{Pete}

When Pete got home, he found Bea curled on the couch under the blankets from her bed, her thumb in her mouth and the light of her cartoons playing on her face. Her eyes went to him, and she lifted up her arms. "Daddy."

"Honey Bee, it's late for you," Pete said.

"Tabby's having a sleepover, so me and Cary are too. He's sleepin' already. I think he had a tough day."

He looked where she was pointing. In the corner of the room, there was a wooden school desk where Tabitha liked to do her homework. Cary had fit his large frame behind the arm of the desk and folded himself nearly in half with his cheek resting on the desktop. His face was turned to Bea, his eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even.

Pete gathered Bea and her blankets into his arms. "Time to tuck you in."

She wrapped her arms behind his neck and laid her head on his chest. "You gonna tuck him in too?"

His arms tightened around her. "No, honey. Cary is too big for that."

"He's not too big." Her voice was muzzy with sleep, and she yawned. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened before he'd finished saying her prayer.

Pete went down the hall, unbuttoning the collar of his dress shirt and glancing into the family room on his way by. Cary looked mighty uncomfortable folded into that tiny desk with his arms pinned against his body like they were. He crossed the dimly lit room, Bea's cartoons still burbling softly from the television.

"Cary." He pitched his voice low. He put his hand on Cary's shoulder to shake him awake.

Cary woke up all at once, starting up in the desk and nearly toppling over backward. At the sight of Pete, his face flooded with dread. Pete took a step back, looking away while Cary collected himself. "You can head to bed now—I'm home."

Cary blinked at the room and the cartoons. "Bea?"

"I tucked her in. Tabitha's staying over at a friend's house for the night."

Cary pushed himself free of the tiny desk and hobbled to the couch like his feet were made of wood. His shoulders were bowed. "Sorry, Mr. White."

"You just fell asleep," Pete said. "Nothing wrong with that."

Cary drew a breath and straightened a little, crossing his arms over his front. "How's Jon?"

"He's all right," Pete said. "I stopped to see him and Mel on the way home. They're keeping him at the hospital a little longer to treat him for shock. I guess you two had quite a ways to walk after he fell off his bike. My bike," he corrected himself, wryly.

"Sorry, Mr. White. I'll go back for it tomorrow."

"Well, I appreciate that, but I don't know what you're saying sorry for. The nurses were all talking about the fine job you did treating Jon as well as they would have themselves in the middle of nowhere." Cary's hands were clasping his elbows, and his bare arms were corded with tension. The marks of his old scars were faint on his skin on the underside—nothing fresh. Pete had been checking since Cary's knife disappeared from his dresser drawer weeks ago. He hoped the only thing Cary used it for now was goofing off in the ravine.

Cary's face was pale and flat. Pete added up the things that had happened today—the trial and Jon's accident—and wondered whether Cary would be able to talk to him about any of it. "Are you heading to bed, or do you want a cup of decaf?"

"I'm not heading to bed," Cary said.

Pete went to the kitchen, unbuttoning the stiff cuffs of his shirt and rolling them up. "I'll put on the coffee."

As he measured the coffee grounds, he sensed Cary come into the kitchen behind him.

"How did it go tonight with the girls?" Pete asked. When he glanced back, he found Cary had taken a seat and pushed his chair as far from him as it would go—against the wall beside the door. He had his arms crossed against himself, watching Pete's hands put the coffee basket back in its slot.

"Tabitha didn't like it. I think she's afraid of me."

Pete thought about that, looking at the reflection of the lit kitchen against the night in the window. "Maybe she is. I'm sorry we put you both in that position."

"She's not wrong." Cary's voice was soft and rough. "I've done some bad shi—stuff. I don't think you want your children with someone like that."

Pete sighed. He knew some of Cary's history by now, a long string of school fights and at least one assault charge. The truth was, if it hadn't been an emergency, he wouldn't have chosen to leave the girls with Cary. But it needed to be said: "You of all people would know the difference between getting into a fight and harming a child."

He turned and found Cary with his eyes closed and his fingers pressed into the skin of his arms until the tips showed white. "I need to tell you something, Mr. White." Cary's throat moved like something was stuck there, and he bowed his head. It was a minute before he found his voice again.

"I should have—I should have told you before. It's up to you what you do with me when you know. I'll go if you want me out." He struggled for a moment, pressing the palm of his hand against his chest like someone taking a vow. "I lied to you, and I can't anymore."

There were moments as a pastor when Pete felt like he had stepped into something bigger than himself—something already in motion and powerful enough to raise the dead or, with the wrong word, snuff out a guttering flame of life. This seemed to be one of those times. He set his hands open on the counter on either side of him and anchored himself with an awareness of Jesus here, in him, with them.

"What is it, Cary?" His voice was quiet and even. "People tell me terrible things all the time. Taking those confessions is part of what I do."

"I did—I did harm a child once," Cary said in a dry, strained voice. Tension was in every line of his bowed body. "I took her life."

Pete drew a sharp breath, feeling heavy and strange. He had never had someone confess to murder before. He made his tongue say, "Who was it?"

"My sister," Cary whispered. He clasped his hands on the back of his neck. "She was in her crib. I smothered her. Killed her."

Pete slid down against the cupboards, his knees creaking. He wanted to see Cary's face and catch every word. Also, his legs weren't feeling so steady just now. "When—what happened?"

"I was six." Cary's voice broke. "I climbed in. She was crying, and I tried ..." He sucked in a breath like all the air was gone out of the room. "She stopped ... she stopped. She stopped."

Pete felt like he couldn't breathe. Was there something he needed to do about this—did the police care about something that had happened so many years ago? "Did you ... tell anyone else?"

Cary shivered and let out his breath. "I told my father." The words were heavy as stones.

Horror bloomed in Pete's mind like a black drop of ink in a clear glass of water. He remembered what Cary's father had said when he had come to pick him up: Violence is his language—he demonstrated that from an alarmingly young age. All the abuse stories Cary had told the police had started when he was six. Pete pressed his hands against his legs, tension building in his body like he could wrestle this dark thing to the ground.

"He punished you," he said roughly.

"Not right then." Cary slumped, limp in his chair. "Later, yeah." He turned his hands up, open on his knees, scarred from fingertip to elbow. "This is what's in me. He was just trying to get it out." His face twisted like he might break and cry. "You shouldn't—you shouldn't have me here. I'm not safe. I'm sorry."

Pete knelt there, staring at him. A child—an infant was dead, and this boy with the cut up arms and hands had taken her life. His own beautiful daughters slept peacefully behind the closed door of their bedroom. What was he supposed to do with Cary's claim that they weren't safe with him in the house? Behind him, the coffee maker hissed, filling the kitchen with its strong, black smell. He surged to his feet, and Cary turned his face aside like he knew he was going to get hit and was too far gone to care.

"Just give me a minute," Pete growled, turning away. "Just sit there and give me a minute."

{Cary}

Cary could see the muscles in Pete's shoulders bunching under his dress shirt, and he pressed his lips together, holding still, his heart drumming. His father was bigger than Pete—he was pretty sure he could take this beating and still walk away, but the waiting was terrible.

Pete stirred, closing his hands, and Cary drew in his breath, taking hold of the seat of the chair. He'd spent all his adrenaline earlier today—this was going to hurt like hell.

"I want you to answer me with the whole truth now, Cary." There was a low growl in Pete's voice. He turned, pressing Cary back against the chair with his look. "You're under my roof, and it's my job to protect each person here in my care."

"Yes, sir." He respected that. God knew.

"Tell me what happened tonight. When you were with Bea and Tabby—were they in danger from you? Did you think about hurting them?"

Something tore inside him as he did what Pete said. "Yes." He hated that answer—hated that it was true.

"Look at me," Pete said insistently. "I've seen you with them. Why do you believe that?"

Cary lifted his face, but he couldn't get his eyes higher than the top button in Pete's shirt. He was shaking in time with his heartbeat. "You don't see what's in my head when I look at them." His mouth was so dry the words whispered like sand. "I see the shit he did to me when I was like them. I see things I could do to make Bea cry—a hundred ways I could make her hurt. It's in my head, Mr. White." His lips pulled back from his teeth. "It's in my skin and bones."

"That doesn't make you the kind of person who would do those things to a child," Pete said sharply. "Help me understand what you're telling me. What happened tonight? What did you do with the things you saw in your head?"

For a second, the scene in the kitchen unspooled in his mind's eye. "Nothing." He curled his shoulders small. "I made macaroni. And Tabitha called me out. And I took it. I did the dishes and I ... watched 'toons with Bea."

There was a long silence, and he could feel the weight of Pete's eyes on his head. "I can't think of a time that you've been angry with them or lashed out at them." Cary could hear the way Pete was holding himself back, his voice controlled like a muscle under tension. He pressed his lips tight, shivering deep in his body. He would rather have taken a beating than have Pete force him wide open like this. "Am I wrong? In the time that you've been here, have you ever lost your temper with the girls? Have you ever wanted to hurt them?"

"No!" Cary dug the heel of his hand into his chest, where he'd carved the "X" over his heart. He needed to stay here, to take this and do right by Pete. "They're just kids, Mr. White. If they were in trouble, I would cover for them with my own skin."

"Like you did for your brother."

Cary ducked his head, shutting his eyes. His ears were buzzing, and his face was hot and prickly.

"Like you did for your mother," Pete said. "Like you did for Jon at school."

Cary shook his head hard. "I could still hurt them. That shit is in me, and sometimes I lose it, and it's just ... red."

"Has that ever happened with a child? Is that what happened with your sister?"

The idea turned his stomach—Cary shook his head, speechless. He remembered everything. He remembered the heat of her face against his throat, the way she had shuddered with sobs against his body. He remembered her breath brushing his neck like wings, and he remembered the moment it stopped.

He shoved to his feet and collided with the counter, bending over the sink while his stomach turned itself inside out. There was nothing left in him—his body heaved and clenched, a line of yellow spittle hanging from his throat. Finally, it released, and he dropped his head on his arm and spat weakly into the sink.

There was a light touch on his shoulder, then a hand brushed his hair back from his face. "Cary," Pete's voice was broken. "Where were your parents? Why didn't they hear her crying and come?"

Cary's head was aching, and his throat felt raw. He straightened slowly, running the water to rinse and drink. Water slid coolly down his throat. "I didn't want them to come." His voice came out in a rasp. "They were fighting. I wanted to hide her so she wouldn't get hurt. Like he was hurting our mother." He could feel Pete looking at him, and he closed his eyes. "If you're going to kick me out, Mr. White, just do it. I already feel like shit."

It was quiet a moment and he leaned on the sink waiting, his head hanging.

"I'm not going to kick you out."

Cary drew in his breath, heat in his face and ears. Did he hear that right?

Pete was looking straight ahead, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "I need to speak with Mel. Head to bed. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Cary stood there feeling like the ground had dropped out from under him.

Pete gave him a look. "What did you think? Every father in the world pounds the hell out of kids who do wrong things?"

"No." Honesty was hard to quit once he'd started. "Just me."

Pete's laugh was short and grim. "I'm sure that's true." He rubbed his hands over his face and beard. "Try and get some sleep. We'll sort this out in the morning."

{Pete}

Pete poured his coffee and stood with it in his hands, looking out the window into the night, still vibrating with what Cary had told him. He had stretched himself to what he thought was his limit to make space for Cary in their home—for Cary's silence, for his trauma, and for his inability to interact with their family because no one had ever bothered to show him how to have a normal, human exchange. He had more questions than answers about the darkness at the heart of Cary's story, and they battered his certainty about the decision he had made to keep this young man in their family home.

Something was so broken in Cary's history that a child, an infant, had lost her life, and he heard Cary's bone-deep belief that her death meant he was as violent and dangerous as his father.

Pete closed his eyes, taking a slow breath. He could hardly think about Conall Douglas without feeling white-hot rage ignite his head for the brutal way he had taken Cary apart piece by piece. Now the question that hung over the young man who had held out his scarred hands in his kitchen tonight was this: what if the origin of all that violence was Cary himself? What if the harm his father had brought to him—all the harm Cary had brought to others and himself, was about Cary, like a sickness he spread wherever he went?

If Cary was right, how far would the father of such a child go to eradicate that sickness? How different was Conall than, say, the doctors who filled Judah's veins with poison in hopes they would kill the cancer before they killed the child?

He took a gulp of coffee as if the bitter liquid could wash the bitterness of that thought from his mind. It was too easy for him to step into the dark pocket of crazy that Cary had lived in all these years and see how each person in Cary's family would make sense of what they were doing. How Conall would fold up his blood-slick belt with hope, edged with fear, that this time the treatment would work and his son would be healed. How Cary would believe him and try to pull himself together and get better, directing his anger anywhere but his father.

It took the difficulty of having Cary with them to a new level, and Pete felt shaken. His name was down in Cary's file as a "person of interest" and caregiver—as if he knew what he was doing.

He called Mel. As the phone rang, he took a breath, imagining the sound of her voice answering—his anchor, his partner.

She sounded exhausted. "He just fell asleep. How are the girls?" She pitched her voice low, like she was still in the room with Jon.

"They're fine." He had his eyes closed, trying to picture her and the tiny hospital room where she was. "How are you holding up?"

"I'll be all right. Not the first night sleeping in a chair in the hospital." Her laugh was soft and strained.

"Are you sure you don't want to come home?"

There was a pause. "I won't sleep," she said. "With him here. I know ... he'll be fine." She took a breath. "But I want to hear him breathe to be sure."

Pete was silent. He knew.

"I'm so grateful for Cary, Peter. I keep thinking of all the times Jon went biking down there alone and how he could have been hurt ... and the one time he was, Cary was with him and knew what to do."

"Yes."

"I really could hug him for this. He would hate it, but I want to."

"I don't think he would hate it," Pete said. He put his knuckles against his moustache, pressing on his lip, thinking of Cary turning his arms and opening his hands. This is what's in me. "When do they say Jon will be released?"

"Tomorrow, early. Do you need the day to prep your sermon?"

Pete shook his head. "No. I'm preaching one I did before. I went over it today." Lately he had no creative energy to write anything new—fortunately, everything he had preached at his last church was new to this one.

"Well ... I love you. Thanks for calling."

"Mel—I need to ... do you have a minute?"

There was a soft laugh. "I'm just stuck here for the night, Peter. If you have more stories, by all means, entertain me."

"Cary opened up a little tonight. About things that happened before."

"That's wonderful—he's starting to trust you."

His laugh was strangled. "I don't know if I would say that." He was pretty sure Cary had expected him to give him the beating of his life in this kitchen. He shared what Cary had told him, and when he was finished, he could hear her breathing and the soft beep of a heart monitor in the background.

"Oh my Lord," she said in a small voice. "That is so, so sad." Her breath caught, and he knew she was crying. "Those poor parents—losing one child and then ... it must have felt like they lost the other as well."

He curled, pressing the phone to his ear until it ached, wishing she were there to hold instead of miles away.

After a moment, he heard her blow her nose. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know." His throat was tight so he could barely make the words. "I'm not doing anything without you. We agreed to this together."

"I can't think, Peter. That baby girl—" She drew a sharp breath. "And Cary's had that on his conscience all this time. I can't imagine ..."

He let her move through the wave of that emotion, holding his question until he thought she had time to come out the other side. "Can we still have him staying here, with our girls?" It set his teeth on edge to ask it, so close to the thing Conall had said standing on their doorstep: I wish I could say he was safe to stay in your home ... with your beautiful little girls.

Mel was silent a long time. He could picture her with her hair tumbled around her face and her eyes looking up and far away. "Well ... what does it change?" she asked slowly. "Whatever happened in the past, he's the same boy he was before we knew. You were clear about the ground rules for staying in our home ... and he hasn't done anything to break those since he came."

"He lied to us," Pete pointed out.

"How could you have expected him to tell you something like that when he hardly knew you? When he was hurt so badly he could barely get around? I think he told you as soon as he could." Her voice was getting more firm. "It's barely even ... relevant—something that happened 10 years ago, when he was just a child. People make mistakes, Peter. You can't have been a pastor so long you've forgotten that you've made a few yourself."

He was still raw, so her words cut more deeply than she had probably meant them to. He tried to turn aside so the knife edge wouldn't open anything vital. "You're saying everyone needs grace," he said softly.

"Yes. God, yes."

He let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. That felt right and he knew what they needed to do. "Okay. I'm with you."

"Love you," she said.

"Love you," he returned.

*Cary FINALLY told Pete the truth about his sister. I was so relieved when I could finally write this scene. How do you feel about Pete and Mel's response here? Do you think it will help Cary to have this secret out?*