Introduction

Sometimes small towns hold the biggest secrets.

Ambitious young attorney Tom Crane is about to become a partner in a high-profile Atlanta law firm. But first he must clear one final matter from his docket—the closing of his deceased father's law practice in his hometown of Bethel, Georgia. Killed in a mysterious boating accident, John Crane didn't appear to leave his son anything except the hassle of wrapping up loose ends.

But instead of celebrating his promotion, Tom finds himself packing up his office, having suddenly been "consolidated." To add insult to injury, that same night his girlfriend breaks up with him . . . by letter.

Returning to Bethel with no sense of his future and no faith to fall back on, Tom just wants to settle his father's final affairs and get back to Atlanta. But then he runs into an unexpected roadblock—two million dollars of unclaimed money stashed in a secret bank account. And evidence that his father's death may not have been accidental. Worse still, a trail of data suggests his father played a role in an international fraud operation.

Tom follows the money into a tangled web of lies, theft, and betrayal. Along the way, he meets a woman who is as beguiling as she is beautiful. And her interest in the outcome of the case is just as high as his. She challenges Tom's assumptions . . . and his faith. Now he has to decide who he can trust—and how far a father's love can reach.

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Excerpt

chapter

ONE




Chiseled deep into the rock face of Stone Mountain, Georgia,

is a football field­sized carving of Jefferson Davis, Robert

E. Lee, and Stonewall Jackson. Young Atlanta lawyer Tom

Crane was on the brink of a promotion as important to him as Lee's

selection as commander of the Army of Northern Virginia--litigation

partner at Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther.

The phone on Tom's desk buzzed. He picked it up.

"Arthur Pelham from Pelham Financial is on line 802," the

receptionist said. "Do you want to take the call?"

"Yes, put him through."

"Good afternoon, Tom."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pelham," Tom replied in his best profes-

sional voice.

"It's time you started calling me Arthur," the sixty-year-old

investment adviser replied. "I was Mr. Pelham when you and Rick

were playing on the same Little League baseball team in Bethel.

You've been earning a paycheck long enough to use my first name."

"I'm not sure I can do that," Tom answered, relaxing. "Would it

be okay if I called you Sir Arthur?"



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"As long as you stay away from King Arthur." The older man

laughed. "I heard too much of that when I was in grade school and

someone wanted to pick a fight with me. Listen, I know you must be

busy, but do you have a few minutes? It goes back to our conversation

at the cemetery after your father's funeral."

"Sure."

"We had a board meeting in New York yesterday, and I brought

up the possibility of hiring your law firm to handle some of our liti-

gation load. Most of our clients are happy with our services, but there

are always a few bad apples who get upset and file lawsuits for all the

crazy reasons you're familiar with."

Tom sat up straighter in his chair. Landing a client like Pelham

Financial with offices in New York, Boston, Los Angeles, and

Washington, DC, would be the most significant event of his legal

career. It would cement his rise to partnership status and give him

instant influence at the highest levels of the firm.

"That would be outstanding," Tom said, trying to contain his

excitement. "Would I be the primary contact person for your firm?"

"Yes, you're the man I trust. Lance Snyder, our general counsel,

wasn't at the meeting yesterday, and I want to get his input before

making a final decision. Until that happens and I get back to you, I'd

ask you to keep this conversation confidential."

"Of course."

"Excellent. I'll be in touch with you by the first of next week."

Arthur paused. "How are you doing personally?"

"Okay. I have to make a trip to Bethel soon to shut down my

father's practice. Bernice Lawson is contacting his clients, but there

are things only I can do. The trick is finding the time to work it into

my schedule."

"You're not too busy to take on more business, are you?"



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"No, no," Tom answered quickly. "And if I have the opportunity

to represent Pelham Financial, it will become my top priority."

"That's what I like to hear. Every client believes his files are the

most important matters on his lawyer's desk."

"With you, that will be true."

"Excellent. I hoped this would be a good time to bring this up

with you."

"Yes, sir. It couldn't be better."

The call ended. Stunned, Tom sat at his desk and gazed out the

window. Stone Mountain never came into focus. Future potential

always outshines faded glory.









The following morning Tom and Mark Nelson, another senior associ-

ate in the securities litigation group, were in a small conference room

down the hall from Tom's office. Spread before them were documents

delivered the previous evening from a regional stock brokerage firm

that had been sued by a small group of disgruntled investors who lost

several million dollars in a corporate bond fund.

"What are we missing?" the dark-haired Mark asked. "Each of

the plaintiffs signed comprehensive acknowledgment and disclo-

sure documents. They knew the risks before they invested a dime."

The two lawyers worked in silence for several minutes. Tom

laid out a complete set of the disclosure forms so that the signature

pages were side by side, then carefully inspected them.

"Take a look at this," Tom said to Mark. "The handwriting for

the signatures is similar, even though the names are different."

He slid the documents across the table to Mark, who held them

up in front of his face.



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"Maybe."

"Particularly the m, p, t, and w," Tom continued. "And one is

from a man, the other a woman."

"So?"

"Yet both are written in a feminine style."

Mark leaned over for a closer look. "The originating broker on

both accounts is a woman, Misty Kaiser. If you're claiming she forged

both signatures, it doesn't fit the gender and makes you a chauvinist."

"Unless Ms. Kaiser is like the girl you dated last year who took

you on a ten-mile hike and had to stop and wait for you to catch up

every fifteen minutes."

"It was every thirty minutes, and I've got the right girl now,"

Mark replied, tossing a crumpled piece of paper at Tom's head.

"Megan may not be as flashy as Clarice, but she's not texting me in

the middle of important meetings demanding that I pick up her dry

cleaning and stop for Chinese takeout on the way home."

"What about the signatures?" Tom persisted.

Mark shrugged. "I have to admit the handwriting is similar.

Should we get an expert to take a look at them?"

"Maybe. But first let's find out if Kaiser is still with the com-

pany. I don't want to bring up something this inflammatory based

on a random suspicion."

"I'll call Sam Robinson, the human resources director," Mark

said. "He'll also know whether there are complaints on file from any

of her other clients."

Tom looked at his watch. "Why don't we circle back this after-

noon? I have a meeting with McGraw in a few minutes."

Mark sat up straighter. "Are you going to talk to him about a

partnership?"

"That's for him to bring up, not me," Tom answered evenly.



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"You know McGraw. His agenda will be my agenda. I scheduled this

meeting to ask for time off so I can close down my father's practice

in Bethel."

"Okay, but just to let you know, I'm putting my name in for a

promotion," Mark said.

"I wouldn't expect anything else. I'm going to let them know I'm

interested too."

"What are you going to say if they ask us to critique each other?"

With the conversation with Arthur Pelham in his pocket, Tom

knew the time would soon be right to broach the partnership issue

with McGraw; however, he didn't want to hurt Mark.

"Becoming a partner isn't about cutting you down," Tom replied.

"I'm going to make my case, not criticize you."

Mark took a deep breath and sighed. "They've been watching

both of us for years. Nothing we say now is probably going to make

much difference. But you can imagine how stressed out I am. I've

been here almost eight years. If I don't make partner soon . . ."

Mark didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.









Tom stood in front of the gold-framed mirror in the hallway on the

thirty-sixth floor and straightened his tie. Six feet tall with broad

shoulders, wavy brown hair, and dark-brown eyes, he was wearing

the blue suit he usually reserved for court appearances. Reid McGraw

was an old-school lawyer who sneered at business-casual attire. If

Tom wanted to become a partner, he'd better start dressing like one.

The trip to the thirty-seventh floor was a journey to another

world. Tom's floor was a beehive of activity with lawyers and

support staff crammed into every available inch of space. Phone



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conversations spilled out from scores of cubicles. Humming copy

machines spit out reams of paper. People walked fast, talked fast, and

worked frantically because every tenth of an hour was billable time.

On the floor above them, the senior partners operated from spacious

offices with individual secretaries. Millions of dollars were discussed

as casually as thousands.

Tom passed the office formerly occupied by his boss, Brett

Bollinger. Tom liked Brett's cherry desk. When he moved to the

thirty-seventh floor, he'd keep it. The beige carpet, on the other

hand, would have to go. Something with a pattern would be nice.

Clarice had a good eye for decorating.

McGraw's office was a corner suite with its own reception area.

The senior partner's assistant was a very attractive young woman

about Tom's age. When she was hired, Tom thought about asking

her out; however, the risk was too great. If she didn't like him, it

might cause her to make a sour comment to McGraw. His future at

the firm couldn't be subject to the whim of a woman.

"Hey, Marie," Tom said when he entered the secretary's office.

"Is he available? I know I'm a minute or two early."

The dark-haired secretary removed her headset and leaned for-

ward with a glistening white smile.

"Go in. He's waiting for you. But don't run off when you're fin-

ished. I have a question for you."

"Sure," Tom said as he opened the door.

McGraw's desk was positioned where the exterior glass walls

came together. The balding, medium-built attorney was turned

sideways and staring at his computer screen. Through one glass

wall Tom could see the gold-plated dome of the state capitol.

"Come in," McGraw growled in his deep voice.

"Hello, Tom," another man said.



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Olson Crowther, the partner in charge of the corporate and real

estate division of the firm, was sitting in a leather wing chair to the

right of McGraw's desk. Crowther, a former JAG officer, sported a

high and tight haircut. He stood and shook Tom's hand. Seeing two

of the principal partners in the same room caused a rush of excite-

ment mixed with anxiety to wash over Tom.

"Have a seat," McGraw said, pointing to a leather side chair in

front of his desk. "We're waiting on Joe Barnes to join us on a confer-

ence call. He just got back from Spain and is working from home

today. Marie should have him on the line shortly."

"Okay," Tom said, his mouth dry.

McGraw turned his attention back to his computer.

"Sorry about your father," Crowther said. "Did you receive the

card I sent?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks."

"Did the police determine what happened?"

"No one knows for sure. They were fishing from a small boat on

a private pond. It wasn't more than fifteen feet deep."

"Life jackets?"

"No. The authorities think the boat capsized. My father was a

decent swimmer. Maybe he tried to help the other man and failed."

"Real shame," McGraw grunted.

Tom cleared his throat. "Speaking of my father, I need to spend a

week or so in Bethel shutting down his law practice. There isn't much

to it. After that's done, I can totally devote myself to my responsibilities

here. Now that Brett's gone, I'd like the opportunity to--"

Marie's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Barnes on line 803."

McGraw pushed a button. "Joe, are you there?"

"Yeah, but I'm still battling jet lag. The older I get, the harder

it is to bounce back from these overseas trips. And in two weeks



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I'm off again to New Zealand. Do you remember the river where

we caught those monster trout?"

"Yes."

"I'm set up with the same guide."

The fact that Joe Barnes, the founder of the firm, was on the

phone meant only one thing. Tom's hands began to sweat.

"Wish I were going with you," McGraw said. "Olson and I are

here with Tom Crane."

"Have you told him what happened with Crutchfield Financial?"

"No," McGraw answered.

Barnes spoke. "Tom, we've lost Crutchfield to King and Spalding."

Tom raised his eyebrows in surprise. Crutchfield Financial was

one of the firm's largest clients. Its senior management didn't hesitate

to file lawsuits to enforce their will and rarely settled claims until

the eve of trial. Tom racked his brain for any way the litigation group

might have contributed to losing the client. Nothing came to mind.

"Uh, that's too bad," he said.

"Aaron Crutchfield would have stayed with us," Barnes replied, "but

there's been a power shift on the board of directors since Aaron retired, and

the new chairman has strong connections with King and Spalding."

Tom licked his lips. "Are they going to pull all their litigation files?"

"Yes," McGraw answered. "Rumors have been flying for several

months. That's one reason Brett took the general counsel job with

Fairfield Group. As general counsel, he'll be able to keep Fairfield

from bolting."

It was the perfect time for Tom to drop his bombshell about the

call from Arthur Pelham. He clenched his teeth. Arthur's specific

instructions to keep quiet about hiring the firm kept the news bottled

up in Tom's throat.

"Our business from Linden Securities has been picking up," Tom



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said, bringing up a second-tier source of business. "Mark and I were

working on a major lawsuit this morning. That should take care of

some of the slack caused--"

"No, it won't," McGraw interrupted. "I talked with Bruce Cathay

in Macon yesterday. There's overt fraud in that case. It's going to be a

damage-control situation."

"Forged signatures on the disclosure documents?" Tom asked,

shocked that his suspicions might be true.

"You talked with him too." McGraw nodded. "They fired the

woman involved, and the insurance company on the fidelity bond is

going to assume responsibility for defense of the case. They'll have

their own counsel. The bottom line is we're going to have to make

another cut in my litigation group, and you're it."

Tom's mouth dropped open. "I'm being fired?"

"No, no," Barnes replied from the speakerphone. "It's a staffing

consolidation move."

Barnes's euphemism didn't change the result.

"When?" Tom asked numbly.

"Effective the end of the day," Barnes replied. "The firm will

give you a good reference and pay a month's severance in addition to

your accrued vacation and personal leave time. You've worked hard,

and this was a difficult decision. That's why I wanted to be part of

the conversation. I hope you appreciate that."

"Yes, sir," Tom mumbled.

"Very well. I'm going to grab a nap to knock back this jet lag,"

Barnes said. "You gentlemen finish without me."

The phone clicked off. Tom didn't move.

"There's not much else to discuss," McGraw said. "Bring Mark

up to speed on any cases you've been handling solo this afternoon.

He and I will reassign them."



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"Is he going to make partner?" Tom blurted out.

"That wouldn't be appropriate for us to discuss with you, would

it?" Crowther replied with a tight smile. "You heard Joe. We appreci-

ate the work you've done, and I'm confident you'll find a good place to

land. In the meantime, you can take all the time you need to settle your

father's affairs without feeling rushed. My father was a small-town

CPA, and it took twice as long to administer his estate than I thought."

"I'll send out a firm-wide memo about the change in your sta-

tus within an hour," McGraw added. "Nothing negative about you."

Crowther stood and extended his hand to Tom. "Best of luck to

you, son. You've been well trained and can take that with you wher-

ever you go."

McGraw turned toward his computer screen. The meeting over,

Tom stumbled from the office. He passed Marie's desk, faintly hear-

ing her call his name as he dashed down the hall. Olson Crowther

had made Tom's tenure at the firm sound like an advanced class at a

canine obedience school. The dog part of the comparison was right.

Tom felt like a loyal pet dropped from a car in the middle of the city

and left to fend for itself.

The hustle and bustle of activity on the thirty-sixth floor now

had a discordant tone. The first person Tom saw was a middle-aged

paralegal who spent half her time working on Crutchfield files. His

firing wouldn't be the only fallout crashing down from the thirty-

seventh floor. He resisted the urge to grab the woman and suggest

she clock out early so she could take her ten-year-old son to Chastain

Park and play catch with a Frisbee. Tom avoided making eye contact

with anyone until he reached his office and shut the door. Plopping

down in his chair, he swiveled to the side and looked out the window.

Stone Mountain hadn't moved; Tom's world had crumbled like a dried

clump of red clay.



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chapter

TWO









O

n the corner of Tom's desk was a glass paperweight, a gift

from his father, shaped like a miniature rainbow trout.

Beneath the paperweight were John Crane's last words,

a typically cryptic message delivered to Tom's administrative assis-

tant. The phone call came in while Tom was out of town taking

depositions. Before Tom could return the call, he'd received the

news that John Crane had drowned. Tom removed the paperweight

and, for the hundredth time, read the note:



I've been fishing in a new spot, and the water is too deep for me.

Can you come home for a few days and help me out?





Tom crumpled the note and threw it in the trash. It was time

to get rid of the worthless stuff he'd accumulated during his time

at the firm. A message from his father that didn't make sense was a

good place to start. Tom had emptied two drawers of his desk when

the phone buzzed.

"Clarice is on line 750," his assistant said.

Tom's girlfriend worked in the marketing department of a



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major soft-drink manufacturer. In her world, success was mea-

sured by a half-percent increase in sales to the Brazilian market.

"I'm trying to decide the best colors to include in a pie chart,"

she said in her slightly shrill voice. "Do you think it's tacky to put

magenta next to yellow? The new outfit I bought last week, you

know, the one with the magenta top and yellow sweater, looks nice,

doesn't it? That's what gave me the idea."

"They go well together. And you look super in the outfit." Tom

paused for a second. "I just got fired."

"Fired from what?" The natural tension in Clarice's voice ratch-

eted up a notch.

"My job. They called it a staffing consolidation, but the end

result is the same."

"What did you do wrong?"

"Nothing."

"That doesn't make any sense."

Tom told her about the meeting with the senior partners with-

out revealing the names of the clients involved.

"At first I thought you meant you'd been fired by one of your

clients," Clarice said in a more subdued voice when he finished.

"Where are you now?"

"In my office."

"They didn't seize your computer and escort you out of the

building? That's what happens here when someone gets axed."

"No. McGraw asked me to work to the end of the day."

"Do you think they're letting you down easy? I mean, there had

to be something you messed up."

So far, Clarice was failing miserably in the comforting words

department.

"No."



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"Didn't Brett Bollinger recommend you for his position?"

"Yeah, but I guess his influence ended when he left the firm. I

don't have a clue why I became a target."

The phone was silent for a moment.

"Did you miss a statue of limitations? A girl in our legal depart-

ment did that last month and got canned on the spot."

"It's statute of limitations. And no, I didn't."

"Don't try to make me look dumb," Clarice replied with a snort.

"I'm doing my best to help."

"Of course you are. Look, I'm pretty shook up. I'll see you at home."

"I have to work late, so don't forget to pick up dinner. I'm in the

mood for Chinese again. You'll feel better after you drink a glass of

wine and eat a couple of spring rolls."

Clarice ended the call. Tom placed his phone on the desk. It was

going to take more than wine and spring rolls to get him through

this crisis.









The hour that passed before McGraw's e-mail hit Tom's in-box

seemed like a week. When the senior partner's name finally popped

up on his screen, Tom counted to five before opening it.



Tom Crane will be leaving the firm at the end of the day. We wish

him well in his future legal endeavors.





A couple of minutes later there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said, steeling himself for an onslaught of sympa-

thy that might or might not be genuine.

Mark Nelson, his laptop under his right arm, stuck his head



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through the doorway. "I got a terse memo from McGraw ordering

me to meet with you about your files. A minute later the one about

you leaving the firm hit my server. I called McGraw's office to get

more details, but he didn't have time to talk to me." Mark ran his

hand through his hair. "Did the request for time off to shut down

your father's practice have anything to do with it? I had a feeling that

wouldn't sit well with McGraw."

"No."

Mark came in and closed the door behind him. "What

happened?"

"McGraw didn't send you anything about Crutchfield

Financial?"

"No."

Tom broke the news.

"That will be bad for a lot of people," Mark replied. "Did my

name come up?"

"Only in connection with reassignment of files."

"I'm sorry, man."

Tom studied Mark for a moment. He didn't sense any phoniness

in his colleague. They weren't close friends, but they'd been through

many legal wars together. Combat of any type has a way of bonding

men together.

"I thought you'd be the one to make partner." Mark shrugged.

"I'd even started floating my résumé to other firms a month ago.

Last week I had an interview with a medium-sized firm in Sandy

Springs."

"But if our firm--" Tom corrected himself: "If Barnes, McGraw,

and Crowther lets you stay--"

"I'll hang around. The other job was a pay cut, but at least it

was a job. I can't expect Megan to start married life with a husband



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drawing unemployment benefits." Mark sat down across from Tom

and opened his laptop. "I bet Sweet and Becker would offer you a job,

maybe even a partnership on the spot. You've hammered them sev-

eral times, and Nate Becker has a lot of respect for you."

"How do you know that?" Tom asked in surprise.

"He told me. A friend and I signed up to play in a charity golf

tournament and ended up in a foursome with Becker and one of

his associates. He talked about you the whole round and asked me a

bunch of questions."

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Would you have cared?"

"No," Tom admitted. "It would only have fueled my ego."

"And today your ego needs a little fuel. But Becker wasn't asking

for social reasons. You're on his radar as a possible hire."

Sweet and Becker was a solid law firm, not nearly as large as

Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther but with a good core of clients. On

the downside, the smaller firm might not be a suitable match for

Pelham Financial.

"Don't start daydreaming about your next job yet," Mark said,

interrupting Tom's thoughts. "Turn on your computer, and let's get

started on the transition. If the firm is going to fire me, I don't want

it to be because I fumbled a handoff from you."

Mark already knew bits and pieces about most of Tom's cases

because of biweekly status meetings. When they reached the new

Linden Securities case, Tom mentioned what McGraw told him

about the fraud committed by their client's broker. Mark raised his

eyebrows.

"What did McGraw say when you told him you already sus-

pected that?"

"I didn't get a chance. It came up after he cut me loose. If I'd



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interrupted him at that point, it would have seemed like a last-ditch

effort to save my job."

Personnel decisions by the partners, no matter how capricious

or arbitrary, rarely affected bottom-line profit. There was always

a fresh pool of top-notch legal talent anxious for the opportunity

to work at a place like Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther. Tom felt

degraded that his status had changed from "Future Partner" to

"Former Associate," a description forever synonymous with failure.

As he and Mark worked, Tom struggled to push his disappointment

and hurt feelings aside.

"Let me know when you're ready to leave," Mark said when

they finished. He closed his laptop. "I'll help you carry your stuff

to your car."









All Tom's personal belongings fit neatly into four boxes. He'd

decided to leave quietly. At 5:30 p.m. there was a knock on the door

and Mark entered.

"I knew you'd try to sneak out. I'm not going to let that happen."

"I can handle it," Tom said. "It will only take a couple of trips."

"Don't argue."

On their way to the elevator they passed the cubicle where

Allyson Faschille, the administrative assistant who'd taken the last

phone call from John Crane, worked. She glanced up.

"Bye, Tom. I'll miss you. Best of luck. Congratulations, Mark.

I'll miss you too."

Tom turned to Mark. "Congratulations?"

"I'll fill you in once we're on the elevator."

The elevator door opened, and they stepped inside.



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"Did you accept the job with the firm in Sandy Springs?"

"No."

"But Allyson said she would miss you too."

Mark stared straight ahead. "I had a meeting with McGraw after

you and I went over your cases. I'm moving upstairs into Brett's office.

Allyson and I won't be working together."

Tom's jaw dropped open. "They made you a partner?"

"Yeah," Mark replied with an apologetic look on his face. "It's as

much a shock to me as it is to you."

"Did he tell you why?"

"If you mean why me and not you, the answer is no. He men-

tioned I was doing a good job, then gave me a big stack of paperwork

to read and sign. It was over in less than five minutes."

The elevator reached the ground floor. Tom stumbled into the

foyer.

"I wanted you to hear the news from me," Mark said. "If I had

the authority, I'd tell you to take that stuff back to your office."

The two men walked in silence to the parking deck and put the

boxes in the trunk of Tom's car. It was an awkward moment.

"That's great news for you and Megan," Tom said, hoping his

face didn't reveal the struggle inside. "You need the security that

comes with a partnership more than I do."

Mark smiled. "Man, you should have heard her scream when I

called and told her the news. She's probably online looking for houses

right now."

Tom tried to smile, too, but suspected it looked a bit crooked.

"Give me a call as soon as you're back in town so we can grab

lunch," Mark said. "And keep me in the loop on your job search. Now

that I'm a partner I can write a killer letter of recommendation for you."

"Thanks," Tom managed. "I'll do that."



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Tom sat in the driver's seat of his car for a few seconds and

wondered if he would have been as gracious as Mark if their situ-

ations had been reversed. He watched the excited new partner

disappear through the door leading to the office tower. Tom drove

out of the parking deck. There were a lot of emotional potholes on

the road to unemployment. So far, Tom felt like he'd hit every one.









Tom could get home in less than thirty minutes unless he had to stop

off for Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, Indian, Jamaican, or one of the

other types of ethnic food craved by Clarice. Tom's girlfriend grew

up shuttled between divorced parents, neither of whom cooked. To

her, take-home was the same as home cooked.

There were four apartments in the two-story building where

Tom lived. It was an older structure with high ceilings, crown mold-

ing, chair rails, and dark wood floors. His apartment was on the

ground level. He parked in a reserved spot off the street beside a high

privacy fence that sealed in a tiny backyard. The smell of the food on

the car seat made his stomach growl.

As soon as he opened the door, Tom was greeted by the throaty

bark of a large, mostly brown dog that Clarice insisted would eas-

ily win the ugliest dog in Atlanta contest. Tom acquired the furry

animal when a girlfriend prior to Clarice dragged him to the local

humane society one Saturday morning.

While Tom waited at the shelter, he stood in front of a cage

that contained a brownish-black animal with long legs, floppy ears,

square jaw, furry tail, and black tongue that protruded slightly from

the right side of its mouth. The dog looked at Tom with bloodshot

eyes that would have shamed a drunk.



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"What is it?" he asked a middle-aged woman serving as a

volunteer.

"It's your dog," she responded brightly. "See the way he's looking

at you? He's been neutered and had all his shots."

Tom shook his head. "Neutering him was a good idea. Puppies

that look like that wouldn't be good for the canine gene pool. Is he

housebroken?"

"Probably, although we can't guarantee that sort of thing. Dogs

respond well to routine. Do you see the nose and ears?"

"They're hard to ignore."

"Based on those features, I suspect he has a significant percentage

of bloodhound. The black tongue and furry tail most likely come from

a chow. The brindle coat doesn't go with the solid-brown head, so that

part is a mystery. I'll bring him out so you can get a closer look."

"No thanks."

"At least let him lick your hand." The woman reached for the

latch on the cage. "Dogs in this area are scheduled to be euthanized on

Monday."

Tom muttered while the woman opened the door of the cage.

The dog ambled over and sniffed Tom's hand, then leaned against

his leg. Tom reluctantly rubbed the top of the mutt's head, causing

the animal to emit a low moan of pleasure.

"I already have a cat," Tom said to the volunteer.

"Cats are great pets, but a dog like this will be devoted to you

forever and ask for nothing except love in return."

Tom's girlfriend returned with a frisky golden retriever on a

leash.

"What's that?" she asked when she saw Tom and the ugly dog.

"Ask her." Tom pointed to the volunteer. "She can tell you all

about him while I fill out the adoption paperwork."



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The first time Tom brought the dog home, the beast put his

nose to the floor and began crisscrossing the living room like a four-

legged vacuum cleaner. Whiskers, Tom's calico cat, retreated to the

top of the sofa with intense suspicion. As he watched the dog's antics,

Tom considered naming him Vacuum, but a more suitable name

immediately came to mind.

"Rover," he said with a satisfied nod of his head. "If a dog ever

deserved that name, you're it."

Rover turned out to be thoroughly housebroken, never jumped

on the furniture, ignored Whiskers, and didn't chew Tom's shoes.

However, for all his good qualities, Rover had one bad one--he

couldn't keep stray drops of drool from leaking out the side of his

mouth. Every so often, Tom had to do a quick run through the apart-

ment with a damp mop to remove the residue.

The girlfriend and her golden retriever left Tom's life shortly

after Rover entered it. Dragging Tom to the humane society was the

best thing she ever did.









Rover sniffed the paper bag in Tom's hand before leading the way into

the small kitchen. Whiskers didn't move from her spot on top of the

sofa. Tom placed the food in the oven on low to keep it warm, then

changed into exercise clothes for a fast thirty minutes on the treadmill.

Rover lay in the corner of the spare bedroom with his head on his paws

and a look on his face that questioned Tom's sanity for running in place.

When he saw the lights of Clarice's car flash through the windows

of the kitchen, Tom took the food out of the oven and lit a candle in the

middle of the tiny round table where he and Clarice ate their meals.

The front door opened. Rover woofed but didn't leave Tom's side.



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"Yum. I can smell dinner out here!" she called out.

Clarice walked into the kitchen and kicked off her shoes.

Whiskers followed and brushed against her leg. Tall and shapely,

with blond hair and blue eyes, Clarice Charbonneau had attracted

Tom's attention at a pro-am golf tournament twelve months earlier.

For the past eight months they'd not dated anyone else.

"Magellan was in a horrible mood today," she continued. "Three

people were royally chewed out during the planning session. I kept my

mouth shut, but it made me wonder why I put up with the stress he stirs

up every time he comes into town. If he was based here instead of L.A.,

it would be unbearable." Clarice paused. "Oh, I went with the magenta

next to the yellow and held my breath during the meeting. Magellan

didn't comment on it one way or the other. Alice thought it was pretty."

Clarice continued talking while she washed her hands in the

kitchen sink, then took a bottle of wine from a small wooden rack. She

poured two glasses and held one out to Tom, who took it from her.

"Here's to your future," she said, looking him in the eyes.

"Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther lost a brilliant young lawyer today.

Their loss will be someone else's gain."

They clinked glasses and took a sip of wine.

"That's what you think?" Tom asked.

"Of course." Clarice sniffed. "After the shock wore off, I was furi-

ous. The loyalty-and-hard-work thing you tried doesn't work in the

twenty-first century. Law firms are getting to be more and more like

big corporations where everyone is as disposable as a plastic water

bottle. But don't worry. You'll collect a half-dozen job offers within

a month and take your pick. Then, someday you'll get a case with

McGraw on the other side and teach him a lesson. Let's eat."

Clarice handled chopsticks like an expert. The two slender

pieces of wood frustrated Tom, and he defaulted to a fork. They



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ROBERT WHITLOW





divided the food, with Tom taking two spring rolls. While they ate,

Clarice prattled about her day at work and a phone call with her

mother, who lived in Sarasota.

"Mom was completely out of line," Clarice said between bites.

"I told her it was none of her business whether Nicholas goes to

culinary school in Charleston instead of getting his MBA at Wake

Forest. He's paying his own way, and she can't order him around like

she did when we were kids. And with a name like Charbonneau,

any restaurant would be thrilled to hire him. Of course, she didn't

listen. All she wanted to do was vent."

Tom had met Clarice's mother on two occasions. Her venting

reminded him of a volcanic eruption.

"You don't think I'm like her, do you?" Clarice asked, stopping

to take a sip of wine.

"Not at all."

"Liar," Clarice replied with a smile. "But I like it when you tell

me what I want to hear."

"Your mother has unresolved issues."

"You think so?" Clarice responded, rubbing her temples with

the tips of her fingers. "Every time she blows up, it scares me that

I'll end up the same. It took me an hour to calm down after she

called."

"Was that before or after I phoned about losing my job?"

"After, which partly explains how I felt. Like I said, I was already

upset."

"Did you mention my situation to your mother?"

"No, that would have made her talk for another thirty minutes,

and I couldn't risk that with Magellan on the rampage."

They finished dinner and the bottle of wine. Clarice had been

right. The meal and the drinks calmed Tom down. Then they



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watched a sentimental movie that made Clarice cry. When the

movie was over, she yawned.

"I'd better head home," she said. Clarice shared an apartment

with another young woman in a modern complex about ten minutes

away. "I have to be up early in the morning for a red-eye meeting at

work before Magellan flies back to the West Coast. After that I'm

going to Savannah and won't be back until midday Saturday."

"Why Savannah?"

"A photo shoot. There's no need for me to be there, but Magellan

wants to make sure the photographer knows how to focus the cam-

era." Clarice touched Tom's hand. "We could have a lot of fun."

"No, I'm going to use this time to close out my father's practice

in Bethel."

"And you're leaving tomorrow?"

"The sooner I start, the sooner I'll finish." Tom paused. "And I

need to get out of the city for a few days to clear my head."

"How long will you be gone?"

"A couple of weeks at the most. Then I can dive into the job

market."

Tom told her about Mark's conversation with Nate Becker.

"See, I told you," Clarice said and nodded when he finished.

"There will be a bidding war for your services. But it will be lonely

without you."

"You could stay here and take care of Whiskers and Rover.

They're great company."

Clarice pulled back. "Whiskers is fine, but I'm not babysitting

that dog by myself. Can't he go with you?"

Rover, who was lying at Tom's feet, looked up and gave a moan

that started as a deep rumble and ended as a high-pitched whine.

"See, that's all he does when you're gone," Clarice said. "Just



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ROBERT WHITLOW





hearing about you leaving sends him into the pits. When you were in

Miami taking depositions last month, he moped around the house the

whole time and slobbered twice as much as usual. I couldn't go barefoot

and almost slipped and fell in a nasty wet spot he left in the kitchen."

"Okay, okay. I'll take Rover. I just hope Uncle Elias likes him

more than you do."

Clarice stood and stretched. "Hanging out with your uncle and

the dog should be interesting. My mother isn't the only one with

issues. Your relatives have their share too."

"You only met Elias once."

"Which was enough. I'm glad you're not like him," Clarice said

with emphasis. "While you're there you can collect the inheritance

coming from your father. That should tide you over, and if you need

help spending any of it, I'm available."

Tom swallowed. He'd kept information about his father's affairs

private.

"There isn't much in his estate," he said.

"You're kidding. He was a lawyer for over thirty years."

"Who didn't make a lot of money and did a bad job managing what

he earned. I had to put the funeral bill on a credit card. After he sold

the house and moved in with Elias, he gave most of his money away."

"Gave it away?"

"He supported a bunch of religious causes, and there's no short-

age of them holding out their hands. The worst part is he didn't keep

back enough from the sale of the house to pay the federal tax due on

his gain. I don't know what he was thinking. Anyway, he worked

out a payment plan with the IRS but was only partway through

it when he died. There are thousands still owing. Also, he hadn't

paid any estimated tax on the income he earned at the law firm for

the current fiscal year. I haven't run all the numbers, but after the



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government is paid, there may not be enough left to justify probat-

ing the will."

"That's wrong," Clarice responded emphatically. "Your father

should have thought about you first when it came to his money. This

makes me madder than you losing your job. At least McGraw was

your boss, not your dad."

"It hurt," Tom admitted. "But then I haven't paid a lot of atten-

tion to him for the past few years."

"Which is no reason to leave a mess for you to clean up." Clarice

waved her finger in the air. "If your father was such a godly man, he

would have paid the government its due and left something for you

to enjoy, not given his money away to strangers. I can't imagine my

parents doing that to me. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I was embarrassed," Tom replied with a shrug.

"Yeah, I can see why." Clarice stepped back. "I'd better get going."

"And you'll pick up Whiskers tomorrow?"

"After the meeting with Magellan. Brittany can help out while

I'm in Savannah."









After Clarice left, Tom turned on the gas logs in the small fireplace

in the living room and sat in a leather recliner watching the flames.

The harsh reality that John Crane had left him nothing except the

hassle of dealing with the IRS and the responsibility of closing down

a law practice hurt more than Tom wanted to admit.

While the fire flickered, Rover lay at Tom's feet. The dog's world

was simple. His master's presence was enough to bring him content-

ment. No such person inhabited Tom's world. He was as isolated as a

castaway on a desert island, a man alone in a city of millions.



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chapter

THREE









T

he following morning Tom unpacked the boxes he'd

brought home from the office. He took out the photo of his

mother taken during a trip to Callaway Gardens when he

was five years old. Quiet and reserved, she taught high school English

composition and literature for twenty years. Her death from breast

cancer when Tom was a junior in high school took away the only ears

he knew would listen.

Caught in a web of joint grief, Tom and his father shared space

in the same house for a year and a half until Tom left for college.

By the time he graduated four years later, Tom had convinced

himself that he'd grown stronger through the tragedy because it

forced him to be more self-reliant. This became a mantra, and he

repeated the theory whenever he told someone about his past. Not

everyone was convinced. A girl Tom dated shortly after moving

to Atlanta told him it sounded like something a redneck football

coach would tell one of his players. They only went out to dinner

once after that.

Tom's cell phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number.

"Hello," he said.



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... view entire excerpt...

Discussion Questions

1. After Tom loses his job and his girlfriend at the beginning of the book, Elias responds to Tom with, “God is good.” What did you think of Tom’s response? Have you ever experienced a huge, unexpected change in your life, and someone spoke similar words to you? How did that make you feel? Encouraged? Angry? Confused?

2. Though for years Tom held himself back from truly grieving his mother’s death, upon returning home, he is overcome with emotion while visiting Austin’s Pond. Why do you think Tom held those tears back for so long? How did his mother’s death forever affect Tom and his father’s relationship? Have you ever stored up grieving and then had it triggered by an unrelated incident?

3. Why do you think Elias wanted Tom to read the Bible story of Balaam and his donkey?

4. Elias points out that Tom’s first name is Joshua, which means “God rescues” or “Jehovah is salvation.” How does the meaning of Tom’s name enter into his story?

5. Many people in Bethel urge Tom to stay and continue his father’s work. What do you think Tom believes about the kind of man his father was? About the kind of attorney he was? Do you think he considers himself a chip off the old block?

6. Elias is a man of prayer and intercession. Have you ever known someone who was a prayer warrior? How has his or her intercession affected your life and the lives of others?

7. Psalm 78:72 says, “So he shepherded them according to the integrity of his heart, and guided them by the skillfulness of his hands.” Why do you think this was one of John Crane’s favorite verses? How did reading this verse open Tom’s eyes and heart?

8. Rose is convinced that there are “thin places” in this world—physical places where one can better hear from God. Do you believe in thin places? Have you ever experienced a thin place?

9. Do you agree with Elias that Christians can sometimes have “divided hearts”—that they can know the love of God, yet still live with dark secrets and deceptions? Elias says that “people are like houses. Most of the rooms may be filled with light, but there can still be a dark corner.” Which characters fit this description? Have you experienced this duality in your own heart? Do we sometimes compartmentalize our lives so that we can legitimize our vices?

10. Have you, like Tom, ever felt that you were caught in a situation where you weren’t sure who, if anyone, you could trust? What did you do? Where did you turn?


11. After his arrest, Tom’s world crashes down on him, and he feels that he has nowhere to turn. He doesn’t trust that God can resolve his situation, and he is ready to take his own life. How can desperation skew our perceptions of our situations? How does God step in and assure Tom that he is present and in control?
12. What do you think about the verse John Crane wrote down after his wife’s death: “The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death” (Isaiah 57:1–2). Have you lost someone important in your world? How does this verse affect the way you feel about his or her passing?
13. At his baptism Tom looks around at his friends and supporters and says, “I’m learning that God placed me in this world, not so other people can serve me, but so I can serve them. Only when we focus our attention on others can we become who we’re intended to be ourselves.” What value do you place on community? Do you serve, and allow yourself to be served by, others who care about you?

14. In the Epilogue, Tom claims the verse Jeremiah 6:16: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” How does the wisdom of this verse affect Tom’s decisions about moving forward with his life? Are you at a crossroads in your life? How does this verse speak to you?

From the publisher

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Robert Whitlow's web site

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