The Hero (Thunder Point #3)(75)

“Maybe a little time is really all he needs?” Gina ventured.

Devon sighed. “Yeah. Well, I spent a few days fantasizing he’d call saying he just panicked...but the call didn’t come. And tempting as he is, I really don’t want a guy who feels like he’s all in and then he suddenly freezes up like that.”

“Maybe it has something to do with his late wife?” Gina suggested.

“Oh, definitely. He mentioned that, but we’ve talked about her before, about what a huge life lesson that was for him. He seemed so stable, so right with the world, you know? But he’s got secrets—did you know his parents both died last summer?”

“I knew about his dad. He left Austin with Cooper and went back east to see him buried. But I didn’t realize...”

“I think Spencer has stuff to work out. And I know I have stuff to work out. I think maybe this is for the best, much as it hurts. We shouldn’t be working stuff out on each other.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Gina said, sipping her coffee. “I’m just so sorry. And surprised. Not only do you seem like one of the least troubled people I know, so did Spencer. I don’t know him well, but I know him.”

“We don’t always advertise our baggage. You know?”

“I know. Someday we’ll have a glass of wine and I’ll tell you how well I know about that.”

“I guess everyone has their stuff,” Devon said. “You know, I look at all my new friends and they all look like they have everything in life figured out and sometimes I feel like the only person with a past to put in perspective. Sometimes I pray one day I can be like everyone else.”

“There is no everyone else, Devon. Life is complicated and difficult for everyone. Absolutely everyone. And you shouldn’t feel alone. You’re just like the rest of us—hard stuff to work through so you can have a stable, productive, happy life. There’s no reason you can’t. If you ever start to feel like the struggle is bigger than you are, there’s help. I have the name of an excellent counselor.”

“Really? Because that was suggested to me, but I’m not sure I can afford one.”

“She has a sliding scale based on income. My insurance helped, but I would’ve had trouble paying her fees if it hadn’t. If you ever want her name, if only to find out what the fee might be, just let me know.”

“Is she a friend of yours?” Devon asked.

“No, sweetheart. She was my daughter’s counselor. She got us through a very rough patch. Counseling works.”

* * *

Devon gave the idea of counseling some thought through the afternoon. She might look into that, but for now she was determined to get on with her life. She picked up Mercy from Gabriella and took her home. Once there she asked Mrs. Bledsoe if she could keep an eye on her for a little while so she could get a little exercise. While it was still light, a run on the beach would solve some immediate problems, like feeling sorry for herself. And if she saw him or he saw her, she would just run in the other direction.

“A half hour? Maybe forty-five minutes at the most?” she asked Mrs. Bledsoe. “She had a snack and I’ll give her dinner when I’m back.”

She was about twelve minutes into her run when the adrenaline kicked in and she was reminded that what had just happened with Spencer was probably normal. It was probably the kind of complication “regular” people go through when forming relationships, but she’d gotten a little off the track because of her unusual circumstances. People who lived in the real world, people who weren’t so alone and screwed up probably examined and reexamined their relationships constantly.

Spencer was not in evidence on the beach. She didn’t see him on the deck, either. She ran across the beach as far as the dock, then back across and up the hill, past Spencer’s house to her own.

And in front of her house was the deputy sheriff’s car!

She sprinted to her door and burst inside. Mrs. Bledsoe, looking so small sitting on her secondhand sofa next to Mac, was weeping into a tissue.

“What?” she shouted. “What is it?”

Mrs. Bledsoe struggled for control. “He took her,” she said. “He said he was her father and he took her.”

Devon looked at Mac. “Jacob?” she asked. “Was it him?”

“Sounds like it was. I’ve notified the sheriff and the FBI.”

Looking back at Mrs. Bledsoe, she demanded, “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know,” the poor woman faltered. “Tall. Dark hair. A little gray, but not much. Strong. He told me not to try to fight him or I’d get hurt. He said this was a dangerous world and he was taking Mercy to a safe place. Oh, my dear, I was so afraid of him!”

“And what was he driving?” Devon demanded.

“I don’t know. It was blue. It was a truck,” she stammered.

“What else did he say, Mrs. Bledsoe?” Devon said, getting right in her face. The older woman backed up, clearly frightened by Devon. “What did he say? Exactly!”

“That Mercy was his daughter. He said, ‘Come here, Mercy,’ and she went to him. He picked her up—she wasn’t afraid of him. He said, ‘No one takes my child from me,’ and that if I tried to stop him I’d get hurt. I had to go home to call the police, but I came right back here. I couldn’t stop him, please believe me.”