He shook his head. “I spent it a long time ago.”
She stared at him with narrowing eyes for a long moment, and he knew this would be the moment she sent him away. She held out her arms to him. “That’s okay, honey. We’ll get more money. We’re good at that.”
He stepped into the embrace, and she wrapped her arms around him. For a moment he remained stiff with all the anger that had left him rigid. She tightened her hold.
And he relaxed into her. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“That’s my boy,” she said, close to his ear. “Let Bonnie worry about everything, and the three of us will be a family again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, August 28, 7:00 a.m.
Sarah had been up since 4:00 a.m., though she really had not slept well in weeks. Two of her charges were missing, and though most of the world did not give a second thought to a missing prostitute, she cared deeply. She thought she’d grasped the evil these women faced each day, but after hearing Melina’s description of the Key Killer’s van, she wondered if the devil himself now walked among them.
She knew the Lord had sent her a series of tests over her thirty-four years, and she felt like she had risen to the challenge each time. She hoped she could again.
After refilling her coffee cup, she returned to her desk, determined to accomplish something productive today. With some effort, she shifted her mind to the reconciling of the Mission’s accounts.
The house was scheduled to wake up in the next half hour, and if she hustled, she could get the task completed.
The doorbell of the Mission rang, pulling Sarah gratefully from the obstinate numbers that were refusing to reconcile. She glanced at the security screens and saw a tall lean man who appeared to be in his early sixties. He was nicely dressed in a gray tailored suit, a white shirt, and polished wing tips. Dark hair was streaked with gray and combed back off his face.
Curious, she rose from her desk, walked down the hallway to the front door to the intercom.
“Can I help you?” Sarah said.
“I’m here on behalf of my client. She would like to make a donation to the Mission.”
Although grateful for new donations, Sarah was puzzled. “You’re here kind of early, aren’t you?”
“You’re a mission, so I assumed you’re always open. Besides, I have an early-morning meeting downtown. Thought I’d drop this off.”
Sarah had a trusting heart but a suspicious mind. And this man made her feel uncomfortable. “You could have mailed it.”
The man’s grin held little warmth. “My client wanted it hand delivered.”
“Hold up some form of identification, please?”
He removed a long slim wallet, pulled out a driver’s license, and held it up to the camera. Edward Mecum. Age sixty-two, and he lived in Franklin.
As Sarah started to throw the locks, Mr. Mecum carefully replaced his driver’s license into his wallet that he tucked into his jacket’s breast pocket. The door opened, and the spicy scent of expensive aftershave wafted over the threshold.
“Sorry for the questions. I have to be careful down here. My name is Reverend Sarah Beckett.”
He removed a gold card holder from his pocket, clicked it open, and selected a single card. “As you know, I’m Edward Mecum.”
Sarah stared at the card, moving her thumb over the fine linen paper stock. “You said you had a donation?”
“I do.” From the same breast pocket, he removed an unsealed envelope.
Sarah accepted it, and in a move that would have made her sainted mother roll over in her grave, looked at the amount on the check. $100,000. She blinked once. Twice. “Wow.”
“My client is impressed with your work.” Mr. Mecum had a unique accent, but Sarah couldn’t place it. It was not a southern drawl, but the way he emphasized the w in work hinted at New England. Boston, maybe?
“This is very generous.” A pan rattled in the kitchen, reminding Sarah that Sam was around if necessary. “Can I give you a tour of the place? The ladies aren’t all up yet, but I could show you the library and the kitchen.”
Interest sparked in his gaze. “I would like that.”
Sarah led Mr. Mecum down the center hallway, digging through her memory files for her canned presentation. She had done over a hundred in the last year, but none of those donors had come close to one hundred grand. “I founded the facility five years ago. We serve women who have worked on the streets or who are addicted to drugs and alcohol. Usually, the two go hand in hand.”
“How many women have you helped in the last five years?”
“Over one hundred.” Pride came before the fall, but this next statistic always made her stand a little taller. “We have a seventy percent success rate.”
“Enviable numbers.”
“Yes, they are.” Sarah led him into the library and switched on the light. “We put an emphasis on education, vocation, and prayer. This is a multipurpose room where everything happens, including Sunday supper, mass, Bible study, and math lessons, to name a few. I’m working on a brochure for the Mission, but it’s still a draft on my computer right now.”
Mr. Mecum’s gaze sharpened as he walked to a collection of lotions the ladies had made. “Very nice.”
“Let me show you the kitchen.”
“Of course.”
Down the hallway, they entered the industrial kitchen that had been donated by a restaurant undergoing a massive renovation. Sam stood behind the long stainless steel table and was cutting carrots. “Sam, this is Mr. Mecum. I’m giving him the grand tour.”
Sam chopped a large carrot in half. “Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
An alarm clock rang from one of the dorm rooms. The house was waking up, and soon the quiet would turn into controlled chaos.
As Sarah led Mr. Mecum back down the hallway, Sam’s chops echoed behind them. Sam was rough around the edges, naturally was suspicious of anyone new, but he had a heart of gold. “I’d like to acknowledge the donation with a proper thank-you letter.”
“My client wants to remain anonymous. Email a receipt to my address. I’ll forward it on to my client. She’ll need it for tax purposes. If she responds back, you can simply thank her in a return email.”
“Of course. I’ll do it this morning.” She would be at the bank when it opened. This kind of money would solve a lot of problems. “Bless you and our donor. And thank her for me.”
“I will.” Mr. Mecum paused at the door. “You have a very impressive operation.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Mecum watched as Sarah opened the locks on the front door. “I suppose down here security is a concern.”
“It’s a rough part of town, but with people like your donor, we’re making an impact.”
“What made you bring your ministry down here? Your bearing suggests money and education.”
She opened the door. “I picked the place with the greatest need.”
Mr. Mecum surveyed the asphalt parking lot and the run-down buildings beyond it. “Looks like you’ve come to the right place.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Mecum.”
His grip was strong and determined. “The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Beckett.”
Another quick nod and he strode toward a dark Mercedes parked in her lot. Sarah quickly looked over the vehicle to make sure the hubcaps and wheels had not been stripped. Down here, a car like that did not last long. Finding it intact, she said a prayer of thanks as she waved one last time and closed the door and locked it.
She dropped her gaze back to the check, making sure she had not read it wrong in her haste. “One hundred thousand dollars. Amazing.”
She saw the donation as a sign. Perhaps her fight against evil was not so hopeless.
Sam’s chopping grew louder. He had an opinion to share, and the sooner she heard it, the better.
She tucked the check in her pocket and returned to the kitchen. “What do you have to say?”
He dumped the carrots into a pot on the stove. “Big donation, right?”
She pulled out the check and handed it to Sam. “The biggest we’ve ever gotten.”
Sam whistled and handed it back. “That’s good.”
She reached for a mug in the cabinet and filled it with coffee. “We’ll both believe it when it clears the bank.”
Melina woke to the sound of a coffeepot gurgling and a shower running. For a second or two, she did not know where she was. It wasn’t her bed. It belonged to . . .
She closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her lids. Awkward.
Her dad used to say, “Don’t mix business with pleasure.”
It was not the first bit of good advice she had ignored.
She rose out of bed, glanced at the clock, and realized it was after seven. Tossing back the covers, she hunted around for her clothes. Most were easy to locate, but the panties remained MIA.