Seven
Ben didn’t sleep well that night. But, for the first time in almost five years, it wasn’t because nightmares about the shooting ravaged his slumbers. Instead of guilt and despair, anger churned his blood. Rather than return to the couch downstairs, Ben had climbed into the spare bed, as if his presence in the room would shield Luke from his nightmares. As he alternately stared out the window at the starlit night and watched the steady, peaceful rise and fall of Luke’s chest as the boy slept, Ben tried to comprehend what he’d learned about John McKindel. The distorted, nightmarish blur that was his memory of the night of the shooting had suddenly popped clear as if the fog, which had allowed him to see only glimpses in any clarity, had vanished on a storm gale. He hadn’t realized jus
