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Royal Deception

by Amanda Binkley
5/13/2008 / Short Stories

Chapter 1

Shattered glass, she would know that sound anywhere. It was the sound she had awoken to so many nights in her childhood. It was the sound of her father's anger, the sound of shattered table lamps, picture frames, and family ties. Yes, the sound was all too familiar as it jarred Gracie to consciousness.

"Micah?" Gracie stirred, trying to clear the cobwebs from her jumbled mind. She sighed with relief as she realized she was not, as the offense to her senses had indicated, back in her childhood home. She lazily groped for Micah's arm in the dark, but her hand struck cold metal instead. She ran her hand along the smooth surface, trying to decipher the object in question. A stapler? Realization dawned. She had fallen asleep in her office.

Creak! The low winding groan of aged floorboards sounded too close from the next room.

Her senses snapped to attention. Fully awake, Gracie glared at the computer monitor, trying desperately to make out the time mocking her in tiny numbers from the bottom right hand corner of the screen. She finally brought the numbers into focus, 11:24 p.m. Who else would be in the private office wing of this building at such an hour?

Rustling, the sounds were much clearer now to her keen senses. Someone was definitely in the next room.

"Hello?" It was meant to be a bold declaration to the intruder mere feet from her haven behind the desk, but it emerged in little more than a hushed whisper.

"Is someone there?" This time she forced the words to break the veil of darkness surrounding her. She was met by the empty echo of her own voice. There was no response to her inquiry, not even a muffled sound. Gracie carefully edged her oversized leather chair across the clear plastic mat shielding her freshly installed carpet. With deliberate swiftness she rose from the chair, hoping to avoid the whine that resulted every time she rotated its base. Easing forward from behind the shelter of her mahogany fortress, Gracie placed one unsteady foot in front of the other, rolling the ball of her foot from heal to toe, careful to avoid the shuffling that normally accompanied her footsteps. She placed her hand gently on the door frame, steadying her wobbly legs, but having less success steadying her fluttering pulse. As she peered around the corner, a dark silhouette cast a shadow on the narrow corridor wall. Her heart felt as though it would beat out of her chest. She was sure the perpetrator, whoever he may be, could hear the deafening rhythm.

Crash! Gracie cringed as the 19th century Victorian urn which housed a huge arrangement of silk roses, fake greenery, and baby's breath tumbled to the floor. How could she have been so clumsy? That arrangement had only sat on the glass display table outside her office door for the last six months! As the urn shattered, a dark figure flew into the hallway, disappearing into the shadows.

"Who's there?" The tremor in her voice had increased exponentially. The door at the end of the hallway swung open, illuminating the private department offices. As the hydraulic hinge pulled the door back into place, Gracie saw the tall muscular build of a man framed in the vanishing light. She stifled a scream, lodging it in her throat. Backing slowly into the safety of her office, she felt the urn crunch beneath her feet as the sound of cracked porcelain gave away her position. At once the figure moved in her direction, clearly having spotted her hiding place. With no time to process what was happening, she bolted from her doorway, flying down the corridor as quickly as her legs would take her. Looking over her shoulder to find her pursuer Gracie did not see the end of the hallway approaching. Dazed, she scrambled to her feet, trying to regain her equilibrium after the blow had nearly knocked the wind from her lungs. Strong masculine hands gripped her arms and forced her upright from the floor.

"Get your hands off me!" She flailed against her attacker's tightening grip. As the fear began to close in around her, she could not make out what the man was saying over the pounding of her own pulse, beating between her ears.

"Please, let me go!" She pleaded through the moisture in her eyes, threatening to crest into tears.

"Gracie its me!" Her attacker's voice sounded familiar, even kind.

"Gracie! Look at me, calm down honey. Its me, Micah!" He grasped her shoulders firmly, forcing her to look into his eyes. Kind eyes that had held her gaze and given her comfort for nearly six years.

"Just take a deep breath." He smoothed her dark brunette locks behind her ears, wiping the moisture that had formed on her brow along with it. "Its just me." He pulled her close, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and resting his chin gently on top. She breathed in deeply, his cologne filling her senses with recognition. She felt her own heart beat slow as she tuned into the calming rhythm echoing beneath her ear. "Its just me." He repeated the words in soothing tones as he cautiously pulled away from her.

"Stay here." He released his grip on her shoulders as he fumbled down the hall in the dark, groping for the light switch.

"Got it!" Florescent sanctuary flooded into the dark space. Dropping her head to rest against the wall, Gracie allowed her body to sink to the floor, collapsing in a heap of adrenaline induced fatigue.

"I heard a noise," she stammered. "I must've fallen asleep at my desk and there was a crash that woke me" she couldn't get the words out correctly.

"I don't doubt it." Micah chuckled as he slowly crouched beside her on the floor. "That urn must've made a terrible sound when it fell. My father will be thrilled. He always hated that ugly thing. Said he only kept it around because it felt fitting to have historical furnishing in the history department." His deep green eyes sparkled with humor.

"II knocked over the urn." She whispered.

"Wow, you are really shaken up aren't you?" The humor in his kind eyes shifted to concern. "Come here." He folded on the floor next to her, gathering her up in his arms.

"I think someone was here." She breathed as he rubbed calming circles on her back.

"What did you hear?" The concern in his eyes spilled into his voice.

"I'm not sure. I remember hearing glass shattering, but that was before I knocked over the urn." The terrifying memory threatened her confidence as she proceeded. "I thought there was someone in the next room, so I eased towards the doorway and there was a shadow coming from the library." A chill ran down her spine as she recalled the dark figure.

"I called out to see if anyone was there, but no one answered." Micah pushed his thinly framed glasses up on his nose where her forehead had displaced them. "It was then that I bumped the display table. The force must've knocked the urn to the floor. I saw the door open, and there was a man standing there, I'm sure of it." The tremor had returned to her voice.

"That was me sweetheart." He let out a sigh of relief. "I came to check on you because you hadn't come home yet."

"I fell asleep at my desk." She laughed, breathing easy now that she knew it was Micah who had caused her heart to stop.

"You said you were going to be working late on your research, but when eleven o'clock rolled around and I hadn't heard from you I got worried." He smiled at her, revealing the boyish dimples that always caused her heart to soar.

"I was reading through the letters I received from Berlin earlier today. I was so tired, but its like the answers I had been looking for were just pouring off the page. I stopped to rest my eyes just for a second." She paused, "I think that was about eight thirty. That's the last thing I remember before the crash woke me."

"I called your phone at ten, but you didn't answer."

"I think I turned it to silent. I didn't want to be interrupted while I was researching. I didn't mean to worry you." She took his large hand in hers, playing with the gold band that circled his ring finger.

"I had a feeling you might've gotten carried away with your research or fizzled out at your desktop." The humor had returned to his eyes. "I thought you might need to be rescued."

"Apparently I needed to be rescued from my overly active imagination." She returned his teasing tone. "I have clearly gotten wound up in this conspiracy theory too tightly, because I thought for sure someone was coming after me."

"Someone was coming after you, me!" He hoisted her up from her resting place. "I came after my wife who has been neglecting me for her dissertation."

"I know. I'm sorry." She interlaced her fingers with his. "I didn't mean to stay so late. Its just, between teaching, completing my course work, and trying to find time to researchit seems I just don't have enough hours in the day."

He used his free hand to push his sandy curls off his forehead. "I know you want to finish your Ph.D., but this is the third night this month that you have fallen asleep at your desk." He tilted her chin so that he could capture her deep brown eyes with his own. "I'm worried about you." His tone was quiet but firm.

"No more late nights." She saw the skepticism in his gaze. "I'm out the door at eight every night, whether I'm finished or not. No more all nighters." She raised her fingers in a salute. "Scout's honor." She tried to maintain a facial expression that would match her serious tone, but found it difficult under his scrutiny.

"Scout's honor?" He repeated. "You do realize that I intend to hold you to that promise?"

"I expected nothing less." She reached up on her tiptoes so she could place a light kiss on his lips. At six ft. two inches, Micah dwarfed her petite frame.

"Let's go home." He tucked her under his arm. "I have an eight a.m. class to teach, and we need to get some rest."

"Alright, just let me clean up this mess and lock up so we can go."

"I think there is a broom and dust pan in that janitor's closet across from the restroom." He stepped over the broken pieces to make his way back down the hall.

When he reached the library door he froze.

"Micah?" She scooted around the mess to join him.

"Stay back!" He held his hand out to stop her forward motion.

"Micah, what on earth?" Her words were stopped cold by a blood curdling scream she knew must have come from her own lungs, but sounded foreign to her ears none the less.

"Go get your cell phone and call 911!" He tried to block her view of the library entry way. But Gracie remained frozen in place, the image she had just seen seared into her mind's eye.

"Gracie," Micah forced her to meet his intense stare. "I need you to walk back into your office and get your phone. Whoever did this may still be in the building. We have to get out of here now."

Gracie nodded, backing slowly towards her office door. Gathering her belongings as quickly as she could, she rushed back to Micah, ordering her eyes away from the library entrance. She was too late. The horrible picture filled her senses. There, lying on the floor in the midst of the most blood Gracie had ever seen was Charlotte Winston, secretary for the Department of History at New York University, a bullet hole between the eyes of her lifeless body.

Chapter 2

Detective Jonah Davis stepped out of his squad car into the chilly night air. The icy January wind blew through his NYPD jacket and seared his lungs as he breathed deeply. Steam filled the air in front of his face as he exhaled, intermingling with the heat rising from his coffee cup. He took a small sip of the rich liquid, allowing the robust flavor to heighten his senses. At one o'clock in the morning, he would need the caffeine to sharpen his investigative skills. There was no room for error when it came to a murder investigation. The first few hours were crucial, and every piece of evidence must be collected with the utmost thoroughness. He couldn't afford to loose valuable pieces of the puzzle to a contaminated crime scene. He only hoped those who had discovered the body hadn't yet destroyed any vital clue.

Leaving his lights flashing, Jonah left his squad car parked on the corner of 5th avenue and Washington Square South. Shutting the door and hitting the remote controlled lock, he began to make his way across the well lit Washington Square Park towards the King Juan Carlos Center. He paused briefly at the foot of the statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, one of the many statues that lined the square, and admired the history and cultural significance this place represented. What a place for a murder; the irony of it struck him. Here, in one of the most prestigious academic centers in the country, where men claimed to be enlightened and civilized, one of the most base and barbaric acts of human nature had been committed. He wondered if God looked down on man and saw the same irony. No amount of degrees and accolades could erase the basics instincts of sin and destruction; they had been planted in the seeds of men's hearts since Adam and Eve had eaten the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. How one man could take the life of another in cold blood was a mystery that flooded his mind daily, but who had committed such crimes had been the focal point of his career for the past five years.

Jonah sighed as he passed the patrolmen securing the perimeter, unclipping his detective's badge from its resting place on his hip.

"NYPD" He showed the uniformed officer his identification. "I need to get upstairs."

"Go ahead detective," he motioned him through the temporary barriers that had been set up to keep the public at bay. Even at such an early hour, Washington Square Park was a high traffic area.

"The Department of History is located on the seventh floor." The officer returned his badge, and allowed him access to the main entrance.

Jonah thanked the patrolman and made his way around the iron fence that gated the building. He took hold of the silver door handle and pushed the heavy wooden door forward. The old building had character on the outside, but the inside was a state of the art learning facility. Enjoying the exercise, Jonah headed for the metal stairway that would lead him to his destination. As he rounded the corner of the seventh floor, he was again met with the bustle of uniformed patrolmen.

"Davis!" One of the plain clothes officers motioned towards him. "Over here!"

He lifted the yellow crime scene tape above his head and entered the busy hallway.

"Always a pleasure to see you Dan," Jonah extended his hand to greet the detective who had caught his attention. "Though I wish it were under different circumstances. We can't keep meeting like this."

"It's the job." Detective Dan Singleton shrugged. Having entered the force around the same time as Jonah, Dan had shared many of these late nights and early mornings. They both had a job to do, and processing a crime scene was always a task better suited to multiple pairs of eyes. Jonah respected Dan professionally and personally.

"What have we got?" Jonah followed him down the hallway.

"Caucasian female, age 56, secretary for the department, name Charlotte Winston. She was found around 11:45 p.m. with a gun shot wound to the head, seems to be the cause of death. We've also got stolen documents, might be a motive."

"Where is the body?" Jonah asked.

"Still where we found it, in a small library located in the office wing of the history department. Apparently it's a shared workspace for several of the professors in that area. One of them was working lateheard a noise. When she went to check it out she found the body. Her office is next door. The stolen documents were her's"

"Was there anyone else in this area of the building at the time?"

"Just her husband, he's a professor here too. Apparently came to pick her up from work. He was the first to come upon the body." Dan rattled off the facts as if he were calling out an order to a short order cook. This job made you callous to ordinarily disturbing things, but that callousness was necessary. Keeping a certain emotional distance from victims and their families was the only thing that allowed you to keep your focus on the job. Solving crimes was messy, but it was even messier if you got emotionally involved.

"I suppose I need to interview them both." Jonah paused. "They still here?"

"Yeah, they got out of here quick when they found the body, but they showed responding officers to the location, and we've got them set up in the break room at the end of the hallway for now."

"Anything else I should know?" Jonah headed towards the doorway at the end of the hall.

"Woman's pretty shaken up. Her husband managed to calm her down, but we think she may have been in the building when the secretary was killed. That's got to mess with your psyche."

"Thanks man," Jonah extended his hand to shake Dan's again. "I'll take their statements and handle the interviews if you want to keep processing things out here."

"Will do," Dan headed in the opposite direction towards the library, where a CSI technician was kneeling in front of the doorway, snapping photos to place into evidence.

Jonah pushed open the door labeled "faculty lounge", and took in the sight of the two people before him. He was surprised by their youth. The man sitting slumped over the table looked to be around his age, late twenties or early thirties. His shirt was rumpled, its top button undone, and the knot of his tie was loosened. His blond curly hair framed his face wildly, and he rubbed at his eyes underneath a lightly framed pair of glasses. The young woman looked even more youthful, no more than twenty five, but her fear filled doe eyes made her look even younger. Her hair was bound in a long pony tail that bounced every time she turned her head, giving her the look of a teenager. She clutched the arm of the man sitting next to her, shifting her weight as she crossed her legs underneath her designer skirt.

"Hello folks, I'm detective Jonah Davis." The young man rose from his seat and extended his hand. Jonah was taken aback by his size. Bent over the table he had looked academic and meek, but unfolded the man looked Jonah directly in the eye, and his lean frame was as muscled as his own.

"Micah Ritter" the young man gripped his hand firmly. "This is my wife Grace."

"I was hoping I could ask you both a few questions." Jonah began.

"We already spoke to the responding officers." Micah answered. "But we would be more than happy to tell you what we told them."

"I've been briefed on your original statements, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to interview you in depth about what you saw here tonight. I also need to get signed affidavits from you and your wife." Jonah gestured, "Shall we sit?"

"Of course," Micah responded.

"Dr. Ritter, its my understanding that you were the one who found Mrs. Winston's body tonight. Is that correct?"

"Yes, I was. I came upon her body when I came to pick up Gracie. She had been working late and fell asleep at her desk."

"Mrs. Ritteror is it Dr. as well?" Jonah hesitated.

"No, just Mrs.," her reply was timid and quiet. "I'm working on my Ph. D., but I'm not there yet."

"She's working too hard on her dissertation." Micah interjected. "That's what she was here doing so late tonight."

"I understand that the documents stolen tonight were yours." Jonah directed his question to the trembling young woman.

"Yes, they were part of my research." Her husband placed a hand on her back, encouraging her to recount what she knew.

"Can you tell me exactly what was stolen?" Jonah prodded.

"As best I can tell, the only thing missing were some police reports from Berlin, dated February of 1920."

"Police reports?" Jonah asked, confused.

"Yes," the young woman spoke with more confidence. "They concerned the disappearance of a young German woman right at the conclusion of the first world war. Her disappearance also coincided with the appearance of a woman named Anna Anderson." Clearly she was becoming more comfortable as she spoke about her passion.

"Anna Anderson?" The name sounded familiar.

"Yes," Grace replied. "She was a young woman who claimed to be the missing Grand Duchess of Russia, Anastasia. I'm working on my Ph.D. in 20th century Russian History, and my dissertation concerns the possibility that one of the Romanov heirs may have survived the Bolshevik revolution. Its my opinion that Anna Anderson was not in fact the Grand Duchess. Rather, I believe she was actually this young German woman who disappeared around the same time."

"These police reports," Jonah began, intrigued, "Were they valuable? Something so old must've been hard to come by."

"Not as hard as you might think. Anyone who knew what they were doing could have accessed them fairly easily. My reports were just copies; they wouldn't have the value of an original. My most significant research was stowed safely away in my office." She seemed confused by his ignorant assumptions.

"What did you have stored in your office?"

"Letters from Berlin, unlike the police reports, they are original documents. They just arrived today from the family of a woman who ran a boarding house where Franziska Schanskowska, the missing woman, was supposedly living before her disappearance. They are very valuable to my research, but I can't imagine what value they would hold for anyone else."

"Who knew about these letters?" Jonah pursued the lead further.

"Locally, only members of my department, internationally, I have no idea how many people knew about the existence of the letters." She paused as if realization had just hit her. "Oh no, you don't think someone killed poor Charlotte over my letters do you?"

"We have to look at all possibilities Mrs. Ritter. I need to be familiar with any leads that might clue us in to what this guy was after."

"Oh," she looked shell shocked. "I understand."

"I hate to ask you to relive what you saw, but I need you to walk me through the details." He paused, "Mrs. Ritter, its my understanding that you were in the building at the time of the break in."

"Yes, like I said, I had fallen asleep at my desk. I heard a noise, and it woke me." She began. "It sounded like someone was in the next room, so I eased towards the door."

"The room behind your office is the department library, is that correct?"

"Yes, where we found Charlotte's body." Her eyes filled with tears.

"Take your time." Micah reached for her hand.

"As I was saying, I eased towards the door, but my balance was not quite yet restored from my sleepy state." She looked embarrassed, "I knocked over a flower arrangement that sat just outside my door. The crash must've alerted whoever was here, because that's when I saw a figure bolt from the library door."

"Can you give me a description of the person you saw?" Jonah gently pushed.

"It was so dark in the hallway," she apologized. "It was definitely a man, tall and large. I would say six feet or better. It was so dark I couldn't make out any of his features or what he was wearing. I'm sorry."

"Its ok." Jonah tried to comfort the young woman, who looked so vulnerable under his scrutiny. "Anything you can give us is a big help."

"I stayed hidden behind my office door, hoping whoever was there had not seen me. When the door at the end of the hallway opened I saw a man standing in the entryway. I knew he'd seen me, so I turned and ran."

"Did he come after you?" Jonah pushed.

"The man at the end of the hallway was me Detective Davis." Micah answered for her.

"I didn't see anyone in the building when I arrived, so he had to have gone out some other way. When I caught up to Gracie she was terrified." Micah warmed his wife's hands between his own. "I turned on the light so I could see what had her so upset."

"Is that when you discovered Mrs. Winston's body?" Jonah tried to straighten out the facts.

"No, I found her body when I went to the janitor's closet to get a broom. I wanted to clean up the mess from the overturned urn. With the lights on, I saw the body as soon as I passed by the open library door."

"How could I have not heard the gun shot?" Grace asked as if the realization had just hit her.

"Most likely it was the noise that woke you." Jonah assured her. "Or perhaps the intruder used a silencer."

"It could've easily been me." She whispered.

"But it wasn't sweetheart." Micah ran a thumb across her cheek.

"Can you think of anyone who would've wanted to hurt Mrs. Winston?" Jonah hated this part of the investigation.

"No one," Grace began to cry. "She was loved by all the students and faculty."

"I don't want to upset you Mrs. Ritter, but I have to ask, is there anyone who would've wanted to hurt you or your husband?"

"No, no one that I can think of," she tried to suppress the emotion in her voice. "Do you think he could've been after me?" The fear trembled in her voice.

"Like I said," Jonah hated upsetting her; she looked so fragile. "We have to explore all possibilities."

"Micah! Gracie!" A large man bounded through the doorway. He looked like an older version of Micah, his gray hair and weathered face did little to take away from his striking presence. "Are you alright? I came as soon as I heard!" He was breathless.

"We're fine, just shaken up." Micah answered. "Detective Davis, this is my father and the Dean of the Department of History, Ira Ritter.

"Detective," Ira reached out to shake Jonah's hand. "Poor Charlotte, I just can't believe this happened. Gracie you look exhausted. Is there any way I can take them home detective?" Concern for his daughter-in-law and son was evident on his face.

"Yes, we're through for now." Jonah replied. "I'll be in touch tomorrow." He nodded to the couple.

"Thank you detective." Micah walked him to the door. "I appreciate this. I want to take my wife home and let her get some rest. She is taking this really hard."

"I understand." Jonah could read the concern on the young professor's face. "There's nothing more either of you can do tonight. I will get your affidavits tomorrow. Go get a good night's sleep, and then we'll talk again.

"Thank you." He looked relieved as Jonah exited the room.

"Get everything you need?" Dan met him in the doorway.

"For now," Jonah answered. "I'll get more out of them once they've had a chance to process what's happened. Tonight they are too shaken up."

"What do you make of the stolen documents?" Dan inquired.

"I'm not sure. They don't seem to have any special significance, but they are definitely connected to the murders." Jonah replied. "One things for certain though," he hesitated. "Charlotte Winston was not the intended victim. I think our suspect was after Grace Ritter."

Chapter 3

Micah studied Grace quietly as his father steered the town car along 14th street. Ordinarily, they would have walked to their small apartment in the East Village, but his father had insisted on driving them home. The drive took less than five minutes, but it seemed like an eternity in the deafening silence. His father pulled the car to the side of 422 East 14th Street, in front of the large building that housed their residence. It was a far cry from his parents' two million dollar condo in Battery Park City, but it was close to the University, and it housed many of the university students and local artists. He and Gracie had called it home for the nearly three years they had been married. Two bedrooms was more than enough space for them, and the location was unbeatable. Relatively new, the building was a low rise, only housing five floors. Their apartment sat on the third floor, overlooking 14th Street.

"You kids alright?" Ira put the car in park and turned to face the two quiet individuals in his back seat.

"Fine dad," Micah shook himself from his thoughts. "I think we just need to get some rest and take our minds off of what happened tonight."

"I don't want either of you coming in tomorrow. You understand me?" Ira's voice was stern and paternal. "I'll have both of your classes cancelled for the day. I'm sure the students will understand."

"That sounds like a good idea," Micah conceded. Gracie didn't respond, but only stared out the car window.

"Gracie?" He caught her attention. "Are you ok with taking some time off tomorrow?"

"Yes," she nodded. "That sounds really good, actually."

"Good, its settled then." Ira replied. "What good is having a father who's dean of the department if you can't get special privileges every now and then?"

"Come on dad, you would do this for anybody who had been through this whole ordeal tonight."

"I suppose that's true." Ira's smile seemed to lift all the way to his eyes.

"Well, we better go." Micah grasped Gracie's arm gently. "Thanks for the ride dad."

"It's the least I could do. Make sure you lock the door behind you. I don't want you to take any chances after what happened tonight." He waved as they exited the car and headed for the building entrance.

"Gracie, talk to me." Micah sighed wearily as they entered the elevator, both too exhausted to climb the stairs.

"What do you want me to say?" She looked worn and defeated.

"I'm not sure. I'm just worried about you."

"He killed Charlotte," she breathed. "He was after me and he killed poor Charlotte."

"You don't know that." Micah pulled her out of the elevator and guided her towards their apartment door.

"The only thing missing was my research Micah. What other possibility is there?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "But you didn't kill Charlotte Winston. This is not your fault. Sometimes people do evil things, and there is nothing we can do about it. You couldn't have stopped this. I'm just thankful that you weren't hurt or killed as well. God was watching over us tonight."

"Don't preach to me about God Micah!" Her eyes turned cold and filled with fury. "A loving and gracious God wouldn't have allowed a good woman like Charlotte Winston be brutally murdered for no reason!"

"That's not the way God works," he sighed as he unlocked the door and stepped aside to let her in. "He gives us free will, a choice to live our lives the way we see fit. Unfortunately, sometimes people abuse that free will."

"I understand that's what you believe sweetheart," the fire in her eyes seemed to dim to embers. "But that doesn't mean that I have to accept it." Her shoulders slumped as if to say she had no fight left. "I really don't want to have a philosophical discussion at three o'clock in the morning, and I certainly don't want to fight with you."

"I don't want to fight with you either." He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on top of her head. "I just wish that someday you would come to know and love God as I do. I want you to feel the power of that love, of that forgiveness. I can't help but be thankful to Him for sparing you tonight."

"I know," she breathed against his once crisp shirt. "I just can't accept things on blind faith as easily as you can. I'm not built that way. My trust was broken at an early age, and if there is a God, I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive Him for that."

"You won't be mad if I tell you I'm never going to stop praying for you to find that forgiveness?" He whispered against her ear.

"No," she snuggled her head against his shoulder. "You wouldn't be Micah if you weren't persistent. You never give up on peopleits annoying!" She jabbed her thumbs into the place where they had been resting on his sides.

"Hey!" He struggled to get out of her grip. "I'm trying to have a moment here!" He couldn't hide the smile in his eyes at seeing her laugh. She needed that after what she'd been through tonight.

"You know I'm not one for sappiness," she reminded him.

"Yes, you have to kill the moment every time the mood gets too serious," he acknowledged.

"Micah," her face grew fragile again. "Do you think Charlotte suffered? Do you think she was in pain?" She looked like a small child, timid and afraid.

"I think she's at peace now." It was all he could say.

"Let's get some sleep," her melancholy had returned as she sauntered into their bedroom.

Since Micah had met Gracie, he had prayed she would surrender her life to Christ. He himself had become a Christian as a senior in high school, when some of his fellow class mates had encouraged him to attend a Bible study with them. Soon after that he had convinced his mother and sister to give the local church a try. His father had refused to attend, but the rest of his family had followed his path, and the three of them attended church together regularly. Gracie was more like his father, headstrong and free spirited, and her abusive childhood did not allow her to trust easily. He had been taken with her from the moment he met her. A graduate assistant himself, she was enrolled in the freshman World History course he had been assigned to teach. Four years his junior, she was brilliant and beautiful. He had lost his heart to her the first time she had argued with him in front of the entire class. As soon as she was no longer his student he had asked her to dinner. She turned him down flat, saying she wasn't interested in "grade dating." It had taken him a few weeks to convince her to give him a shot, but when she finally did it had been well worth his efforts. He had fallen for her hard and fast, and she had eventually warmed up to him as well. She was perfect for him in every way except one, she was not a Christian. In their early days of dating she had given his God a try, attending services with him every Sunday. She still attended, but she had made her feelings of bitterness towards God clear. She blamed Him for allowing her father to abuse her and her mother. Micah only hoped that by being a model husband himself, he could lead her to accept the truth of God's love and forgive her father for all the hurt he had caused.

Gracie sighed as she brushed her teeth, staring at Micah's reflection in the mirror. She knew that she hurt him every time she rejected his efforts to talk to her about God. She hated the bitterness that welled up inside her every time he raised the subject. She loved him so much, and she didn't want to hurt him for anything in the world. But how could she make him understand that no loving God would have allowed her father to beat her mother? No loving God would have left her and her mother alone to make their way in a cruel world. Life was so different now with Micah. She was successful in her career, and she was loved and happy. He had been her salvation out of that dark hole her father had left in her heart. What did she need God for? No, she had everything she needed. She had Micah, she thought as she let her exhausted body crash into the soft mattress.

"Good night love," Micah whispered as he leaned across the nightstand to turn off the small lamp. "Things will look better in the morning."

"They always do," she closed her eyes and let herself be surrounded by the security and comfort that was Micah. "Good night."

In the shadows of an alleyway just behind 14th street, a dark figure turned as he saw the light extinguished in the third story window. Tonight was not the night, but soon. Soon he would have to silence those who could reveal the secret his family had been keeping for over eighty years. Let them sleep in peace tonight. Soon the police would move on to other crimes, soon they would loose interest in his mistake. Then he would strike and quiet the young professor's curiosity for good.

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITERS

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