I swallowed the impulse to point out that Kip’s definition of love didn’t even resemble apathy.
“So”—she lifted her chin stubbornly even as it wavered—“I'm not sad that he's dead. I guess.” Her voice cracked and she swiped at new tears. “But I am sad. And I feel guilty about how little sadness I feel. But I am sad. I'm sad because a person lost their life before they chose the righteous path, before they chose the path of love over selfishness. And that makes me really sad. Because I do believe in heaven and hell, and given the way he behaved even to the end—” Jennifer covered her face and cried softly.
I pulled her into a hug, my mouth sour.
The underlying difference between us could be summed up by her reaction to her father's death. Here she was, sad because she believed her father was in hell, and she didn’t want anyone to go to hell. Now, here I was, also believing in a heaven and hell, and content in the knowledge that folks like Kip went to the latter.
See the difference?
She wanted everybody to reform and do better, make better choices, make reparations, and make amends. She found peace in the idea of redemption. Whereas I found peace in the idea of someone like Kip Sylvester suffering through the perpetual anguish of a fiery eternity. Basically, she was New Testament, I was Old Testament, and we cohabitated in the biblical sense—figuratively and literally.
I wondered if, fundamentally, the world was made up of people who either sought justice at the expense of redemption, or those who sought redemption at the expense of justice. To be honest, I was always a little bit disappointed when people reformed. Watching a bad person choose the straight and narrow path was the deus ex machina of real life.
. . . Except Jethro, of course. But Jet wasn’t ever really all that bad.
No. He was bad. He hurt people.
I frowned, severely, not liking that my empirical experience—how my brother had reformed, and we were all happier and better for it—undercut my thirst for justice being served in the general population. Well, I supposed that made me ordinary. Folks like it when justice applies to other people, but always think it’s unfair when applied to them.
Moving on.
I continued rubbing her back, hoping she drew comfort from my hands on her skin like I drew comfort from the feel of her in my arms. I should’ve made her talk to me before now, and not just for us to compare notes about police surveillance. She needed to talk about what she’d been going through. I didn’t completely understand her perspective, but she needed me. I knew she wasn't okay, asking her if she was okay would be a banal waste of words, which was why I’d resisted.
But she obviously needed to talk. No more giving her space.
Instead, inspired by Drew’s forthrightness earlier, I asked, “What can I do?”
The sudden sound of my voice seemed to draw her out of whatever dark thoughts she’d ensconced herself within and pulled back, blinking several times, her tears dry. “Pardon?”
I studied her gorgeous eyes. “What can I do? How can I help you?”
“I . . .” She gave her head a subtle shake, like she had difficulty processing my question.
Hmm.
Anxious for action, I decided to make a list of obvious tasks that would or might help, starting with us sleeping at the homestead instead of her place. Then I’d hold her to ensure she continued to feel safe by getting rid of those cameras. And then—then—
Damn.
Beyond that, I needed instructions. If I were expected to be adequately prepared to see to Jenn’s needs over the next several days, weeks, years, and the rest of our shared life, I required feedback. This was the main issue with loving someone and respecting their wishes.
I loved my family plenty, but I didn’t always respect their wishes, seeing as how they were prone to having dumb, self-destructive wishes. Take Billy, for instance. He wanted me to let his tragic-as-of-now past with Scarlet (Claire) St. Claire (McClure) go. That’s what he said he wished.
I would let their past go the same day he did, which meant never.
“I want us to talk. I need to talk to you. If they’re bugging the house, fine, whatever. But we need to find a way to communicate.”
“Already on it. Next.”
“I want you to help me find the killer.”
“As I’ve said, I’ve started looking. I’m not happy about that camera being in the house, but it might give me a new lead. I want to be certain the police catch the real killer, not that I don’t have faith in the sheriff, but sometimes the police only go where evidence leads.”
“And you don’t go where evidence leads?” She shifted on my lap, like she was getting more comfortable.
“Evidence is important, but evidence can be placed in an attempt at misdirection.” I’d done a fair share of planting evidence, I knew what to look for when determining whether evidence had been planted purposefully or left by mistake. “It’s not just the evidence itself that’s important, it’s the very existence of the evidence that must be questioned.”
“Give me an example.”
“All murderers seek to conceal vital evidence when planning a murder unless it’s a crime of passion, done without any planning or forethought. We’re going to assume that your father’s death was not a crime of passion.”
“Okay, yes. Makes sense. I feel like this is obvious.”
“It should be. But in a planned murder, like your father’s, when critical evidence is found easily and has fingerprints that implicate a suspect—like the murder weapon—you have to ask yourself two questions: First, is the suspect implicated a moron? If not, then you can assume that evidence was planted with their fingerprints.”
“Right. Of course. Again, I feel like this is obvious.”
“It is, but the police have to follow the evidence. A murder weapon with fingerprints is easily found and points to a suspect, that suspect is now the primary suspect—call that person suspect A—for the police. Because they have to prove a person is guilty to a jury.”
“Are juries that stupid?” She made a face. It was cute and made me smile.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Unable and unwilling to stop myself, I brushed my lips against hers before leaning back. “It’s about the trial, getting a guilty verdict, not always about convicting the guilty. If suspect B really committed the murder and the police put suspect B on trial, but the murder weapon has suspect A’s fingerprints, then how’s that gonna look to a jury? It’s going to give them reasonable doubt to acquit suspect B. Even if the police have additional evidence suggesting that suspect B planted the murder weapon with suspect A’s fingerprints, the doubt will linger.”
Jenn trailed her nails down the front of my shirt. “Okay, I see what you mean.”
“However, we’re not the legal system. You and I, we don’t need to care about the burden of reasonable doubt.”
She marinated in that statement for a bit before saying, “At the same time, I don’t want to become one of those obsessed zealots who decide a person is guilty, looking for evidence after the fact. I get what you’re saying, but we need to follow the evidence too. We need to keep an open mind and not jump to conclusions based on who we’d like to be guilty.”