in the man’s face. “And you knew before you came here what my reaction would be. Either I do my job the way that I see best, or you give this assignment to someone else.”
Sid lurched up and grabbed Addison’s hand. Their eyes locked. “You’re walking on thin ice, son. I don’t like it.”
“Fine,” Addison said. “Then let up. Let me do my job. If you can’t do that, maybe I don’t belong with the NTSB anymore.”
“How can you say that?” Sid’s question was an astonished whisper. “How dare you say that? After your wife—my little girl—died in one of those planes. How dare you act as if your responsibility was a chore? It’s a privilege and an obligation! You used to see it that way!”
“I used to see a lot of things differently,” Addison confessed. “When you promoted me to this position, I went into it with a fever, ready to change the world. I was angry and driven, just like you were. But that was a year and a half ago, Sid.”
“She was your wife! Can you forget that easily?” Sid shouted.
“No, I can’t forget!” Addison returned. “But I can stop being ready to convict the world over it. I can stop seeing every crash as a way to get retribution! I can show a little compassion now, and as God is my witness, I’m going to do it.”
Electric silence enveloped them as they stood locked in each other’s angry gaze.
Finally, Sid set his lips and spoke in a frosty voice. “You have to interview that family sooner or later, whether you like it or not, Addison. I suggest you do it sooner.”
“I’ll do it when I’m good and ready,” Addison said. “But if I had my way, I wouldn’t do it at all.”
Sid lifted his chin with the sternness of an executioner and started for the door. Addison watched him open it, then linger in the threshold. Slowly Sid turned back, his expression unreadable, as though he might be about to beseech—or to threaten. “Don’t push me, son,” he finally said. “You’re the best field investigator we’ve got. But if you throw that away, not even I can protect you.”
“When I want your protection,” Addison said, “I’ll ask for it.”
The door slammed, echoing through the small apartment, and jolting Addison as a guilty mixture of pain and resentment blended in his heart.
Chapter Six
T he youth center contained its usual sounds of young voices striving to rise above the din, music blaring a bit too loudly on contrasting stations of rock and rap, the echo of basketballs bouncing and sinking.
Clint Jessup, who helped run the center, in addition to being youth director at Erin’s church, greeted her with an armload of basketballs. “Erin, what are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Just had some spare time and thought I’d work on the mural,” she said.
She could see from the look on his face that he had heard the rumors. “Wanna talk?” he asked.
She tried to smile. “Not really.”
“I did take a few counseling courses at seminary, you know.”
Counseling. She remembered her promise to Frank to get counseling, but something—pride? stubbornness?—stopped her. “I’m okay, Clint. Really.”
“Well, Sherry’s in the art room doing ceramics with the girls,” he said, referring to his new wife, Madeline’s former roommate. “If you’d rather talk to her…”
“Clint, please,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” He reached the supply closet and managed to get the door open, then let the balls fall in. “You know where we are if you need us.”
Erin watched him disappear into the gym, then she set her paint cans down in the hall, next to the mural she and the kids had been working on. The project had been her idea a year ago when the center was first built, and the freshly painted walls had soon become covered with obscene graffiti. If the kids wanted to paint the walls, she thought, she’d give them something worthwhile to paint. Maybe they’d take more pride in facilities that bore
Sid lurched up and grabbed Addison’s hand. Their eyes locked. “You’re walking on thin ice, son. I don’t like it.”
“Fine,” Addison said. “Then let up. Let me do my job. If you can’t do that, maybe I don’t belong with the NTSB anymore.”
“How can you say that?” Sid’s question was an astonished whisper. “How dare you say that? After your wife—my little girl—died in one of those planes. How dare you act as if your responsibility was a chore? It’s a privilege and an obligation! You used to see it that way!”
“I used to see a lot of things differently,” Addison confessed. “When you promoted me to this position, I went into it with a fever, ready to change the world. I was angry and driven, just like you were. But that was a year and a half ago, Sid.”
“She was your wife! Can you forget that easily?” Sid shouted.
“No, I can’t forget!” Addison returned. “But I can stop being ready to convict the world over it. I can stop seeing every crash as a way to get retribution! I can show a little compassion now, and as God is my witness, I’m going to do it.”
Electric silence enveloped them as they stood locked in each other’s angry gaze.
Finally, Sid set his lips and spoke in a frosty voice. “You have to interview that family sooner or later, whether you like it or not, Addison. I suggest you do it sooner.”
“I’ll do it when I’m good and ready,” Addison said. “But if I had my way, I wouldn’t do it at all.”
Sid lifted his chin with the sternness of an executioner and started for the door. Addison watched him open it, then linger in the threshold. Slowly Sid turned back, his expression unreadable, as though he might be about to beseech—or to threaten. “Don’t push me, son,” he finally said. “You’re the best field investigator we’ve got. But if you throw that away, not even I can protect you.”
“When I want your protection,” Addison said, “I’ll ask for it.”
The door slammed, echoing through the small apartment, and jolting Addison as a guilty mixture of pain and resentment blended in his heart.
Chapter Six
T he youth center contained its usual sounds of young voices striving to rise above the din, music blaring a bit too loudly on contrasting stations of rock and rap, the echo of basketballs bouncing and sinking.
Clint Jessup, who helped run the center, in addition to being youth director at Erin’s church, greeted her with an armload of basketballs. “Erin, what are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Just had some spare time and thought I’d work on the mural,” she said.
She could see from the look on his face that he had heard the rumors. “Wanna talk?” he asked.
She tried to smile. “Not really.”
“I did take a few counseling courses at seminary, you know.”
Counseling. She remembered her promise to Frank to get counseling, but something—pride? stubbornness?—stopped her. “I’m okay, Clint. Really.”
“Well, Sherry’s in the art room doing ceramics with the girls,” he said, referring to his new wife, Madeline’s former roommate. “If you’d rather talk to her…”
“Clint, please,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” He reached the supply closet and managed to get the door open, then let the balls fall in. “You know where we are if you need us.”
Erin watched him disappear into the gym, then she set her paint cans down in the hall, next to the mural she and the kids had been working on. The project had been her idea a year ago when the center was first built, and the freshly painted walls had soon become covered with obscene graffiti. If the kids wanted to paint the walls, she thought, she’d give them something worthwhile to paint. Maybe they’d take more pride in facilities that bore
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