God Only Knows (7 page)

Maxwell had frowned in confusion. “What exactly do I stand for, now?”

Forrest had retrieved his fat, costly Cuban cigar and taken a puff before responding. The only non-physician in the family,
he just so happened to be the highest income-earner. After graduating from the top of his classes at both Tuskegee and the
Wharton business school, Forrest had quickly earned his place as a top executive with the Simon family’s chain of for-profit
hospitals and physician practices. “What you stand for, my brother,” he said finally, “is the very thing that drives poor
white folk crazy —a black man with money.” Flipping a cut of filet mignon, he cut his eyes back in his oldest brother’s direction.
“Or should I say, a black man who once had money.”

“She’s not like that,” Maxwell had replied, shrugging off the dig. He wasn’t sure why he was defending the decision. After
all, Bruce was the one who had interviewed Edna independently, picking her résumé from the application stack without having
any insight into the fact that she was the mother of
the
Eddie Walker. Once Bruce was so sold on her, insisting Maxwell include her on the list of people to get a second interview,
Maxwell had been hard-pressed to deny her qualifications.

“She’s really built herself up,” Maxwell had explained to Forrest that day. “Not only does she have fifteen years of nursing
experience, she earned a master’s in health administration at Wright State and spent several years managing two private practices.
They sent glowing recommendation letters.”

Forrest glared as he asked, “So why would she leave a practice that could clearly pay her more than you could afford, to work
for the classmate of her nearly dead son?”

“The woman has faith,” Maxwell had replied, happy to hit a topic that he knew was a sore one with Forrest, who seemed to grow
more arrogant and humanistic by the day. “Without me even bringing it up, she told me all about the trials she and Eddie have
suffered through the years . . . the surgeries, the signs of recovery that turned out to be teases, all of it. This woman
could have crumpled into a tragic figure, Forrest, but instead she’s come to treat Eddie’s fate as motivation to see to it
that more people receive effective health care.

“Now that’s not to say you can’t still see signs of pain in her, or that she’ll ever stop mourning in her own way, but she
doesn’t let it consume her. Frankly, she’s an inspiring presence to have in the office.”

“Well, God bless you, Pollyanna,” Forrest had said, handing him a plate of steaks. “Take those inside for me, please.” Maxwell
hadn’t stayed at his brother’s house much longer that afternoon; the contempt hanging in the air had clouded his ability to
enjoy the company of Forrest’s pleasant wife, Margaret, and their two young children.

• • •

Finishing his review of the patient chart before him, Maxwell stood and headed toward the appropriate examination room. The
trilling of his cell phone slowed his gait and the number that popped up reminded him of the touchy task awaiting:
Nia.
He would have to explain, somehow, that he wouldn’t be able to make it out to her house tonight, and he knew she would not
be pleased.

Weighing the ringing phone in his hand, Maxwell began rehearsing the conversation in his head:
“I love you, you know that. I just can’t get out there to see you by a decent hour tonight.”

He knew the basic tenor of her response:
“Why can’t we just live together? Why don’t you move out here, or let me come live in Dayton with you?”
Nia might not use those exact words, but her disappointment would speak volumes.

The question was, how would he answer this time? Was it time to just tell the truth?
“Because it’s too complicated.”

For some reason he couldn’t explain, Maxwell felt the spirit of Julia Turner, of all people, observing his anguish. What would
someone like her —a beautiful, educated, and witty black woman —think of his relationship with Nia? It still surprised him
that he now cared; he hadn’t seen the attraction to Julia coming. When she had first walked into the boardroom at Christian
Light, dressed in a dark pinstriped suit, rocking a natural hairstyle and two simple hoop earrings, Maxwell had felt that
unexplainable stir within that told him when a woman was worth investigating. He wondered if she knew how pretty her smile
was; from what he could see, Julia held it close, letting it out only in rare moments where she dropped her guard.

Maxwell knew he was probably wasting his time on such questions. He’d sensed during their confrontation a few days ago that
Julia still held a grudge over his lack of attraction to her all those years ago. Did his relationship with Nia prove that
Maxwell was still the same shallow, white-woman-obsessed kid of years ago? He didn’t want to think so, but he had a feeling
Julia wouldn’t be so charitable.

Why did that bother him so much?

I
’
m going to tell him,
Cassie told herself as she grabbed her car keys from the counter.
Right now.

The sudden sensation of Marcus’s lips against her cheek surprised her. “You sure you don’t have time to join me for breakfast
before the meeting?” From behind, he wrapped his wife in an embrace. “It won’t take me a minute to drop the girls at school;
then we could meet up at First Watch.”

“You know I would if I could,” she replied, her left hand caressing the right arm Marcus had draped over her shoulder. “I
really need to get this first meeting of the day in, though.”

“All right,” Marcus said, a slight growl underneath his words. He turned Cassie around to face him and planted a romantic
kiss before saying, “I’m just excited to have you at my side today. We’re going to finally prove them wrong.”

It was hard to believe that God had finally aligned all the necessary players —venture capitalists, bankers, and advertisers
—that Marcus had sought while trying to launch
Renewed,
the Christian magazine he’d first conceived while working as a senior editor for the
Dayton Daily News.
Today’s meeting was the linchpin, where Marcus and his leadership team would sign the leasing agreements for the magazine’s
office space.

Now that their marriage had survived the stresses driven by her husband’s career change, the last thing Cassie wanted to do
was reveal the fresh horror stalking her. As she stood on her toes and returned Marcus’s kiss, she prayed to God for strength.
She knew deep within that the recent hours she had invested in prayer and meditation had delivered one certainty among the
anxieties Peter Whitlock had stirred within her. Anything that threatened her sanity, her welfare, and, more crucially, M.J.’s
had to be shared with Marcus. If she couldn’t share something like this with her husband, what was the point of marriage anyway?

“Marcus, wait!” The words burst forth from Cassie when she realized he had already shrugged into his trench coat and grabbed
his briefcase.

A teasing smirk twisting his lips, he looked back at Cassie, one hand on the garage door knob. “Yeah, sweetie?”

Cassie felt her lips part, heard nothing but exhaled air escape. Swallowing, she ran a hand over her forehead. “There’s something
we need to talk about. I know you’re pressed for time right now, but God put it on my heart this morning —”

Cassie’s unsteady words were cut short by the ring tone of Marcus’s cell phone. His eyes still on hers, as if to encourage
her to keep speaking, he nonetheless raised his phone so that its face was within his line of sight. “Aw, no,” he said, brow
furrowing. “I’m sorry, Cassie, this is that new attorney we brought on board last week. I need to make sure he knows how to
get to the meeting.”

“No, I understand,” Cassie replied, biting her upper lip. “Take it. I’ll go make sure the girls are ready to join you in the
car.”

When Cassie returned with Heather and Hillary in tow, she kissed each one and ushered them out to the driveway. Marcus sat
in the driver’s seat of his DeVille. The engine was already running and he was still in a focused conversation on his cell
phone headset. Standing just inside the garage, Cassie waved to her family and sighed as Marcus began to back out of the driveway.
I was ready to finally do it, Lord,
she prayed.
Not my fault that modern technology got in the way.

Maybe the unwelcome interruption was actually confirmation that she didn’t need to drag Marcus into this mess. Cassie considered
this possibility as she drove north on Far Hills toward downtown Dayton. After all, it had now been nearly two weeks since
Whitlock had first entered her life, and so far he had done nothing but harass her with the one scrap of information he had:
the fact that she and Toya were at the Christian Light homecoming game, unsupervised, on the same night when Eddie had apparently
been attacked. If he had any additional evidence —if he had any evidence at all, given that all he really had was hearsay
from Toya’s brother, Lenny —Cassie had come to believe that he would have presented it by now. She wasn’t even sure he knew
that Julia and Terry had also been involved.

Maybe he just wanted money, or some form of compensation. If so, he had come to the right person.

P
eter Whitlock was exactly where Cassie had been told to expect him, seated at the front counter of the Golden Nugget, one
of the area’s most popular breakfast establishments. When she unceremoniously cut the lengthy waiting line trailing outside
the front door and eased into the seat next to his, the detective nearly choked on his forkful of corned beef hash.

Cassie indulged in an inner celebration —a pump of the fist, a yell of “yeah!” —as her tormentor did a double take and pushed
his plate back. “Mrs. Gillette?”

“Oh, is that my name now, Detective?” Cassie looked over Whitlock’s shoulder, confirmed that the two customers to his left,
one male and one female, wore city police uniforms. “You haven’t been that respectful during our recent phone conversations.”

She had spoken just loud enough that the man to Whitlock’s left trained an inquisitive gaze first on Cassie, then on Whitlock.
Clearly sensing his friend’s interest, the detective slapped the officer on the back, nodding toward Cassie. “Mrs. Cassandra
Gillette, meet Officers Perkins and Jones. Two of Dayton’s finest patrol cops.”

“He’s saying that to our faces, you see,” replied Perkins, the nosy male. “As soon as we leave, he’ll tell you what he really
thinks of us.”

“Mrs. Gillette,” Whitlock said, eyes darting between his colleagues and Cassie, “is not only an old friend of the family,
she’s one of the best realtors in the Miami Valley. She’s helping me figure out how to sell my mother’s house, since Mom wants
to downsize into a condo.”

Cassie played along with a few more minutes of the small talk, simultaneously ordering a mug of decaf tea and some wheat toast.
When the patrol cops had excused themselves, Whitlock continued to clean his plate, his eyes only meeting Cassie’s with the
occasional peripheral glance. “Nice jump you got, catching me during my daily social hour.” The detective flashed a smile
that probably looked charming from a distance. “You call yourself sending some sort of message?”

“Just that I have sources of my own,” Cassie said, absentmindedly stirring her tea and glancing at her cooling toast. “I thought
it was time to show that we each hold some cards in this situation, Detective.”

Whitlock sighed. “Really.” His tone held the false softness of one who’d been pleasantly surprised. “Well, I guess you have
me there. I mean, when it comes down to it, I don’t have a clue about what you did or didn’t do to my brother.”

Cassie suppressed a flicker of hope at the admission. “Look, I have prayed over this, and I realized I may have seemed insensitive
about your situation. I’m an only child, but I wouldn’t want to even imagine what you’ve suffered, seeing your only brother
reduced to such a sad state.”

“Not here,” Whitlock suddenly said before picking up a napkin and wiping his mouth. As he grabbed his wallet from his sport
coat, he extended a hand. “Shake, and smile as if we’re parting ways. Then drive over to Carillon Park. I’ll be in the white
Pontiac —”

“Yes, I know the make and model of your car,” Cassie said, her lips flattening with a frown. “I’ve seen it sitting outside
my house so often, I’ve pretty much memorized it by now.”

Pulling into the park’s main lot, Cassie chose a space near Whitlock’s car but noted it was empty. Feeling her forehead wrinkle
in concern, she kept her engine running but glanced around feverishly. A sudden knock at the passenger door startled her:
Whitlock, who had seemingly materialized from the gravel lining the parking lot.

“Sorry if I surprised you there,” he said once she had let him inside. “Not always a pleasant feeling, is it?” He settled
back against the passenger seat’s plush leather. “You want to tell me who your inside contacts with the police are, who knew
the details of my daily schedule?”

“I’ll let you use your detecting skills to figure that out,” Cassie shot back, her arms crossed now, despite herself. She
had prayed over exactly what to say to Whitlock, as well as how to say it, but now that he was in her face, she felt nearly
overcome by a pulsing, defensive anger.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Whitlock responded, waving a hand dismissively and looking out his window. “Trust me, no one on
the force is going to hassle me for following up promising leads on a cold case involving my brother.”

Cassie drew her shoulders up. “They won’t let you break the law, though, not the way you’ve already done by threatening my
son.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied, a grim chuckle escaping. “If you say so, Cassie, then it must be true. I’m sorry,” he said, a sarcastic
look of shame on his face. “Please don’t tell on me.”

“I came to find you,” Cassie said, reaching for words she had practiced several times the past twenty-four hours, “because
I want to end all the threats and the nastiness, Detective. We’re both children of God, and I believe we can resolve your
concerns while respecting one another.” She reached into the well on her driver’s-side door and placed the slim three-ring
binder she’d retrieved into Whitlock’s lap. “There. Open it, please.”