happy. She woke each morning with a sense of gratitude that felt almost holy. The whole congregation gathered to remember a woman who had loved with her whole heart. Her only fear had been that she would have to bury a third husband. That fear was laid to rest five years after she married Wreck.