Chapter 20 - The Lingering Shadow
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Nearly a full year after that day on the courthouse steps, I was sitting in my office at Fort Liberty, reviewing deployment schedules, when my cell phone vibrated on the desk.
I looked at the screen and smiled. It was Abigail.
"Hey, sweetheart," I answered warmly, leaning back in my chair.
"Mom?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"Can you come get me?"
My heart literally stopped for half a second. My muscles instinctively tensed, ready to go to war all over again.
Then, she laughed. It was a bright, genuine, beautiful sound that echoed through the phone. I could hear the absolute happiness in her voice.
"Relax, Mom," she giggled. "I'm safe. My stupid car just won't start, and it's starting to rain."
I closed my eyes, letting out a massive breath, and laughed with her. "Where are you?"
"Downtown, right outside the new studio."
"Give me forty minutes," I said, grabbing my keys.
When I arrived in Charlotte, Abigail was standing under the awning of a small, brick art studio. Her own paintings had been selected for a prestigious local exhibition. She had started her own business, moved into her own apartment, and built an incredible new life.
She climbed into the passenger seat of my SUV, shaking the rain from her hair. "Thanks, Mom. You're a lifesaver."
"Anytime, kiddo," I smiled, pulling out into the evening traffic.
As I drove toward her apartment complex, the setting sun painted the Charlotte sky in brilliant shades of orange and gold.
"Mom?" she asked softly, looking out the window. "Remember when I used to call you and tell you what color the sky was when you were deployed?"
"I remember," I smiled.
"I think I finally understand something," she murmured. "Home isn't a house. It isn't a mansion or a guest house. It's the person you know will come when you call."
I reached across the center console and squeezed her hand. She had learned that asking for help was not a weakness. Walking away from cruelty was not a failure. It was the definition of courage.
I pulled the SUV into her apartment complex parking lot, feeling a profound sense of peace.
But as Abigail stepped out of the car and walked toward her front door, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.
"Mom," she said, her voice dropping to a confused whisper.
I put the car in park and stepped out. Sitting perfectly centered on Abigail’s welcome mat was a single, pristine white rose. Tucked beneath the stem was an expensive, heavy-stock cream envelope bearing the unmistakable, embossed gold crest of the Ferguson family.
I walked up beside her, staring at the envelope. Nicholas was in prison. Patricia and Gregory were awaiting trial. They were supposed to be neutralized.
I reached down and opened the envelope. Inside was a single, typed sentence:
May you like
We never forget.
I looked up, scanning the dark, rain-slicked street. A black sedan with heavily tinted windows idling at the end of the block slowly turned its headlights off, slipping silently into the night. The war in the courtroom was over, but as I pulled Abigail behind me, I realized a much darker battle was just beginning.
