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A Time To Forgive
Darlene Gardner
Every moment counts…When Connor Smith has to unexpectedly care for his nine-year-old niece, he isn' t prepared. In fact, he' s overwhelmed. Blending their lives poses one problem after another until Jaye' s violin teacher throws them a lifeline.Abby Reed not only knows how to get through to his niece, she also makes an impression on him. Soon their time together means everything to Connor–and the tragedy his family faced a decade ago begins to have less power over him. Then he discovers Abby' s family' s connection to his own…Can their love survive Connor' s bitterness and Abby' s insistence that her brother isn' t the awful person he' s been branded?
“I don’t care what you do to me, do you hear me?”
Connor stood speechless, shocked into silence by his niece’s onslaught of emotion. Jaye resembled a cornered, injured animal ready to strike out at anyone who tried to help her.
Abby crouched down beside the nine-year-old, her eyes steady on the girl’s face.
“So scared, Abby,” Jaye said between hiccuping sobs. “Couldn’t figure out how to buy a bus ticket. Walked here to the library. Nobody talked to me. So alone.”
“It’s okay, honey.” Abby smoothed the hair back from his niece’s despondent face and made soothing noises. “Connor and I are here now. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Something thickened in Connor’s throat as he watched them—the innocent girl who’d been abandoned by her mother and the woman who refused to desert her guilty-as-sin brother.
But at that moment Abby Reed didn’t seem like the half sister of the man who’d murdered his brother.
She seemed like somebody who was on their side.
Dear Reader,
A Time To Forgive represents a departure for me. While many of my previous books were lighthearted, this one involves a ten-year-old murder and its lasting repercussions. It’s as much about hate as it is about the amazing power of love.
It’s also a book I’ve wanted to write for years, fueled by the tales of forgiveness I’d sometimes read about in the newspaper. Who hasn’t marveled at the people who ask judges and juries to be merciful toward the murderer of one of their loved ones? How, I wondered, could anyone forgive such a terrible crime?
In my book, Connor Smith faces a question that’s equally difficult. Can his love for the sister of the man who killed his brother survive the hate eating away at him?
I’m grateful to have been given the chance to write about the flip side of love—and the enduring truth that love is the strongest force of all.
All my best,
Darlene Gardner
P.S. Please visit me on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.
A Time to Forgive
Darlene Gardner
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For those who can find it within themselves to forgive.
But even more, for those who can’t.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PROLOGUE
THE KILLER WALKED into the courtroom not with the shoulder-rolling swagger Connor Smith had expected, but with his head down, his eyes cast to the floor.
He was maybe five foot nine, not nearly as tall as Connor imagined he would be, and he was handcuffed and dressed in a prison-issue jumpsuit that was a garish orange. An armed guard stood on either side of him.
Connor gripped the armrest of his wooden chair to keep himself from surrendering to the impulse to leap from his seat and attack, reminding himself that the wheels of justice were about to turn.
He’d left the fragrant beauty of a sunny spring afternoon for a preliminary hearing in the austere interior of Laurel County District Court. Very shortly, the Honorable Preston A. Hodgkins would determine whether probable cause existed to believe the defendant had committed murder.
Judge Hodgkins wasn’t expected to do anything more than hand over the case to trial, yet the courtroom gallery was nearly full with members of the news media and spectators who had been shocked by the crime.
Connor didn’t pay attention to any of them.
He sat between his parents. He was peripherally aware of his mother clutching his surgically repaired right knee, which would probably give him trouble when he stood, and his father sitting stoically. But Connor’s eyes never left the killer as he shuffled to the defense table. Once there, he lowered himself into a seat beside the tired-looking public defender who’d been assigned to his case.
Connor waited, barely breathing, for the killer to lift his head. The newspapers had run his photograph a half-dozen times in the last ten days, but they used a police mug shot slightly blurred around the edges.
Connor wanted to see what evil looked like in the flesh.
The killer shifted in his seat, stared down at the table in front of him and stroked his forehead as though his head hurt. Finally, at long last, he raised his head, then briefly glanced at the gallery behind him.
His eyes were a startling blue, a fact Connor hadn’t been able to determine from the black-and-white newspaper photo. His face was pale and unlined, his mouth wide and almost gentle looking, his nose long and straight. His cheeks were apple-red and his dark hair freshly cut.
The killer’s name was Drew Galloway. Three weeks ago, he had turned eighteen, the age at which he could legally be charged as an adult.
Eighteen days ago, Galloway had plunged a knife deep into the chest of Connor’s seventeen-year-old younger brother and left him to die. A pair of teenagers had found J.D.’s body under the bleachers adjacent to the high-school football field where he regularly covered himself in glory.
The story was that the two boys had scuffled over a girl the day before and that Galloway had lured J.D. to the field to rid himself of the competition.
The night, Connor was told, had been black. He didn’t doubt that Galloway’s soul was the same shade.
Dressed in his prison jumpsuit with his cherub’s cheeks and sky-blue eyes, Drew Galloway didn’t look evil. A middle-aged woman with shadowy circles under her eyes and a teenage girl with long, dark hair and a tear-streaked face sat behind the defense table. Probably Galloway’s mother and sister, they furthered the illusion of normalcy.
Connor wasn’t fooled.
Galloway had not only robbed his brother of life, he’d stolen the heart from Connor’s family. Connor’s mother spent her days alternating between grief and rage, and his father walked around in a fog, barely able to function.
Neither parent had the energy to do anything about Connor’s sixteen-year-old sister Diana, who stayed out until all hours of the night, not caring that she was flunking out of school. Connor didn’t even know where she was right now.
No. His family would never recover from the loss of J.D. He’d been the family favorite, so full of life and athletic talent that he’d been headed to Penn State on a football scholarship. But today, when the judge upheld the charge of first-degree murder, the path toward justice would begin.
A bailiff commanded all rise and announced that court was in session. Judge Hodgkins swept in, his black robes flowing, and took a seat behind the bench. He asked counsel to state their appearances in the case of the state of Maryland versus Drew Galloway.
Connor sat patiently through the introductions. The only lawyer who mattered, in his opinion, was State’s Attorney Douglas Benton. A tall man with a head of prematurely gray hair, Benton was a descendant of the town’s founding father. Murders weren’t common in sleepy Laurel County, nestled in the state’s southwest corner less than an hour’s drive from the nation’s capital, but the state’s attorney had a reputation for being as tough as a piece of white Maryland marble.
Judge Hodgkins shuffled some papers, then peered over his reading glasses. “I understand that the parties involved have reached a satisfactory plea agreement. I’ve reviewed the signed document. I gather you’re ready to proceed with a plea hearing and disposition. Is that correct?”
Douglas Benton stood. “That is correct.”
The bottom dropped out of Connor’s stomach as a murmur of excitement rushed through the crowd. A plea agreement? He turned to his mother and whispered, “How could this happen? Did you know about this?”
She stared at him, her face white, her eyes teary. Before she could answer, Judge Hodgkins pounded the desk with his gavel. “Order. Order.”
The murmuring died down and Connor watched with growing horror as Judge Hodgkins proceeded through a series of questions meant to make sure Galloway understood what he had signed. Finally, the judge reached the heart of the plea.
“This agreement specifies that you, Mr. Galloway, are pleading guilty to second-degree murder. It further states that the length of your sentence of incarceration should be twenty years, the first ten without the possibility of parole.”
The blood rushing through Connor’s body turned icy as the gallery erupted with shouts and angry murmurings. Twenty years, the judge had said. A chance at parole after ten. Galloway could be out on the streets as early as age twenty-eight. He would not rot in prison. But J.D. was already rotting in his grave.
The judge banged the gavel once more. “Order. Or I’ll have the bailiff clear the courtroom.”
Connor stared at his brother’s killer. Something that had been coiled in Connor’s gut unfurled, like the body of a snake venturing from the sunlight to the shadows. It reached out to every part of him, thick and sour and filling.
The emotion was so alien that Connor couldn’t identify it until it wrapped around his heart and dipped into his very soul.
Then he knew, with sudden and vicious clarity, what had cloaked his world in darkness and blackened his heart.
It was hate.
CHAPTER ONE
Nearly ten years later
CONNOR SMITH HAD SPENT the last decade attempting to outrun the past, but it caught up with him. Again.
The pattern was as familiar as the long, straight rows of gravestones in a cemetery. Just when he thought he’d relegated J.D.’s murder to a terrible memory and started to live in the present, something happened to pull him back into the abyss.
The latest something was his niece, Jaye, an unusually pretty little girl with pale blond hair swept back from the widow’s peak on her high forehead and gray-green eyes that were reminiscent of his dead brother’s. She’d got her first name from J.D., too.
The girl sat on a stool at the counter-height island in the kitchen nook of his Silver Spring town house picking at the piece of toast and jam he’d fixed her. Her skinny, nine-year-old legs dangled well above the porcelain-tile floor.
He stood between the island and the state-of-the-art black microwave that was built into his golden-maple cabinets, cradling his second cup of black coffee of the morning and waiting for a bagel to defrost.
On an ordinary Saturday morning, he’d already be at the office figuring out how to make one of his clients money. But there was nothing routine about a morning in which his sister chose to abandon her daughter.
“Where’s Mom?” Jaye asked.
There it was, the question Connor had been dreading. The microwave beeped, signaling that the bagel had thawed.
He ignored the summons and kneaded the throbbing space between his brows. He’d found his sister Diana’s note more than an hour ago but still hadn’t figured out how to break the news to Jaye that her mother had taken off for God only knew where.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Jaye asked abruptly in a hard voice that didn’t sound as if it belonged to a child.
“Yeah, she’s gone,” Connor said softly, futilely wishing he could soften the blow. “I think she needed to be by herself for a while.”
He expected Jaye to dissolve into tears, the way he imagined any young girl would react upon hearing that her mother had cast her off and left her with an uncle who was essentially a stranger.
Jaye’s chin quivered slightly, but her eyes were dry, her petal of a mouth pinched. “What’s going to happen to me?”
That was the question that had been swirling around and around in his brain since he’d read Diana’s note. She’d claimed she’d be in touch but made no promises about when she’d be back for Jaye. He doubted it would be any time soon.
Diana had nearly jumped out of her skin every time he’d asked her a question last night. He’d recognized that something was wrong, but had unwisely decided to wait until this morning to confront her about it.
He swallowed his anger at his sister and focused on the sad girl with the hard eyes. “Your mother left a note asking me to take care of you.”
How, he wondered, had Diana managed to look after Jaye for this long? She’d given birth less than a year after J.D.’s murder, when she was barely seventeen. She’d had sex with so many boys, she said, that she couldn’t figure out who the father was. Their parents, still drowning in grief over J.D.’s death, hadn’t been able to deal with a new blow.
After arguing bitterly with their mother, Diana had run off. Connor had spent a night and a day looking for her before their great-aunt Aggie had called to say that Diana had turned up at her house outside Roanoke in southwest Virginia.
There Diana had stayed for the next four years until Aunt Aggie’s death, when she’d cashed in her meager inheritance and simply taken off with Jaye. She’d called now and then to let the family know she was alive but hadn’t resurfaced until last night at ten o’clock when she rang the doorbell at his town house.
And now she was gone—again—but this time she’d left her daughter behind.
“My mom said I have a grandma,” Jaye continued, still in that tough, cold voice. “Maybe I should stay with her.”
