Page 13 of A Burning Rage

“I’m sorry,” Beth says, her voice shaking. “I need to—excuse me.” She walks away, heading for our bedroom.

My gaze follows her. “Where are the kids?”

“In the family room,” Ingrid says. “Shane, what’s wrong?”

“We received some unpleasant news this morning. I’m sure you remember Andrew Morton.”

She gasps as memories of that awful day come back to her. “Shane, no!”

I nod. “I found out this morning that Andrew is up for parole.”

Her eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid so. Beth’s taking it hard. We all are.”

Luke comes running down the hallway to greet me. “Hi, Daddy!” He throws himself at me and wraps his arms around my knees.

I pick him up and settle him on my hip. “Hey, buddy, how are you?”

“Fine. I’m playing trains. Do you wanna play with me?”

“I will in a little bit. Right now, I need to talk to Mama.”

“Okay.” When I lower him to the floor, he races back to his trains.

Ingrid looks stricken. “When will you find out?”

“There’s a hearing Thursday morning. I guess we’ll know more then.”

She presses her hand to her chest. “I still have nightmares about that day. I imagine Beth does, too.”

“Believe me, she does.” I can’t even count the number of times she’s woken up screaming in the night.

“Does Tyler know?”

“I haven’t had a chance to tell him yet. I’ll call him in a little bit.”

Ingrid nods as she glances back toward the family room. “Would you like me to stay? I can entertain the kids while you talk to Beth.”

I reach out to gently grasp her shoulder. “I’d appreciate it, yes. Right now, I need to be with my wife.”

* * *

When I walk into our bedroom, I find Beth lying in bed, on her belly, fully dressed, her sandals lying discarded on the floor. She’s positioned diagonally across the bed, her arms tightly clutching my pillow.

I kick off my shoes and climb onto the bed beside her, lying at her back. I lay my arm across her waist to anchor her to me.

I wish I knew the perfect words to put her at ease. I wish I knew how to comfort her. I know the memories assailing her right now are unbearable. I saw the aftermath of the attack, but she lived it. She felt every blow, every kick.

When she turns to me and presses her face against my chest, I run my hands up and down her back, hoping to soothe her.

“What do you think the odds are he’ll be released?” Her words are muffled against the fabric of my shirt.

“I honestly don’t know. In the past, his psychiatrist has always advised against it. I don’t know why she’s changed her mind now.”

Every six months, Andrew’s psychiatrist, Dr. Rhona Masterson, submits an assessment of Andrew’s mental state, indicating whether or not she’s seen any improvement. Up until now, she’s always said no. She’s always indicated he was not a candidate for release. All of a sudden, she thinks it’s safe to release him? It makes no sense.

“I guess we’ll find out Thursday,” she says.