Whatever Became of Sin E-Book

B. Roman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

On a flight to Washington D.C., environmental lobbyist Michael Warren's life begin to unravel.

Michael is on his way to testify before a Senate Committee, and destroy the plans for a housing development built on land tainted with the same toxic waste that killed his six-year-old daughter, Dominique.

But when a stranger hands Michael a cassette on the plane, everything changes. Sidetracked to New Orleans, he learns a disturbing truth and faces the most difficult decision of his life: either expose those responsible, or compromise to save a life.

Leseprobe

Whatever Became of Sin?

A Novel

B. Roman

Copyright (C) 2015 B. Roman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover Design byhttp://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Prologue

New Orleans, 2005

He waits apprehensively in the shadowy alcoves until the last parishioner leaves the church. Confident now that no one will see him, the man slips quickly through the weighty red velvet curtain of the confessional, lowers himself onto the padded, solid oak kneeling rack, and makes the ritualistic sign of the cross. All that separates him now from salvation – or is it damnation? – is a thin mesh screen between himself and the elderly parish priest.

The holy man offers a blessing in Latin then pauses to listen to yet one more confession.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four years since my last confession.” “What brings you here now, after all this time?” The old priest expects the same old mundane excuses that confessors always offer – “…I haven't had time… I've been afraid to come…didn't really know what to confess…” and is perfunctory in tone.

The confessor, on the other hand, feels beads of sweat form on his brow, and the nervous knot in his stomach tightens, threatening nausea.

“I don't know where to begin. It's so complicated… perhaps incomprehensible.”

“Just start at the beginning and tell me what troubles you.” The priest stifles a yawn.

“Everything is about to come crashing down around me and I can't let that happen. But I don't know if I can stop it. Or even if I should.”

Cryptic meanderings are not what the priest cares to hear right now and he exhales, on the edge of impatience. “Is it the shame of the sin that disturbs you, or the fear that it will be somehow revealed?”

“Would you think me cold if I said it is the revelation that terrifies me? Believe me, Father, I am not one for harboring guilt, though God knows I have every reason to. I'm here to find strength, and forgiveness, but I don't think even God could forgive what I've done.”

Hunger gnaws at the priest's gut and he silently beseeches the man to get on with it. This is the last confession of the afternoon and he still has to prepare his sermon for evening mass. “God forgives all,” he recites the mantra. “Please - tell me the nature of your sin.”

There is an audible taking in of breath and then a shaky exhalation as the man shores himself up to articulate his transgressions. After a painful pause, an obvious struggle with his conscience, he forces out the words, whispering lest someone else overhear, even though the sanctuary is deserted.

“They wanted me to kill her…but I wouldn't do it. I couldn't do it…”

The priest shifts his position to attention, and his tired voice reflects alertness. “…to kill? Who?”

“The baby girl. They wanted me to kill her. I couldn't bear to, so I hid her away, where no one would ever find her, where she would be safe.”

“You saved a child's life? What you did was a good thing, not an evil one.”

“No, you don't understand,” the man whispers fervently now. “In hiding her away I took an innocent child from her mother and father. I had no choice. I had to do it to save her.”

“You kidnapped a child? How could you get away with this? Weren't there people – authorities, the parents - searching for this child?”

“No. They never searched for her, Father. You see, they never even knew she was gone. We…I…replaced her at birth with another newborn, and the parents were none the wiser. Then, sadly, this child, the new child they believed was theirs, died tragically, leaving an unfillable void in their lives. I…”

“Wait! Wait! Another newborn? You stole a child from its parents and hid that one away, then gave a different child to these same, unsuspecting parents? You stole two babies from their natural parents and switched their identities?”

Even the priest who has heard it all expresses revulsion. He makes the sign of the Cross for his unpriestly feelings about this faceless man, wishing somehow he was identifiable through the blasted opaque screen.

“Yes. I stole them both, their identities and perhaps their souls as well. I didn't do it alone,” he replies, as though the involvement of others mitigated the crime.

The priest sighs deeply and probes deeper, hoping for a clue of some kind, something that would help him solve this mystery that the man clearly does not want solved.

“And what did you do with the other child?”

“Please don't ask me. I can't tell you, Father. Not just for my sake but for the child's. If the people involved discover she is still alive, they will kill her. I have no doubt about it.”

The priest broods a moment, not knowing which of a million questions to ask first. So he asks the first that comes to mind. “When? When did all of this happen?”

“Twelve years ago, Father.”

“Twelve years! Holy Mother of God,” he blurts out, then restrains himself. “Ahem… How…?”

There is a startling silence, and the man braces himself for the interrogation: How is this possible? How could you get away with such a deed? How could you even devise such a treacherous plot? And why? In heaven's name, why? But, surprisingly, the questions never come. If they were asked, how could he explain with any justification that he did it for her?

For Trina.

How could he describe Trina? Oh, sweet, delicious Trina. Her skin so flawless and white, creamy white like fresh, delectable whipped cream that you dip your fingers into and blissfully lick off. Velvety to the touch and to the tongue. Her smooth flesh inviting and welcoming his own flesh, fragrant with the smells of youth and innocence and lust all at once. From the moment he had laid eyes on her eyes, smiled in response to her smile, pressed his lips to her virginal, pouty lips, he knew he would be enslaved to her forever, body and soul, would love her and commit any sin for her, with her, because of her.

She is the reason he is here now, kneeling before God and God's earthly liaison, confessing the unpardonable, revealing the unspeakable. And yet, not all of it. Just bits and pieces of it to assuage his guilt in cowardly increments. For if he told all, even to this priest, it would be the end of him. Some of it - the worst of it - had to be kept secret a while longer.

“And now, after all these many years,” the Priest finally pronounces, trying to be nonjudgmental as priests are obliged to be, but finding it nearly impossible, “you confess to me, yet you seem to express little remorse. You offer no compelling excuse or explanation.”

“I'm more confused than remorseful, Father. For years, I believed what I did was right for all concerned. And now I know I was blind to my own selfish desires. It's crazy and complicated, I know. I'm ambiguous because I don't know just how much to tell you without revealing too much. I sense some impending doom. I face each day with a knot in my gut that tightens like a noose around my neck. Yet, I'm powerless to do anything, gutless to want to do anything, hoping maybe I'll walk away unscathed somehow. But that's utter fantasy. It will catch up to me. I only know I need your absolution before it's too late to ask for it.”

“In God's eyes, your sins are already absolved. In the eyes of the world, the only way to assuage your feelings of guilt is to confess to the parents, tell them where their real daughter is.”

The man shakes his head dismissing the suggestion. “Obviously, I haven't the courage, or the integrity to do that.”

“Then, tell me and I will tell them where the child is. You will remain anonymous, protected by the confessional.”

“No, no. It wouldn't be long before my involvement was discovered. If it is, then surely everything I've worked for all these years, every dream and ambition I have cultivated will be destroyed.”

“You said, 'they' wanted you to kill her. Who are these people who would ask you to do such an evil thing? What hold did they have over you?”

“People with enormous power, Father. Enormous power over people's lives.”

“There is only one power, my son. The power of God's Truth.”

“In an ideal world, perhaps, but not in the real world. In our world truth becomes a distortion, and the line between good and evil is blurred. Once this kind of power exerts its hold over you, there is no way to free yourself. No way at all.”

The priest anguishes as to why, oh why do people come in to confess only to partially confess, to hold back the full measure of their sin and torment? What's the point? How am I to give absolution for an incomplete repentance? He states the obvious, but doubts it will penetrate this man's disturbed psyche.

“Then may God have mercy on your tormented soul,” the priest prays solemnly, defeated.

“On all our souls, Father. On all of our souls.”

The holy man evokes a blessing designed to end the confessor's pain, praying that he will recognize and surrender to the loving grace of God, while the man rests his head on folded hands and recites a perfunctory Act of Contrition.

Outside the sanctuary, a dozen young boys and girls play happily in the school playground, unaware that in their midst is this mystery child. Save for the tormented confessor, no one - not the priest, the child or even the Mother Superior herself - knows that the beautiful little girl the Mother Superior so fondly supervises had been kidnapped and secretly hidden there, in Terrebonne Parish Orphanage, for the past twelve years.

One

Mercedes McCormick rests her bouffant-styled red head on the propped up pillow and pulls the flowery-patterned sheet up under her arms. “But why can't we travel together, Lyndie? At least on the same plane, even if it's in separate sections. Nobody knows us in San Francisco, or New Orleans for that matter.”

Senator Lynden Chiles, still slightly pie-eyed from a night of bottomless bourbon shooters, sits on the edge of the bed and shakes his head an emphatic no. “We can't chance it, Mercie. Besides, I need you to do somethin' for me, so we can't even be in the airport at the same time.”

“What is it this time?” she sighs.

He turns to her. “I need you to go to the gate and wait for the boarding call. The plane will be full and passengers will be asked to give up their seats. You give up yours.”

“Give up my seat? Why in hell would I do that?”

“Just listen. There will be a man there who will give you some money for doin' it. Then you high tail it out of the terminal as fast as you can and forget all about it.”

“What the hell's goin' on, Lyndie? And why the hell would some guy give me money? Is this the brush off, Lyndie? If so, it's pretty damn elaborate! Why not just say we're over.”

“No, no, Darlin'. It's nothin' like that,” Lynden tries to assure her, leaning in and giving her a nervous kiss. Then he grips her shoulders firmly. “I just need you to do this for me. It's vital that you do this!”

Mercedes sits up straight, seriously concerned. The more distraught Lynden becomes, the thicker his southern drawl comes out. She involuntarily mimics his speech patterns as well, an outcome of so many years of being together, of clandestine meetings and secrets shared about his political and personal life. What is it about these politicians? Mercedes ruminates. Always a scheme, always lying like a rug. No compunction about anything shady. Certainly no compunction about spinning the truth like a corkscrew.

But this time she senses something different, dangerous, and she carefully chooses her words and her tone. She touches Lynden's slightly bloated but still handsome face sweetly and coos to him in a manner that always gets him to level with her. “You in some kind of trouble, Sugar? You can tell me.”

Lynden rubs his forehead as if to rub the problem out of his mind. It doesn't work. This could be his waterloo if he can't get Mercedes to play ball, and if he dared tell her the truth he might as well put a gun to his head.

“Bigger than you can imagine, Mercie. Bigger than even I ever imagined. I need you to do this. I can't trust anyone else to do it. Please!”

Mercedes' radar of self protection triggers alarm bells as loud as Big Ben. “What's this really all about? Is someone tryin' to hurt you? I have a right to know. I could get hurt, too.”

“The less you know the better, and you won't get hurt. All I can say is it's about that land deal I told you about,” he tells her, dancing around the issue.

“The one the Senate is holdin' a hearin' on in a couple of days? That swamp land someone's tryin' to develop houses on?”

“Yes, but that's not all. I can't say any more, Mercie. Just do this for me? Please.”

He grits his teeth so hard Mercedes can hear them crack. She sighs deeply, apprehensive yet resigned to helping out the man to whom she owes a great deal of her livelihood. “Okay. I'll do it. But when it's over you'd damn well better tell me what's goin' on. Promise?”

“I promise. When it's all over.”

Two

It's a record-setting hot and muggy July morning in San Francisco, and the windows of the downtown office building where Michael Warren houses his law practice are propped open to the mid-morning ocean air. Even with a ceiling fan spinning vigorously overhead, the people in the room fan away their discomfort with whatever they can find to move the sultry air about.

They are a group of what Michael once termed “organic types,” anachronisms of the 60's dressed in Birkenstock shoes, granny dresses and Indian weave shirts. Michael is an obvious contrast in a smartly-tailored summer suit, sans jacket, and stylish suede moccasins. But, the twenty-something students are passionate, and Michael is confident he will recruit some dedicated activists from this orientation. He goads them masterfully.

“I can't believe you people still dress this way. If you want the movers and shakers of America to support your causes, you've got to look like them, talk like them. You've got to infiltrate their territory, their boutiques and their banks, their country clubs and their Rotary Clubs. You've got to get at them from the inside. Then, they'll think the change in consciousness has sprung from their own brilliant minds.

“Slowly but surely, it will be politically, socially, and morally correct, and, lest we forget, financially advantageous for them to do the right thing. Believe it or not, these self-serving rich bastards would rather let the whole earth shrivel and die unless there was a payoff in it for them. And status, my friends, is the biggest payoff of all.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Warren, but I seem to recall you were one of those self-serving, rich bastards yourself.” This from a hostile, bearded young man with a cynical smirk. There is sparse, embarrassed laughter among the group.

Michael smiles with them, having heard this accusation more than once before, and with less political correctness. “Don't judge a man by the company he used to keep. My point is, you don't have to be like them, just let them think you are.”

“Why should we be phony like them, or vain and pretentious about our looks like they are?” the hostile one presses on. “We have a mission far more socially important.”

A young woman, tired from sitting and wet with perspiration, stretches her arms up and back to reveal an unshaved armpit.

Michael hammers back. “Believe it or not, you can be socially conscious and still take a bath. People today are turned off by the great unwashed. Nobody's asking you to dress like a Vogue model, but we have to change the image of the activist movement if we are to transcend class boundaries, close the generation gap and bring the majority over to our side. Déclassé and eco-terrorism are out. Finesse is in.”

He holds up a sheet of paper. “Sign up, if you're inclined to follow our lead; leave now, no questions asked, if you're not. We meet every week, same time for briefings. Hope to see you hop on board.”

A scattering of applause follows Michael as he exits the meeting room and hurries next door to his office. Hastily he stuffs a stack of reports in his briefcase and snaps it shut.

Michael's colleague, Al Jergens, glances nervously at his watch. “What time does your plane leave, Mike?”

“About five minutes ago.” Michael slips his jacket on, despite the muggy air.

“You're scheduled to testify at 9am tomorrow,” Jergens reminds him for the tenth time that day. “You can't miss this plane.”

“Stop worrying. I'll make it. I'm taking the Red Eye to D.C. from New Orleans.”

Jergens is right on Michael's tail as he rushes toward the elevator. “New Orleans! Why the hell are you stopping there? Get a direct flight to D.C. And get a good night's sleep for a change. I need you totally focused for that Senate hearing.”

“I'll be running on fire and brimstone, my favorite fuel.” Michael steps into the elevator.

“For God's sake, be on time,” Jergens admonishes him as the doors close. “Call me! Shit.” The phone rings insistently and Jergens hurries back to the office, his lithe athletic movements getting him there just before the last ring. He slams the door and a small crack in the glass snakes its way up a bit farther on the pane that displays the company logo:

Michael Warren & Associates

Attorneys At Law

Environmental Lobbyists.

* * *

Michael stands impatiently in the airport check-in line, behind a very obnoxious woman who interrogates the ever-patient ticket agent.

“I'd like to know what kind of cargo you're carrying. Any drugs, chemicals, or explosives?” she demands with tight, thin lips.

“I'm sorry, I can't give out that kind of information,” the ticket agent replies. Ever since 9/11 everybody's a CIA agent, she muses.

Now more indignant, the woman-from-Hell draws herself up to her full six feet. “Young lady, may I remind you of the Passenger Freedom of Information Act?”

The ticket agent rolls her almond-shaped eyes. “I never heard of it, but…”

“I'd like to know if you have any of the following on this flight: foreign or American diplomats, Arabs or Israeli's, Iranians…”

Unable to restrain himself, Michael whispers to her, “A member of the President's security team is seated in first class, with an emissary for the Saudi Royal family.”

In a huff, the woman grabs her ticket from the agent and strides off, no doubt to complain to the president of the airline. Michael moves up in line, and he and the ticket agent burst out laughing simultaneously.

In the locker area across from the boarding gate, Gerhardt Schmidt, a stocky, stern-looking man with a buzz haircut, opens his locker and removes an audiocassette tape. For a split second, Schmidt studies the title on the cassette: “Revelation No. 1,” then places it strategically in his carry-on bag and closes the locker door.

Michael's reservation is not, for some incomprehensible reason, in the computer. “I'm sorry, Mr. Warren,” the ticket agent says. “It looks like all seats are booked on this flight. In fact, it looks like we overbooked. There's another flight at 8pm.”

“That's too late. I've got to get on this flight.” Michael leans in to whisper something in the ticket agent's ear so the other passengers in line could not overhear.

Sympathetic, the young woman ponders a moment. “Oh, I see – well, let me try something.” She clicks on the microphone to the loud speaker. “May I have your attention please. All passengers on flight 1632 to New Orleans. We have an emergency request for a seat assignment. If anyone is willing to give up his or her seat, the airline will give you $500 in vouchers or first class accommodations on the 8pm flight. Thank you.”

“Let's wait and see what happens,” the agent encourages Michael.

Almost instantly, a woman dressed in what could best be described as Tijuana Technicolor meets flea market tacky, rushes up to the ticket counter.

“That's a deal!” she chimes, as though Monty Hall himself had made the offer. “I'll give you my seat.” She thrusts her ticket at the agent who is as dumbfounded at the speedy results as Michael, who stammers his appreciation.

Eyeing Michael's 40-ish good looks and fit physique, Technicolor Tacky Lady replies flirtatiously, “No problem, Honey. Hey, maybe we should both dump this flight and kill some time together.”

“Uh - well, another time, another place. Maybe.”

The ticket agent hands Michael his boarding pass. “You're all set, Mr. Warren. Your seat is 7F. Oh, what a coincidence. That's the same seat on your Red Eye to D.C. tonight.”

“Maybe it's an omen,” Michael suggests.

Michael's contentment lasts only for the moment, disturbed by an unexpected phone call received by the ticket agent.

“Yes, we're just about ready to roll. What delay? Okay, I'll handle it.” Unfazed, the agent clicks on the microphone again. “May I have your attention, please. All passengers on flight 1632 to New Orleans. There will be a slight delay while we finish servicing the plane. Seems someone forgot the dinner trays. Should only take about 20 minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Damn.”

Michael finds a seat and flops in it. He starts to light a cigarette, but when the man seated next to him begins coughing his lungs out Michael changes his mind and throws the cigarette away. Taking a second glance at the man's gray face and nicotine stained hands Michael tosses the entire pack away.

Standing by the locker area out of Michael's view, Technicolor Tacky Lady – who in actuality is Mercedes McCormick – purses her lips happily as Gerhard Schmidt hands her five one hundred-dollar bills. “Ooh! This sure is my lucky day. Who is this guy anyway?”

“Now you just forget all about this little transaction, hear?” Schmidt chides her in a silky drawl that belies his gruff appearance.

Mercedes' eyes twinkle mischievously. “What transaction, honey?” She stuffs the bills into her purse and sashays away, unaware that her prearranged meeting with Gerhard Schmidt is only a prelude to the intrigue that awaits her as a major player in Michael Warren's life.

Three

On board the 757 that will soon transport Michael to New Orleans, the attendants are readying the plane for flight. A service worker moves decisively up the aisle placing a complimentary set of head phones in each of the seat pockets. He stops at seat 7F and pulls off one of the ear pads, places a small device inside, replaces the pad, reseals the packet, then tucks the head phones in the seat pocket.

The service worker, a young Cajun named Paulie Dupree, knew exactly who would be sitting in seat 7F, if Gerhardt Schmidt was as good as he said he was. The passenger manifesto had been easily hacked into and Schmidt had a plan to put Michael Warren in that seat, right next to him. For Schmidt, proximity to Michael would enable him to pass along the “smoking gun” that would disrupt Michael Warren's entire life, and then destroy the lives of the people who robbed Warren of the one thing he treasured above all else.

But Paulie Dupree didn't know what Schmidt was really up to, or why he was even on the same flight. It wasn't Schmidt who hired Dupree to rig the headset. He was just a liaison for the main man, whoever that was. Dupree had no idea who had hired him or why. But the money was good, and its source undetectable. Paulie Dupree didn't care what part Schmidt did or didn't play in the entire scenario, nor did he ever suspect that the man would make a fateful decision that would cost him his life.

Michael crumbles up the food wrappers from his vending machine snacks and tosses them in the trash when he hears his name being paged on the loud speaker. He picks up the nearest courtesy phone. “Al? My cell? Guess it's buried in my overnighter. No, the flight was delayed a few minutes. What's up?”

“I just got a very strange call, Mike,” Jergens says. “Some informant wants to give you some valuable information before tomorrow's hearing.”

“What informant? What kind of information?”

“I don't know, but he says it will blow the lid right off the case, in our favor. He'll be on your flight to New Orleans, oddly enough. Expect a stranger to become friendly with you. He'll talk about the travesty of the Indians.”

Michael snorts derisively. “What Indians? The Cleveland Indians, for Christ sake?”

“Cute,” Jergens retorts. “I don't know what tribe. But I doubt too many people will start a conversation about what the white man did to the red man.”

“I gotta go, Al,” Michael says, hearing the boarding announcement. “I'll call you when I land, if I meet the Indian man.”

Michael shrugs off the conversation, believing Jergens has fallen prey to some crank caller. He is used to them. They have hounded him constantly, ever since he started lobbying for the environment instead of for big industry. Ever since Paradise Springs.

Michael hadn't been to New Orleans since then. He had to escape all the memories, the nightmares, and so he moved to San Francisco. He threw himself into activism, hoping to assuage the guilt he felt for what had happened to all the people, especially the children, who had lived – and died - in Paradise Springs. He became a one-man “green machine,” as they dubbed him - ready, willing, and able to expose the violations big business committed against the air, land, and water regulations on residential developments.

Now, as he heads back to his previous city of residence, he recalls the first day he and his family moved to their new home…

It was a crisp spring day six years ago when the moving van rolled into the picturesque new housing development, a sprawling array of upscale custom homes nestled in 538 acres of rolling hills, unspoiled woodlands and meadows carpeted with pink, red, violet, and yellow flowers. The quality of life was enriched by a golf course designed so masterfully it was rated as “one of the best courses in America to tee up.” The sign at the entryway welcomed residents and visitors to “Paradise Springs – a Utopian Concept in Community Living.”

Michael's wife, Elaine Warren, a fastidious, high-strung Southern belle, directed the movers through the ornate double doors at the front of the luxurious home.

“Place the Remington on the mantel…for God's sake, be careful…it's very valuable. The grand piano goes in the library in front of the garden doors…no, no, not there…the love seat goes along the north wall by the fountain, the sofa belongs in front of the fireplace…”

Happy to leave the movers to Elaine, Michael strolled out the French doors to the garden veranda and perused the acreage surrounding his home, abundant with mature trees as well as newly planted, blossoming shrubbery. He breathed in the fresh air and nodded his head, satisfied, yet somehow uncertain about something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Like a wood sprite, his soon to be six-year-old daughter, Dominique, ran past Michael, followed by her frisky golden retriever puppy, Ralph. The sight of her, his darling daughter, filled him with bliss, leaving no room for uncertain feelings.

Dominique stepped adroitly across the cobblestones and rocks dotting the pond that sparkled in the sunlight just steps from the garden, while Ralph happily slopped in and out of the water chasing the birds and ducks that were still swifter than he was at this point. But in a thicket on the far side of the pond, where Michael and his daughter could not see, a few birds lay dead on top of a mud hole that gurgled with slimy, putrid liquid.

“Don't go too far, Dominique,” Michael called in his proudly paternal tone. Dominique?”

She ran back as breezily as she went, and reassured him. “I'm here, Daddy.”

Soggy wet, Ralph came running up and jumped up toward Michael, but his outstretched hand held the pup back from soiling his clean, pale blue trousers. Dominique giggled joyously.

“Ralph, you crazy mutt,” Michael admonished the puppy affectionately. “Get down. God, don't go into the house like that. Elaine will kill both of us.”

He tethered Ralph's leash to the leg of the sturdy wood table he had built himself, and folded Dominique's hand in his. “Come on inside, sweetheart. Daddy has to go back to work. You be a good girl and help Mommy unpack.”

“I will, Daddy. I love our new house. I want to live here for the rest of my life.”

“Me, too, sweetie. Me, too.”

Annoyed at him, which was her usual mood these days, Elaine complained, “Must you go back to the office today.”

Michael glanced at Elaine and for an instant time was suspended. Before him stood a still-elegant woman, but the once-soft lips were now taut with scorn, and the lyrical, soothing voice was now shrill with anguish and nervousness. When did she change? And why?

“I must,” Michael said shortly.

“Well, please be home for dinner. There's not a soul around here except us.”