In the days, weeks, and months following the revelation that Lawson was Billy Poe, Abraham had noticeably wrestled with his decision to remain a police officer and detective. On many occasions, he’d brought her into his wrestling. Why was he doing this job? Did it even matter when evil won so often? How, as a Christian man, was he supposed to forgive these people who were so deranged and immoral? Should he quit and find a new occupation before he turned into Detective Lawson—a good man whose heart had been seared by the darkness with which he interacted?
They were hard, vulnerable questions. They’d spent many walks together tackling the concepts of mercy, justice, and judgment. In all honesty, she had needed the conversations as much as he had. Her writing had exposed her to the darkness of the world. She’d not witnessed even a fraction of the depravity Abraham had seen as an officer of the law, but she’d condemned without a second thought those she’d deemed deserving.
Yes, their struggle was the same. As Christians, they were called to leave the judgment of others in God’s hands while personally upholding justice and mercy. How did one balance their life with that? She still wasn’t sure.
Her fingers were itching to pick up a pen and explore the idea through story. But how could she after all that had happened? She’d promised God she would walk away from writing, and so far, she’d stayed faithful to it. She glanced at the notebook lying on the corner of her desk. It was filled with random thoughts and story tidbits that wouldn’t release her from their hold until they’d been committed to paper. It was both the bane and blessing of an author to be driven by story and characters that didn’t really exist. She rubbed the two divots in her arm, reminders of that folly. Detective Darcy could never come into existence beyond the scribbles in that notebook.
Papa rapped on the doorframe. “Are you ready? The jury has made their decision.”
While she would not be allowed in the gallery to hear the ruling, she’d promised Abraham she would be waiting outside for him when it was finished.
She and Papa made their way to the courthouse, where they chose an outdoor bench near the entrance. It was a sunny, temperate afternoon. Unless the weather took a sharp turn in the next week, a white Christmas was unlikely. Less than a quarter hour passed before the doors pushed open and reporters raced to their offices to be the first to get the news printed in an extra or the evening post.
Mr. Clemens spotted her as he exited and redirected his steps. “He’s been found guilty and sentenced to a hanging,” he informed them quietly. “Not even his connections could save him this time. They were too afraid that anything less would lead to an actual riot.”
How could she respond to that? There was no simple answer. She felt brokenhearted by the man’s downfall and coming judgment. Glad that justice was being upheld. Guilty that her stories had pushed him into the insanity of Billy Poe.
Perhaps that last one most of all.
At her lack of a response, he drew a deep breath. “It’s not your fault, you know.” He looked away but kept speaking. “I hate that you wroteShadow in the Night, and I initially blamed you for the deaths, but Lawson’s decisions were his own. You didn’t make them for him. If I no longer hold you responsible, then you shouldn’t hold yourself responsible either.”
Lydia wasn’t sure what to make of his consolation. She was grateful, but it did seem odd coming from him—like she was missing an important piece of information.
He stood there, awkwardly silent, staring down the street but not appearing to see. Whatever thoughts had dragged his attention away, he shook them loose. When he turned her way, an energetic smile stretched across his face. “If you should ever decide to write again, Miss Pelton, stick to romances and happily-ever-afters.”
“Life is more complicated than happily-ever-afters. I don’t see myself writing ever again, but should I pick up the pen, I want to write about light, truth, and hope, even in the face of darkness, evil, and loss.”
“Can there really be hope in the face of such darkness?”
“I believe so. If you want to know, look in your Bible. Jesus is Hope and Light. In Him, there is no darkness, and from Him, all darkness will flee.”
“I’m a man of logic. You can believe what you want, but religion isn’t for me. At any rate, I’m afraid I have a rather dark story to write for tonight’s paper. Good day, Miss Pelton.”
Mr. Clemens strode away, leaving behind a sorrow and compassion Lydia had never expected to feel for the reporter. Nothing she could say to him would change his mind, so she did the only thing she knew to do: pray.
Lord, may You get hold of his logical heart and show him how You are the Creator of logic and not confined by it. Help him to see there is no greater comfort than having You as we face the injustice and evil of this world.
“What did he want?” Abraham’s gruff voice drew her attention. He stood with hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, defeat marring his face. The poor man.
“He told us the verdict and ruling. I’m sorry, Abraham.”
Papa stood to clasp Abraham’s shoulder. “It’s a hard profession we’ve chosen, but not everyone who chooses it turns into Lawson. We need good men like you to stay and minister to those who walk in the dark. Who knows? You could be the light that guides them to the path of change.”
“That sounds rather utopian, sir.”
“It’s only utopian if you believe you can save everyone. Our job is to shine the light. People must choose for themselves whether to walk toward or away from it. We can’t force them, but we can offer truth.”
Abraham nodded. “Thank you for that perspective. I’ll give it some thought and prayer.”
“Good.” Papa stepped back, rubbing his hands together. “Now, if you promise to behave with my daughter, I have some urgent Christmas shopping to complete without prying eyes.” The meaningful look he sent Lydia only made her grin.
Just this morning, he’d found her snooping through Momma’s hiding place for presents.
She plunked her hands on her hips in mock frustration. “What’s the point of a mystery if you can’t sniff out the clues?”
“Presents are surprises, not mysteries, dear.”
“But there’s more joy in the figuring out of a gift than the receiving of it.”
