road, and I have been reminded of how short life is. More than that, I have been reminded that bad things often happen to good people. None of us are exempt from heartache and none of us are immune to doubts and struggles. He is here, though. In the darkest times and in the brightest ones. If you doubt it, look at the moonlight dancing on an ocean wave, watch the goldfinches flit from branch to branch and listen for the sound of His love whispering through the leaves of the tallest oak tree. You will find Him there.
In the FBI: Special Crimes Unit series, I explore the darker side of human nature. The men and women who work for this elite team each have unique backstories and traumas that have made them determined to protect the most vulnerable citizens. Like us, they sometimes wonder if God dwells in the toughest places. I hope you’ll journey with them as they find their answers and learn the truth of His extraordinary grace and love.
Blessings to you, my friend.
Shirlee McCoy
When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.
—Isaiah 43:2
To you: the reader who has followed me from Lakeview, Virginia, to Whisper Lake, Maine. May you find joy in every sunrise and peace in every circumstance, and may the fullness of His love and mercy sustain you through every heartache.
Contents
Charlotte Murray hated the lake.
She hated the blue-green water that gleamed like black ink in the moonlight, the quiet lap of waves against the shore, the whisper of damp air rustling through the tall reeds that bordered her yard. She hated it, but she couldn’t make herself leave.
Six years after her four-year-old son, Daniel, had wandered outside and drowned, five and a half years after her husband, Adam, left, five years after the divorce was finalized, and here she sat, the old swing creaking as she rocked in the early-morning darkness. How many sleepless nights had she spent staring out at Whisper Lake, wondering what she could have done to change things?
Too many.
Her friends said she needed to move on. Her therapist had encouraged her to rent out the cottage, move into town and create a new life for herself. One not defined by the tragedy of losing her son. It’s time to join the living again, he’d said as if there were some limit to grief and some timeline for recovery that she should be following.
She hadn’t been back to see him since.
Grief eased. It didn’t go away. Not even as time passed or environments changed.
“Besides,” she murmured, “I’ve got a job, friends, volunteer work. It’s not like I spend all of my time staring at the lake and dwelling on what I can’t change.”
Clover whined and dropped his boxy head on her knee, the added weight stopping the swaying motion of the swing. At seventy pounds, the poodle mix was double the size the county animal shelter had said he would be. Charlotte didn’t mind. He filled up more of the house, took up a little of the extra space that had been left when Daniel died and Adam walked out.
She scratched behind Clover’s floppy ears, kissed his velvety muzzle. “Ready to go inside?”
He was on his feet before she finished speaking, trotting to the back door, doing his goofy little poodle prance. She’d chosen him out of desperation, wanting something to keep the silence from smothering her. Before Daniel’s death, she and Adam had talked about getting a therapy dog, one that would bond with their son and maybe enter his solitary world. They’d planned it as a Christmas surprise.
Daniel had died in the summer. She didn’t
