want to have to worry about you and what youâre doing. Please?â Monet begged.
Marcus nodded, although he knew he wasnât being truthful. There were some things a man had to do for his wife, and protection was high on his list. How dare someone attack his wife, and he was a policeman. I donât think so, Marcus thought.
âMarcus Caldwell, I want you to promise me that you wonât actively take a role in the investigation,â Monet said firmly. Her eyes bore holes into her husbandâs.
âMonet, I canât promise that. I would be less than a man if I did. I will just offer my input to the team and nothing else. Can you accept that?â He brushed a curl away from Monetâs face.
She nodded her head. âI guess that will do for now. Weâll talk about this later. You know Reverend Wilcox is right. Even in the midst of heartache, we can still thank the Lord that I wasnât killed. Letâs take comfort from that.â
âOh, Iâm grateful, Monet, from the bottom of my heart.â Marcus put his hand over his chest.
The nurse returned to the room with a fresh ice pack for Monet to put on her face. Then she handed Marcus a menu. âIâll come back later to get it,â she said, before departing the room.
Monet held the bag to her face for a while, then put it on the table next to her bed. She lay down and drifted off to sleep. Marcus stood up and pulled the sheet up around the upper part of her body. He kissed her forehead, sat down, picked up the remote for the television, and remained by his wifeâs side until he, too, fell asleep.
Chapter 6
A few months after the attack, Monet was home still recuperating. The memory of the attack was fresh in her mind, and she was still somewhat fearful about returning to the scene of the crime. Marcus suggested she take a leave of absence from work, and Monet followed his advice. She would be off work for sixty days.
The police hadnât had any luck in finding Monetâs attacker. Wade and Smitty vowed the case would remain active until the crime was solved. Several officers volunteered their free time to help in the search. Even though a reward was offered, the few leads the team received hadnât panned out.
Monet sat at the kitchen table, stirring a cup of decaffeinated coffee with a splash of milk. She hummed along with Mary Mary, one of Monetâs favorite gospel groups, as they sang âYesterday.â The song had become her mantra.
Suddenly she jumped up from her seat and ran to the powder room near the back of the house by the den. Her stomach had been squeamish for some time now. She suffered a bout of dry heaves and returned to the kitchen. Iâll have to remember to mention how lousy Iâve been feeling to Dr. Washington. Itâs probably just nerves, she absently thought.
Of all the rooms in the house, the kitchen was Monetâs pride and joy. She and Marcus had it remodeled two years ago. The large room boasted a blond wooden table framed by six chairs that sat in a breakfast nook. She loved to cook, so the couple had installed an island, complete with copper pots and pans hanging over it. The appliances were bone colored. The kitchen was a cozy room, the heart of the house.
Monet rinsed her cup and put it inside the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs to dress for her doctorâs appointment. She was grateful that she would see Dr. Washington at her office in Hyde Park instead of the hospital.
She walked inside the closet and removed a pair of stonewashed jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. Monet went into the bathroom, showered, and then dressed. She sat down at her vanity and finger combed her corkscrew, naturally curly hair. Her facial swelling had subsided, but her face still bore faint traces of black and blue marks. She put a little eye shadow on the lids above her hazel colored eyes. She grabbed her purse and started down the stairs.
Before she went inside the
Marcus nodded, although he knew he wasnât being truthful. There were some things a man had to do for his wife, and protection was high on his list. How dare someone attack his wife, and he was a policeman. I donât think so, Marcus thought.
âMarcus Caldwell, I want you to promise me that you wonât actively take a role in the investigation,â Monet said firmly. Her eyes bore holes into her husbandâs.
âMonet, I canât promise that. I would be less than a man if I did. I will just offer my input to the team and nothing else. Can you accept that?â He brushed a curl away from Monetâs face.
She nodded her head. âI guess that will do for now. Weâll talk about this later. You know Reverend Wilcox is right. Even in the midst of heartache, we can still thank the Lord that I wasnât killed. Letâs take comfort from that.â
âOh, Iâm grateful, Monet, from the bottom of my heart.â Marcus put his hand over his chest.
The nurse returned to the room with a fresh ice pack for Monet to put on her face. Then she handed Marcus a menu. âIâll come back later to get it,â she said, before departing the room.
Monet held the bag to her face for a while, then put it on the table next to her bed. She lay down and drifted off to sleep. Marcus stood up and pulled the sheet up around the upper part of her body. He kissed her forehead, sat down, picked up the remote for the television, and remained by his wifeâs side until he, too, fell asleep.
Chapter 6
A few months after the attack, Monet was home still recuperating. The memory of the attack was fresh in her mind, and she was still somewhat fearful about returning to the scene of the crime. Marcus suggested she take a leave of absence from work, and Monet followed his advice. She would be off work for sixty days.
The police hadnât had any luck in finding Monetâs attacker. Wade and Smitty vowed the case would remain active until the crime was solved. Several officers volunteered their free time to help in the search. Even though a reward was offered, the few leads the team received hadnât panned out.
Monet sat at the kitchen table, stirring a cup of decaffeinated coffee with a splash of milk. She hummed along with Mary Mary, one of Monetâs favorite gospel groups, as they sang âYesterday.â The song had become her mantra.
Suddenly she jumped up from her seat and ran to the powder room near the back of the house by the den. Her stomach had been squeamish for some time now. She suffered a bout of dry heaves and returned to the kitchen. Iâll have to remember to mention how lousy Iâve been feeling to Dr. Washington. Itâs probably just nerves, she absently thought.
Of all the rooms in the house, the kitchen was Monetâs pride and joy. She and Marcus had it remodeled two years ago. The large room boasted a blond wooden table framed by six chairs that sat in a breakfast nook. She loved to cook, so the couple had installed an island, complete with copper pots and pans hanging over it. The appliances were bone colored. The kitchen was a cozy room, the heart of the house.
Monet rinsed her cup and put it inside the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs to dress for her doctorâs appointment. She was grateful that she would see Dr. Washington at her office in Hyde Park instead of the hospital.
She walked inside the closet and removed a pair of stonewashed jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. Monet went into the bathroom, showered, and then dressed. She sat down at her vanity and finger combed her corkscrew, naturally curly hair. Her facial swelling had subsided, but her face still bore faint traces of black and blue marks. She put a little eye shadow on the lids above her hazel colored eyes. She grabbed her purse and started down the stairs.
Before she went inside the
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