Free A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson Page B

Boulevard estate with Miss Eloise—bathing, feeding, and nursing her grandmother without complaint.
    That security was now stripped away. Aside from distant cousins and an uncle in Cades Cove of East Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains, her immediate family was gone.
    I opened my arms to draw her in, and she didn’t pull away. For a few moments, we stood there together, her pulse feathering against my chest. In increments, her stiffness melted.
    “What can I do to help?” I whispered.
    She shook her head.
    “Anything. You just say it.”
    “I appreciate that. I do. But no, there’s nothing at this point.”
    “Are you okay to drive? You need me to take you somewhere?”
    Though her lips turned up in a brave smile, her eyes were round and moist. She pretended to brush something from my shirt, then moved back a step. “I’m not the one who was ailing,” she reminded me. “I think I can operate a vehicle just fine.”
    From the hallway speaker, bits of Johnny’s vocals washed over our conversation:
    “an angel … oh yes, an angel … an angel’s what you’ve been.”
    Sammie’s chin shifted, then recentered itself. Seeking balance.
    I said, “If you need to … you know, talk—whatever—call me.”
    “I will.”
    “You’re not alone.”
    She rubbed a finger against her temple, looked off past my shoulder. Her face softened as high cheekbones caught the glow of studio lights. “I mean that,” I reiterated.
    “You’ve gone through your own loss, Aramis, so I know your sentiments are heartfelt. In all honesty, I’m just not sure I’m ready to hear it.”
    “Understandable. You want to skip our dinner tomorrow?”
    “Our Sunday supper? We still have business to discuss, don’t we?”
    “It’s your call.”
    “Let’s go ahead. There’s always comfort in routine.”
    “Is J. Alexander’s still okay?”
    She lifted her chin as though catching a breath. “If you’d reserve a corner booth, that’d be wonderful.”
    Her show of strength riveted me. How she does it, I have no idea. Occasionally I spot a carefree spark in those eyes, and I imagine under there, somewhere, a little girl who once dove into piles of leaves and ran through sprinklers with abandon. She may be hidden for now, but she’s still there. I have to believe it. “Six o’clock,” I said. “I’ll try to be on time.”
    “You’re usually pretty good about that.”
    In my pocket, the brass bullet casing pressed against my thigh, a reminder that I shouldn’t be making promises on a day like today. “Listen, if I’m held up for some reason, you go ahead and order without me.”
    “Now you have me worried.”
    “I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”
    “And I’m to believe that? You seem anxious. Does this have something to do with your escapade?”
    I mumbled an affirmative.
    “Something important?”
    “Could be.”
    “Well then, Aramis, I will be patiently waiting. You do what you have to do.”

11
    O n the streets, if you cave to intimidation, you’re as good as gone. That’s the law I grew up with. On my desk in Black’s office, my New Testament reminds me of a different law: the law of forgiveness. I often think about how, even when he was under arrest, Jesus refused to retaliate, and the apostle Peter took matters into his own hands, drawing his sword and slashing off a soldier’s ear.
    Now there was a man I could relate to. Three cheers for San Pedro.
    Except Jesus wasn’t pleased.
    With one touch, he healed the wounded man and instructed Peter to put away his weapon. He told him, “Those who use the sword will die by the sword.”
    Yeah. I knew all about that. Even got the tattoos to prove it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever escape the old patterns that seem etched into my being.
    Although I’d promised my brother and the detective that I would stay out of trouble, it was Sammie’s concern in DAD’s studio that caused me to reconsider. By putting aside her own grief, she released me to do what had to be