DAVIES

Meddler

“Do not be overly righteous, neither be overly wise…why destroy yourself.” That’s what Ecclesiastes 7:16 reads.

The Book of Ecclesiastes fully elaborates the essence of times and seasons. For instance, “A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build.” …which has been my mantra for all these years.

I’ve always admired this book. It doesn’t pretend the world is fair. It doesn’t beg you to be good. It simply observes. Calculates. Records outcomes. Vanity. Cycles. Inevitability. It reads less like scripture and more like a ledger.

Overly righteous men are dangerous. They interfere. They ask questions that have already been answered by results. They cling to rules even after the numbers stop making sense. I’ve seen them destroy families, institutions, and entire cities…all in the name of goodness.

This makes me despise my father.

Even though we never met, the stories of his goodness, his patience, his lawful obedience, his gentle faith—have always made me nauseous. Men speak of him the way they speak of saints, as if restraint were courage and sacrifice, were wisdom.

He gave away nearly two million dollars every year. Church money. God’s money. Orphanages. Charities. Smiling photographs and tax receipts framed like trophies. He left nothing for himself. No contingency. No margin for error.

Uncle Mike says the greatest lesson he learned from my father was, “Don’t touch God’s money.”

What he meant was: don’t think. Don’t calculate. Don’t adapt.

My father believed righteousness was protection. That obedience functioned like armor. That if he followed the rules closely enough, the outcome would take care of itself.

It didn’t.

Cancer doesn’t respect generosity. Death doesn’t pause to admire discipline. The body is not impressed by faith…it responds only to conditions.

Ecclesiastes understood that. It warned against excess virtue the same way it warned against excess wisdom. Not because goodness is wrong…but because blindness is expensive.

My father wasn’t evil.

He was inefficient.

Too righteous to protect himself. Too lawful to intervene. Too obedient to correct what was already decaying.

And the cost of that righteousness was his life.

The same way Seargent Asare is going to cost his own if he doesn’t leave me alone. He’s refused to leave the Tony case alone. Visited my home twice and the school once this week. I knew it by the way he stood when I opened the door the second time. Not uncertain. Not apologetic. Centered. Arms crossed like a superhero ready to save the day. A man who had already decided this was worth his time.

Righteous men always do that.

They commit before they confirm.

He asked about my mother first. Always a polite entry point. Concern worn like a badge.

“How is she doing, Doctor Davies?”

Not Wycliffe. Not Mr. Davies.

Doctor. Respectful. Careful. As if courtesy were insulation.

I took a deep breath out, I paused, bowed my head and gave him tears firsthand…I knew he already knew about her death. Why he asked, I don’t know. “She’s gone” I said. My tears in particular were surprising. I don’t ever recall shedding them in the past.

The words came out broken, uneven. I let my shoulders dip. Let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. Grief, when performed correctly, always requires timing.

I felt his posture change. Arms uncrossing. Weight shifting forward. The righteous are helpless in the presence of suffering. It gives them purpose.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

That was genuine. I could hear it in the way his breath softened, the way his voice lost its edge. He believed me. Or rather, he wanted to.

I bowed my head further, hands trembling just enough to sell it.

“She drowned,” I said.

He stiffened.

“In her bath. The nanny forgot to turn off the tap.”

I let the explanation sit there, incomplete. Tragedy doesn’t need details. Details invite questions. He didn’t ask any. His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped for a fraction of a second—the reflexive prayer of a man who believes misfortune must mean something.

“That’s… terrible,” he said.

It was the wrong word. But it was the correct response.

“Yes,” I agreed.

And meant it.

After that, everything else became easier.

He spoke more softly. Asked fewer questions. When Tony’s name surfaced, it did so gently wrapped in concern, padded with sympathy.

Righteous men always soften after tragedy. They mistake vulnerability for innocence.

He left soon after. Offered condolences again. Promised not to intrude further for now.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared down the walkway before straightening.

The ledger balanced.

My father believed righteousness would protect him.

Sergeant Asare believes the same thing.

Ecclesiastes warned men like them.

There is a time to observe.

And a time to intervene.