Page 21 of Facing the Enemy

I sank onto the sofa. Gage, my friend—the man I couldn’t share my heart with because I feared no longer being able to work with him. How could I have flung such ugly words?

You owe him an apology.

How long had it been since I’d heard the voice of God whispering to my heart? I needed someone to blame, and God abandoned me. He stepped aside and permitted Trenton’s death when He could have prevented it.

I clenched my fist. I pointed the finger at myself as well. I’d committed more than my share of mistakes, and the guilt of causing the accident made me ill. I mean, I knew deep down my sins had nothing to do with Trenton’s death, but it felt so much like I was responsible.

Memories scraped the scabs off my heart. Oh, the guilt and the shame. The combination of the two caused incredible depression, and I felt like the poster child. Maybe instead of me making a mistake, I was the mistake? If that were true, then I was of no value to anyone.

Why didn’t I ask Trenton to call Mom and Dad from the restaurant? In the quiet atmosphere, he could have talked to them. I didn’t think, and now Trenton was a memory. Mom and Dad weren’t given an opportunity to hear firsthand about his life change and faith conversion.

Guilt.

Shame.

Blame.

Selfishness.

Gage had pointed out how the FBI was equipped to solve the open case. I’d reacted like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. He deserved an apology. I picked up my burner phone and texted.

I’m sorry. No excuse for lashing out at you.

Gage’s response came within seconds.I ignored your feelings. I needed a muzzle on my mouth.

You were right. I was wrong.

I’m in the lobby.

I typed,You parked?

Yes, I’d like to talk.

Talk about what? Carson’s story? New evidence in the case? Jack? Surely not Gage and me ... I owed him a chance to say whatever was on his mind without blowing up or telling him how much I loved him. If anyone had seen me leave with him, they’d surely watch him entering my apartment. But why would someone have constant surveillance on an ex-FBI agent? That had to be an idle threat. I placed my fingers on the keyboard.

I’ll ok your access. I miss my friend.

I stood and stretched to put optimism and hope back into my battered mind. My gaze captured the coffee maker—our past habit of drinking and talking through investigations. If I brewed coffee,he might stay longer. Did I want Gage inside my apartment when I cared for him far too much? Were the wrong people watching, ready to make good on their threats?

My doorbell rang. My head pounded. Why? Foolish for me to deliberate about my roller-coaster emotions. I started the coffee bean grinder and answered the door.

“Hey.” He leaned on one foot. “I hear a woman living here needs help reading between the lines of a story.”

Sweet Gage. “She does, and she’ll do her best not to throw poison darts at the comments.”

He chuckled, and I stepped aside for him to enter. “Come in. What about coffee?”

“Are those beans from the coffee shop around the corner?”

“Your nose is working. Those are the special dark-roast beans from Kenya.” I gestured for the towering man to sit. “Let me do a pour-over.” I went through the motions of coffee making and shoved aside the nostalgia.

“Okay to sit at the bar?” he said. “In case I spill coffee and stain your sofa.”

I smiled and allowed myself the luxury of gazing into the blue-gray eyes that held a hint of sorrow. “I am sorry.”

“I apologize too.”

“Are you really willing to examine Carson’s story together?”