I'll Never Let You Go (Morgans of Nashville 3)

The thin sliver of moon did little to cut the night’s inky black that shrouded Leah as she arrived at the old Victorian-style home. It had been hard finding street parking, and she’d been forced to circle the block a few times before she’d found a spot across the street. By the time she climbed the wide brick front steps, the cold air stung her lungs and nipped at her face.

She reached for the brass doorknob and pushed open the heavy door. Warm air greeted her, and she allowed its embrace to envelope her as she shrugged off her jacket. She smiled to the receptionist, a redhead in her late forties with ruddy cheeks and freckles.

“Hi, Frances,” Leah said.

Frances stood, hands on her wide hips. “It’s been a few weeks.”

“I was busy at work. I kept meaning to come, but I could never get my act together.”

“Hey, no worries. We’re here all the time, ready to help whether you need us or not.”

Leah had joined a support group days after moving back to Nashville. The people in this group had survived an attack from a loved one. When she’d been here last, she’d spoken with such confidence to her counselor. “I’ve finally taken a giant step toward getting on with my life.” But since finding Deidre, all the hard-won territory had surrendered to fear. “Group still tonight?”

“Six P.M. like always. Go on in; they haven’t started yet.”

Leah slid open the pocket doors that led to what must have been a formal parlor when this house had originally been built as a private home. A circle of chairs, half full, were in the center of what was now a meeting room. A coffeepot on a side table gurgled beside a plate of chocolate chip cookies. There were a few cooks in the group who brought baked goods when they’d had a bad week. Many apologized for the confections, saying cooking was preferable to sitting and worrying. Judging by the spread, it had been a rough week.

She draped her coat over an empty chair and set her purse on it before moving to the refreshment table. She filled a cup with coffee and took a seat nearby. She always chose a chair that faced the back wall and gave her a clear view of the door. Nervous habit.

As Leah sipped her coffee, she scanned the group and realized she didn’t recognize the women. They ranged in age from late teens to early sixties. A couple of the older women looked as if they had money. A few others looked middle income. They came from all walks of life.

The facilitator, Sierra, was a short woman in her early thirties. She had a round face, olive skin, and salt-and-pepper hair that brushed her shoulders. She carried a mug that read Number One Mom. Sierra had a master’s in psychology and had opened her counseling center, Homestead, ten years before, after she’d nearly died in a car accident caused by her ex-husband.

“Welcome, Leah,” Sierra said as she sat down next to her. “How’s it been going?”

“Crazy at work. But all good.” She’d uttered the last statement from reflex. It hadn’t been all good. In fact, not good one bit.

Sierra nodded, sipping her own coffee. She recognized the not-ready-to-talk smile but let it pass. “Cold night.”

“I can’t wait for spring.”

Sierra’s gaze roamed the room. “I see familiar faces and some new ones. We always begin the meeting with introductions.” She nodded to a slim woman who wore an expensive dark sweater, jeans, and her thick silver hair twisted into a chignon.

The woman grinned. “My name is Ester. I joined the group seven years ago. I haven’t been here in a while, but I joined because I was in a plane crash eight years ago. My husband and son were killed. My husband was the pilot, and he intentionally crashed the plane because he knew I wanted a divorce.”

Heads nodded before Sierra turned to the next woman. In all, there were six, a few joining after the meeting started. All had different experiences. One woman had been beaten nearly to death by a boyfriend. Another had survived a car accident caused by a lover. Another a near drowning.

“Want to finish up the introductions, Leah?” Sierra asked.

Leah glanced at Sierra, knowing the counselor had called her out on purpose. Leah had a bad habit of hiding, allowing the conversations to swirl around her. “My name is Leah. I was nearly stabbed to death by my ex-husband four years ago.”

A hush ran through the room. They’d all suffered violence at the hand of a loved one.

“Leah, you also have an anniversary coming up, correct?”

Leah had only shared her details once, a few months earlier. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision that had left her feeling stripped bare and vulnerable. Since then, when she came, she spoke little, but it seemed tonight Sierra wasn’t going to let her ride for free.

“I used to be very outgoing and happy,” Leah said. “Now, I’m a bit of a mess. Especially this time of year. January twenty-fifth was our wedding anniversary, and I always get extra nervous this time of year.” She wasn’t sure if she could talk about finding Deidre this morning without crying so she opted to keep that information to herself. Maybe one day she would talk about it, but she didn’t think she could do it today.

“Why?” Sierra asked.

“My ex-husband attacked me on our anniversary.”

Since the attack, Leah had felt isolated from most people who’d never endured what she had. Hearing about evil versus experiencing it were very different things. Theirs was a sisterhood of the broken. Here, she didn’t feel so alone.

A young woman with dark brown hair shared the story of a boyfriend who’d nearly strangled her to death. He was in jail now, awaiting his trial. “So, what’s it like knowing he died and you never got justice?”

Leah dug her fingernail into the side of her cup. “I can’t think about that. It would eat me alive.”

“Are you still journaling?” Sierra asked.

“Yes.” She glanced into the black depths of her coffee, knowing the caffeine would ensure she wouldn’t sleep well tonight. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m a little obsessive about the journaling. I sit down each night and make detailed notes on my day. It goes back to when my husband was stalking me. The police said they could prove the case if they had evidence of a pattern.”

“But he’s dead,” the young woman said.

Leah nodded. “I know. It’s a little OCD on my part. But I can’t seem to stop. Perhaps it’s therapeutic.”

“So what happened to bring you here tonight?” Sierra asked.

A knot in Leah’s chest wouldn’t let her draw in a full breath. “A friend of mine was killed last night. I found her this morning. She’d been murdered.”

A gasp swept the room. All eyes focused on Leah, and she knew there was no going back. “She was stabbed. Like me.”

The silver-haired woman rose and came up behind Leah. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and hugged her close. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Leah closed her eyes and allowed the embrace. “Thanks.”

The woman patted Leah on the shoulder and returned to her seat.

“Finding your friend made you relive your attack?” Sierra asked.

“Made me wonder if I’d be

en earlier, could I have helped her. The cop who arrived in time to stop my attack had been a military paramedic. He stopped some of the bleeding or I’m not sure I’d have made it. If he hadn’t been there, I’d have been Deidre.”

“You don’t blame yourself, I hope. Replaying the scene with different scenarios never works.”

“I know. I do.”

“But . . .”

Leah shrugged. “It’s hard not to wonder where I’d be or where she’d be if the timing had been just a little different.”

A sigh leaked over her clenched teeth. “My life can be divided into before and after the attack. Before I had friends. Most scattered after the attack. My roommate moved all her stuff out of our apartment. I never saw her again. That made me angry for a long time, but I realize now she was scared.”

“People are scared of us,” a young woman said. “It’s almost as if we were at fault.”

“I lost a lot of friends while my ex-husband was stalking me,” another woman said. “And when he was finally arrested, he couldn’t stop apologizing. Said he didn’t want to hurt me. Said he hated it. Said I made him hurt me.” Bitterness twisted around the last words.

A heavy silence settled over the room, and for a moment no one spoke. Finally, Sierra broke the silence. “You said your husband is dead?”

“He got away from the cops the night of the attack and made it as far as South Carolina. He was in a car accident. His ID was found at the scene and the body identified.” Her hold on her coffee cup tightened. “Since I found my friend, my ex-husband is all I can think about.”

“So do they have a suspect in your friend’s murder?” Sierra asked.

“If the police do, they’re not telling me.”

“Did you tell them about your past?”

“No,” Leah said. “If my ex-husband were alive, I’d have said something. Philip never did like it when I had friends, and it would be like him to target one. But he’s gone.” She picked at a thread on her pants. “I called the detective who oversaw the identification of his body. Left her a voice mail, and I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m crazy, calling after all this time.”