Laurie Alice Eakes
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.
—1 John 4:18
To Red, whose friendship encouraged me through this difficult year and helped keep me writing.
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Kristen Lang had to be mistaken. The same vehicle that had followed her from her office to the courthouse where she’d picked up her mother, the Honorable Julia Lang, could not be tailing her down the Eisenhower out of Chicago. The world was surely full of gunmetal-gray SUVs.
With her mother’s job, threats were not uncommon. For the past ten years of her life, Kristen had learned to be vigilant of anything out of the ordinary.
Seeing the same—or very similar—vehicle three times in one afternoon was out of the ordinary.
Kristen took one second to glance at her mother. “Is everything all right with you?”
“When is it not?” Mom’s voice sounded a little too bright.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mom. Maybe when someone threatened to blow up your car, or you had that stalker two years ago, or—”
“Why would you think anything is wrong now?”
“Because you’re not answering my question with anything but questions.” Kristen checked her rearview mirror.
The dark SUV loomed closer.
Beside her, Mom sighed. “I have no reason to think anything is wrong. I haven’t had any threatening phone calls or mail.”
“But?” Kristen squeezed the word past the tightening of her chest.
“Nothing that doesn’t make me sound like a silly old woman.”
Kristen laughed at that. “You are the last person I would call silly or old.”
“Thank you for protecting my ego.” Her mom patted Kristen’s hand on the steering wheel. “Now tell me what’s going on with you.”
Defeated for the moment, Kristen shrugged. “Everyone else left the office early for one reason or another, and I decided to finish up paperwork at home. You know I don’t like being there alone.”
“I don’t blame you. If you had an office in a better part of town, that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“We’re there to be closer to our clients.”
“If you had better clients, such as ones who pay—”
“Someone has to advocate for poor victims of crimes. And I get paid, Mom, you know that.”
“A tenth what you would make if you’d gone to law school.”
Kristen sighed over the age-old conversation. “I wouldn’t be doing as much good as I am now for those who can’t afford to pay to get help.”
The work she was certain God wanted her to do, but her mother didn’t want to hear that.
