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“I needed to talk to you, and I asked God to supply me an opportunity to do that. Now here you are.”
Kenna frowned. “Talk to me about what?”
Mrs. Merrington glanced at the entryway. “About where Forrest Crosby was at the time Pastor Bruce was murdered.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Mrs. Merrington?—”
“It’s Alice.”
Kenna couldn’t believe she might’ve walked not only to safety, but also into an alibi for Forrest. Could that really be what God was doing here?
Alice ducked her head and made the first stitch.
Blood oozed from the wound, but nothing else did, which was a good sign there wasn’t life-threatening internal damage. At least as far as Kenna knew—which wasn’t much. Blood needed to stay inside the body. The heart needed to keep beating. Doctors insisted they knew more than everyone, and nothing they did would make her feel better than the chance to get in a car anddrive.
Alice got to work, moving efficiently but slower than Kenna would’ve gone. Not rushing wasn’t a bad thing, though. The woman seemed to know what she was doing.
Gunshots echoed outside.
Kenna flinched and turned to the window, but couldn’t see out. They weren’t protected standing here. They had to trust that the people outside would keep them safe. Just like atthe cabin, a bullet could shatter the window and take someone’s life with it.
Jim needed to be looked at when Alice was done with Pilsborough.
All Kenna wanted to do was go outside and help Jax. Make sure the children fighting this fight for them had someone to watch their backs. That was who had been outside with Mr. Merrington.
His children.
Had he trained them to fight a war?
Even if he had, she didn’t like the idea they could lose their lives fighting one.
“Flashlight, Kenna.”
Alice focused on her task. She grabbed her lip between her teeth while she pinched the skin together with one hand and sutured with the other. Moving proficiently, like a woman who had done this before. Apparently, she had no issue with the sight of blood or a gunshot wound. And even if she’d never sewn up a person before—just clothes—Alice Merrington didn’t give any hint she was even nervous.
Kenna’s stomach flipped over just looking at the blood.
A gunshot sounded outside, and Alice flinched.
She was nervous. For her family.
They both needed to be distracted from what was happening around them.
“Will you tell me what you know about Forrest’s whereabouts?” Kenna asked.
It wasn’t an interrogation. Just a quiet question between two women who would be overwhelmed with fear for people they cared about if they didn’t occupy their thoughts with something else. They’d be overwhelmed with the sight and smell of blood, and the grisly injury on a federal agent that could turn out badly if he lost his life.
Kenna continued, “You mentioned an alibi?”
Alice let out a breath, her body completely still. “I don’t like lying.” She paused. “I have to say that. I don’t like the fact that I’ve been lying. But while husbands might be the head of the family, that doesn’t make them a hundred percent correct about everything.”
“Okay.” Kenna leaned her hip against the table. She touched two fingers to Pilsborough’s wrist and felt his pulse. Thankfully, it was still there.
“I love everything about my husband and the life we have. But the horrible truth is that my son is a fantastic writer. He has talent. The stories he creates should be celebrated. Encouraged. Not swept away as if they weren’t a part of Reuben’s soul written down on paper.” Tears gathered in Alice’s eyes. “He wrote a poem about Rebekah. I’ve never read anything that beautiful.”
“Reuben was with Forrest?”