Page 18 of North

She fired up the shower, found her clean underclothes, a T-shirt, and socks, set them out, and then stepped under the heat.

She gladly let the day’s trauma wash down the drain. From the phone call with Chloe to the panic over Grant, and even over funny David, whom they’d shipped off to another hospital. Hopefully he would make it home. To mow.

She washed her hair free of the smoke and grime and blood and let her thoughts drift back to that crazy day when she’d met North.

Sunny day. Barbecue at her parents’ home. She’d been back from Africa, where she’d taught ESL in a girls’ school, worked in a refugee camp, and had big dreams about changing lives.

North had sauntered up to her, wearing a pair of cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a Life is Good T-shirt, flashing those chocolaty-brown eyes at her, and offering to help her hang a volleyball net. Right then, her brains—and aspirations—had sort of fallen out of her head.

Especially after they’d tested out the rig with a few volleys. He’d asked her about her job and her life and had actually listened to her rabbit trail into forever about the people she’d met and how she just wanted to make a difference, to offer peace to war-torn lands.

Deep inside, maybe she’d suspected he was part of the war makers, but as the night settled around them, they’d wandered down the beach. Fireworks had lit the sky, and that’s when he’d told her that he loved Jesus.

She gave her heart to the man, right there.

It had helped that he held her hand, his firm and strong around hers. Told her about being a pastor’s kid, how he’d grown up wanting to do something important too.

He hadn’t even had to tug her, hadn’t even had to ask before she stepped up to him, her hands on his chest, and kissed him softly. Sweetly.

He had simply kissed her back, not even leaning in, not taking more than she offered. She’d never felt so safe.

And then…well, then came the rest. And Mr. Safe turned out to be…

A scream lifted in the next room, and Selah shut off the water, grabbed a towel. She opened the door, stuck her head out. “What? Are you okay?”

Amy was crying, Tommy’s arms around her. He looked up. “The news came on. It has pictures of the train.”

Oh. Shoot. She closed the door and yanked on her clothing. Her hair dripping, she came out, saw Tommy’s eyes still glued to the screen.

Hers were too as she saw the chopper’s view of the destruction. Most of the train was charred, emergency lights washing over the wreckage.

A few survivors spoke of the event—the screech of brakes, the violence of the accident. “And then the entire train just exploded.” A woman, mid-fifties, grimy, her white hair blackened. “We barely got out—and we were way down in the dining car.”

Huh. Selah didn’t remember seeing her, but she’d been focused on a croissant that now felt a million light-years away.

The segment returned to the reporter, who updated the anchor on the number of casualties—thirteen, mostly at the front of the train—and how authorities were looking into why a dump truck had been parked in the center of the tracks. And of course, the hunt for the driver.

“What about the fire, Shelby?” This from the anchor.

“Authorities aren’t saying what the cause might be, but bystanders also report the sound of gunshots, so there is more to the story.”

Yes, Selah definitely remembered the shooting part of the accident.

“One of the locals who showed up to help reports having his truck stolen also, so officials are looking into that as a possible connection.”

And then, even as her brain sorted that out, a picture of a light-blue 1978 F-150 appeared on the screen.

Oh. My.

She glanced at Tommy, but he had his eyes closed, cuddled up with his sister.

She got up, turned off the television. Then she adjusted the pillows behind them and eased them down, pulling up the covers.

Said a little prayer for Grant and Sarah.

And then she climbed into bed and forced herself not to believe that Mr. Nice Guy next door had lied to her.

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