his ring and—apparently—not his name.
The details of the story made him sick to his stomach. The bastard had shot himself. While Charity had been asleep in bed beside him. No reason for the suicide was given. A police statement that the circumstances of his death had been deemed “not suspicious” and “self-inflicted” had been swiftly issued. The article ended with glowing avowals from “parishioners” and “friends” about how wonderful and caring and kind he had been. So selfless. Always putting others first. People were described as being “heartbroken” at the loss.
Too many not-so-subtle inferences that perhaps his marriage hadn’t been as happy as it had appeared on the surface. The wording implying that his wife hadn’t been as supportive of his work as perhaps she should have been.
Fuckers! No wonder she had fled.
The article ended with the family’s plea for privacy during “this difficult time”.
He read a few more articles. They were all pretty similar. There was a glowing obituary. Funeral notice and then interest in the story had tapered off.
Armed with a name, Miles headed back to Facebook. And this time immediately found the bastard’s page. It was open to the public and in memoriam. There were posts as recent as three days ago, stating how much his parishioners and family and community still loved and missed him.
Miles wanted to puke, reading about this wonderful, amazing wife beating motherfucker. He had seen all the faded scars on Charity’s body. Some she had happily explained. Childhood accidents, a bad hang gliding landing, rollerblades, ice skating, cycling. Tales of an active, adventurous girl and young woman. Others—far too fucking many of them—she had clammed up about. And he knew that those had come from Blaine. Burns, cuts, the scar on her forehead, and a small, oddly shaped crater on her thigh.
He didn’t want to hear about them, but at the same time he wanted to know. Needed her to share these war stories with him. Even though he didn’t want them in his mind or memories.
He found himself occupying a conflicting emotional space, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it.
He sighed deeply as he scrolled through Blaine Davenport’s pictures.
He had been a tall, handsome, sandy haired man, with a blindingly perfect smile. Miles could see how this golden pretty boy could charm those around him. Beguile them. Deceive them into thinking he was an actual human being instead of a total fucking monster.
Miles paid particular attention to Charity in the pictures and he couldn’t understand how no one had seen how unhappy she had been. She always had a smile pasted on her face. One that never reached her eyes. Nothing at all like the wedding picture. Her smiles after her wedding had been fake, forced…and so sad, it just about broke Miles’s heart to see them.
How had her family, her friends…people who had known her for years, not seen this transformation? When it was as clear as day to him?
The long sleeves, the high-necked blouses, the neckerchiefs. All perfectly respectable for a pastor’s wife, but Miles knew what they were hiding.
He made a distressed sound, and Stormy’s head lifted from where it had been planted on his thigh. He stroked her ears, needing the contact and comfort.
He went through Blaine’s “friend” list and found a name that rang a bell.
Faith Culpepper. The accompanying picture of a smiling woman hugging a familiar looking little girl confirmed that it was Charity’s sister.
Miles stared at the profile picture for a long time, telling himself it was none of his business. He should stay out of it. Just enjoy his time with Charity and eventually move on.
He opened up a direct message and stared at the blank page for a while. They weren’t friends, odds were she probably wouldn’t even see the message. And if she didn’t reply then that was fine. He wouldn’t pursue this any further.
Fuck.
His fingers restlessly tapped the glass-topped coffee table as he continued to stare at the page. Charity could well hate him for this.
Eventually, as if by their own volition his hands lifted and his fingertips splayed on the keyboard.
Good morning. My name is Miles Hollingsworth…
The house was quiet when Charity arrived back after five that evening. She was so late. It was just supposed to be lunch, and Miles would have expected her back hours ago.
Her stomach was in knots as she cautiously made her way to the kitchen. She didn’t know why she was so nervous…so afraid.
This was Miles.
Miles wouldn’t hurt her. He didn’t