“Don’t bother.”
“Alrighty, then! Um. Thank you.”
He simply glared.
She rushed toward her Volvo carrying her belongings. His footfalls followed as far as the cottage’s porch. She heaved everything into her trunk, then hurried around to the driver’s seat, desperate to escape Sam Turner’s knowing stare.
Luke
The sudden darkness steals my view of the shaking basement. My heart thunders almost as loud as the building rumbles. Earthquake. A few minutes ago, our youth pastor asked some of us to put away the sports equipment we used today at camp. I know where it’s stored, so I’m in front. I’m leading them—responsible for them. And now I have to find my brother, Ethan, and get him and the rest of the kids out of this hallway into the room ahead, where it’s safer.
I reach back into nothingness. I reach farther and connect with someone’s arm. I drag the person forward into the central room where the basement’s two hallways meet. There are pillars here. Arches. Two thin windows set high at sidewalk level. Their light reveals Ben’s face.
“What do we do?” he screams, his eyes round.
“You wait here. I’ll get the others.” I plunge back into the hallway.
Chapter Two
She’d made herself—high-achieving, rule-following Genevieve Woodward—into a house crasher.
The peaceful hum of her Volvo’s engine juxtaposed with her frightened pulse and spiked adrenaline. She’d just ended a phone call with her parents, during which she’d apologized profusely and informed them that she was on her way to their house.
Unfortunately, neither the phone call nor the miles she was putting between herself and Sam allowed Genevieve to outrun the truth of what had just happened.
She’d known for a long time that she couldn’t continue as she had been. This morning’s events had simply added a flashing neon exclamation point to the knowledge that she now must quit taking painkillers.
Like a windmill converting wind into energy, she’d converted the hardships she’d endured in the past into success. There was no reason to think the same couldn’t become true of this current hardship.
At the age of twelve, she’d survived a natural disaster. She’d come through it certain that she was destined to do big things for God, and sure enough, that event had launched her onto an international platform she’d used to lift high the name of Jesus.
At the age of twenty, she’d faced a devastating breakup. The sorrow of that had motivated her to dive into Scripture, which had inspired her to write her first Bible study, which had eventually led to her writing and speaking ministry.
A year ago she’d fallen while walking down a flight of stairs in high heels and severely fractured her ankle.
So, see? She was simply still in the midst of her current challenge. God hadn’t redeemed it yet, but He would. He’d give her the strength she needed to quit Oxy, and then He’d turn this struggle into something amazing, exactly like He’d done before.
That sentiment would be easier to believe if God didn’t feel so very, very distant.
Her pep talk fizzled like a faulty Fourth of July firecracker.
Not for the first time, she attempted to pinpoint the moment when her relationship with God had begun to drift.
He’d been with her during surgery. She clearly recalled feeling His power and peace the day of her ankle operation and for weeks afterward.
Which meant the drift had started well after she’d returned to work. Between writing, traveling, speaking, and social media, her job had demanded a lot before she’d fallen on the stairs. After the fall, she’d continued to do everything she’d done before.
Her orthopedic doctor prescribed Oxy post-op, then weaned her off of it as soon as he deemed she could function without it. Full of resolve, she’d followed his directions and stopped taking it.
Ten days later, hobbling around a convention center in the UK, the pain had become too intense to bear. Overwhelmed, agitated, and unable to sleep, she’d taken the pills languishing at the bottom of her prescription bottle.
They’d helped her so much that she’d found a pain specialist back home in Nashville willing to prescribe more. Not only did the pills ease her ankle pain, they relaxed her and boosted her confidence. Oxy enabled her to give her best during her physical therapy sessions and—even better—to manage her career responsibilities.
She’d told herself that her orthopedic doctor had simply attempted to take her off Oxy too soon. Pain was such a personal thing, after all! Some people experienced more pain in the wake of surgeries than others. She’d taper off the Oxy as soon as her pain specialist told her that her ankle had grown strong enough for her to do so.
She continued to pray and study the Bible devotedly. She preached and ministered. But around that time, God had begun to feel far away.
Genevieve turned the steering wheel, pulling into a gas station on the outskirts of Misty River. A headache gripped her skull like a vise. Her hands were shaky, and anxiety was busily tying her digestive system into a knot. Before she could face her mom and dad, she needed to pull herself together.
Inside the bedlam of her suitcase, she located her cosmetic bag, a fresh shirt, and her cute new poncho. After purchasing a bottle of water, she retreated to the restroom and stared at her reflection.
Eight months ago she’d started breaking promises to herself.
When the pain specialist had instructed her to gradually whittle down her Oxy usage, she’d rationalized his advice away and found another physician. This is the last pain specialist I’ll have, she’d promised herself. But a few months after that, she’d gone doctor shopping yet again. This is the last Bible study I’ll write while taking Oxy. This is the last speaking gig I’ll do with Oxy in my system.
She brushed her teeth, then worked to tame her hair.
Six weeks ago, after an especially challenging day, she’d taken one more pill than usual before driving to a dinner meeting with her publisher’s publicist, Anabelle. At the restaurant, she’d plowed her car into one of the rectangular stone flower planters lining the parking lot’s edge. The container had cracked, and its largest segment had rocketed forward, missing an elderly couple by inches.
When the police arrived, they gave Genevieve a breathalyzer test. Once that failed to condemn her, they asked about her medications. Anabelle had listened grimly as Genevieve told them about her Oxy prescription. The police had been sympathetic and let her off with a warning, but the moment she’d climbed into the passenger seat of Anabelle’s car, Anabelle had confronted her.
Genevieve had told herself and Anabelle, “The pill I took before coming here is the last pill I’ll take.”
“It has to be,” Anabelle had answered. “If it’s not, I need to inform the rest of your publishing team. For our sake. But much more than that, for yours.”
Later, holed up in her loft apartment alone, Genevieve had tried to carry through on her promise to Anabelle.
The first time she’d given Oxy up after surgery, her body had protested with little more than a murmur. This time, her body threw a full-blown tantrum.
Anabelle communicated with her frequently, offering encouragement, resources, information, hotline numbers. But Anabelle’s support couldn’t save Genevieve from the undiluted physical misery of withdrawal. Until that moment, Genevieve had imagined that she could stop Oxy at any point. She was appalled to discover just how dependent she’d become.