She’d worn the simple fitness tracker every day. When investigators finally thought to pull its data, they found something the hardware store footage couldn’t explain away: a sudden, arrhythmic spike.
The pattern was consistent with extreme fear or physical struggle. The timestamp placed it an hour before security cameras showed Richard arrived at the store.
The store was twenty-five minutes away—which put him with Sarah when her heartrate spikes.
The math didn’t work.
He’d planned for the big things. He’d forgotten the small ones.
At the hospital, the doctors had discovered Sarah was six weeks pregnant—and that she’d lost the baby because of her fall.
Naomi’s breath hitched at the thought. She stopped walking, one hand braced against the wall, and forced herself to breathe through the memories.
Micah was beside her in an instant. He didn’t touch her, didn’t crowd her. He simply stood close enough that she could feel his steady presence.
“You okay?” he murmured.
She nodded, not yet trusting her voice.
The worst part—the part that still sat like a stone in her chest—had been the decision that followed.
Sarah had been on life support for two weeks. She’d had no brain activity. No chance of recovery. And Richard, as her husband, had the legal right to make the call.
He’d chosen to let her go. To take her off life support.
Naomi had begged him not to. Had tried to fight it, to get a court order,anything. But the law was clear.
Richard was her next of kin. He had the authority.
And he’d used it.
Sarah had died on a Tuesday morning. The machines had gone silent one by one, and Naomi had stood in that room with her mom and siblings and watched the last piece of her sister disappear.
Richard had cried at the funeral. People had said he looked devastated.
It took another six months before police had enough evidence to arrest him.
BeforeMicahhad enough evidence to arrest him.
For that, Naomi would always be grateful. When others had given up, when others hadn’t believed them, Micah had been there.
Naomi straightened and pulled her hand away from the wall. She curled her fingers together and held them low, hoping Micah wouldn’t notice the way they shook.
The fluorescent lights were too bright. The hallway was too wide. Every sound echoed—heels on tile, a cart rattling past, the distant cry of a baby.
A baby.
She swallowed and forced herself forward, one step at a time, her boots squeaking faintly against the floor. Her mind kept circling the same impossible truth.
Richard Harding’s baby.
Her sister’s murderer had a child. A fragile, innocent life that had done nothing to deserve the weight of his sins—or the mess he’d left behind.
And now Naomi was here, considering taking responsibility for his child.
What would Richard think of that?
She didn’t have to guess. He’d hate it. He’d see it as theft. As provocation. As something to punish.
Her pulse quickened.
He would make her life as difficult as possible. Sure, he was in prison. But he had supporters out there who were willing to do his dirty work.
Still . . . a baby’s life hung in the balance, and Naomi had never been very good at turning away from that kind of need.
Lord, now more than ever I need Your wisdom.
