Free The Bishop's Wife by Mette Ivie Harrison Page A

Aaron had.
    She was looking down at a piece of paper in her hands. Aaronmoved to the side so she could lean over the microphone. She read from Carrie’s letter.
    â€œJared told me that my daughter was his by blood and by right. He said that he could replace me as a mother if I left him. He said that Kelly would not remember my name or my face, that she would have a new mother, a better mother. He said that God would seal his new wife to him and to Kelly and would rip me from them, that I would live in the hell prepared for women who do not love their daughters and husbands naturally. He said that the whole world would remember me as a crazy woman and him as the wronged man. He said that he would be purified by any hurt I did to his heart, and that he would think of me as a trial that God had given him to prove himself.”
    Then Judy looked up at the camera. Her face had blotches on it, clear marks of tears, but she wasn’t crying now. She had masked her pain so that she could do what had to be done. I felt like I was looking in a mirror. There was no peace in her expression, only terror of judgment. If she believed in God or in His mercy, she didn’t look like it now.
    â€œThat sounds very ominous,” said the newscaster, a woman in a bright royal blue suit. “Have the police seen that letter?”
    â€œThey’ve seen it and they said that it didn’t change their procedure,” said Aaron, moving in front of the cameras again. “If she had filed a police report or asked for a restraining order, that would be something else. But she was terrified of contacting the police. She only wrote this to us a few days ago, when she was so afraid that something would happen to her anyway that she didn’t think it added any risk.”
    â€œAnd you, Mrs. Weston? Do you have anything you’d like to say to the police?” asked the newscaster.
    Aaron put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, guiding her toward the microphone. Her voice sounded a little shaky now, as she moved off of a memorized speech.
    â€œThis is my daughter, my little girl. And she has been hurt by the very person she ought to have been able to trust the most, her husband. It is beyond my comprehension, beyond my ability to imagine—” She put her hands over her face, unable to continue.
    Aaron spoke next, as if finishing what his wife had meant to say. His voice was more firm, and his expression vengeful rather than sad. “If she is dead, then Jared Helm must be forced to own up to his crime. He cannot be allowed a free pass. He cannot be allowed to raise my granddaughter as a prize for his reprehensible actions in his marriage to my daughter.”
    â€œWhat would you like our viewers to do?” asked the newscaster.
    â€œI want them to call the police and demand that they look into this case. And tell everyone you know to do the same.”
    â€œWhat about volunteers to help search for your daughter?”
    After Elizabeth Smart, this was a common question asked about missing children. The Mormon church could mobilize thousands of volunteers in a couple of hours if necessary. But a search was not often organized for a missing adult. The question set my mind running through possible scenarios. What if Jared Helm hadn’t killed Carrie, but was holding her somewhere against her will, punishing her for thinking of leaving? But where? How would he get to her, to bring food? After this publicity, he wouldn’t be able to leave his house. And that was my fault.
    â€œThat is a secondary concern,” Aaron Weston was saying. “If we can’t get the police to act, then I will ask for volunteers to search for any sign of her. But first, let’s get the official channels working.” He looked directly at the screen. “If it were your daughter in this situation, what would you want the police to do?”
    The newscaster let the moment draw out. Then she said, “And what