I also wanted to learn more about Bess and Cole and try to discover what Bess had changed. Would Sam know?
I left the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and entered the kitchen.
Sam sat on a stool near the table where a single candle glowed, a cup of coffee in front of him. Sorrow filled his face as he met my gaze. “How is Johnnie?”
“I’m not sure.” I hesitated near the door but knew that there was only one way to get my answers. “May I join you?”
He stood and went to the cupboard, where he took out a cup and then filled it with coffee from the pot on the stove. He returned to the table and set it down across from his.
I lowered to the stool and wrapped my hands around the cup, but I did not take a sip. He sat down again. Neither of us spoke, though I had so many things I wanted to say.
“Thank you for helping today,” he finally said. “I owe you a great debt for looking after Johnnie.”
“And I owe you a great debt for giving us a place to live and work. Let’s call it even.”
His mouth softened, though he didn’t quite smile. “Good. I don’t like to owe debts.”
“Neither do I.”
He took a sip of his coffee, and I cleared my throat, knowing I wouldn’t find the courage to talk to him unless I just dove in. “Why doesn’t Johnnie speak? Has it always been that way?”
Sam fiddled with his coffee cup. “No. He spoke like a normal child for the first few years.”
I waited, but he didn’t continue. Leaning forward, I pleaded, “I can’t help unless I understand. And I want to help. I was a teacher in Massachusetts before we came here. I never encountered a child who couldn’t speak, but I did help those with troubles—”
“Johnnie can speak. He just chooses not to.”
I sat back, surprised. “Why?”
He looked away, visibly upset, and I worried I had pushed too hard. But I needed answers. “Please tell me.”
“He was told not to.”
I stared at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“The night his father was murdered.” Sam rose from the stool and crossed the room, running his hand over the back of his neck.
“His father was murdered?” I paused. “But wasn’t his father your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Why was Johnnie told not to speak that night?”
“Because he witnessed it.”
My heart twisted at the pain and tragedy Johnnie had endured. How could God bring beauty from the ashes of his young life? His suffering made no sense. He was not guilty of anything, so why was he serving a life sentence?
“And he hasn’t spoken since then?” I whispered.
“No.”
“How long ago was that?”
“It happened four years ago, when he was three.”
I clutched the coffee cup, my throat too tight to drink, but I was able to say, “What did you know about Bess?”
“What do you mean?”
