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So not the most recent victim, but the one before that. And she had likely been buried with the others, years ago now, cold in that field and decomposing.
Kenna laid her hand over her heart. She angled her body toward the grieving parents and asked softly, “What was Rebekah like?” She directed the question to the mother, who flushed.
“She was a sweet child. Always so ready to help.” Mrs. Merrington tucked her hand in her pocket and brought out a faded photo.
The husband’s hands flexed on the chair.
“Rebekah loved to make animal sounds,” she added. “She could mimic nearly every bird call or chirp you can think of.”
Kenna took the picture carefully and smiled. “She sounds like a lovely girl.” Equally as carefully, she’d refrained from using the past tense.
“We had heard in town that you were here. We didn’tknow if anyone was even looking for the missing girls anymore.” Tears gathered in the mother’s eyes.
“We lost hope at times,” Mr. Merrington said. “Though it shames me to admit it, I did fall victim to the sin of unbelief that we would never find her.”
“Hope can be so fragile,” Kenna said. “Sometimes it seems as strong as a bull. Other times it’s as fragile as a bird with a broken wing. Hope is a gift we’re given. A kind of grace, which we need so much but don’t deserve.”
The husband nodded. “You’re right.”
Kenna had been on both sides of it. Since Maizie had been kidnapped in Mexico, she knew at least something of what these parents felt—to an extent anyway. She’d needed to rage until her teen was back and safe, to fight her way to getting Maizie back.
Learning to trust God seemed like it would be a lifelong journey, and she’d end up taking two steps forward and then one back at every time. Then. Now.
Mrs. Merrington accepted the photo back. “We had heard that the police may have found the…the—” Her voice broke.
“Marion Wells is in custody.” Kenna nearly mentioned that the woman wouldn’t be hurting anyone else, but something held those words back. “She gave me the location, and the police are doing their work at the scene.”
“And if they find my Rebekah?”
Behind Mrs. Merrington, the husband’s hands flexed again. Controlling his anger, and the frustration he had over feeling powerless?
“You’ll be able to lay her to rest soon,” Kenna said.
The woman flushed. “She’s been with Jesus for a long time. But it would be good to bring her home.”
Kenna wondered if they would bury their child on their land, where they could keep her memory close by. “You’ll beable to remember her life and find some peace for yourself. At least, that’s what I’ll be praying for.”
Pastor Bruce said, “If you need anything from the church at this time, or anytime, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Mrs. Merrington nodded. She rose but paused by Kenna’s chair. “After she has been…identified, will you come and see me? I’d love to show you some of the pictures I have at home. Start remembering.”
Kenna said, “I would love to see them.”
They closed the door as quietly as they lived.
Pastor Bruce blew out a long breath. “Is it always that tough?”
She studied this rough-looking man. “I’m Kenna.”
“I used to go by Slim. Now I’m Bruce again, which my mother would be delighted to hear if she wasn’t with the good Lord nearly thirty years.” He dropped that last piece of information casually, as if let her know he had also suffered loss.
“Yes, Bruce. It is often like that.”
“How do you do it?” He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked.
“Letting them talk while you listen is a gift. Another grace, but one we give to each other rather than what we accept from the Lord.”
“Huh.”