You Can't Hide by Theresa Sneed (uplifting novels TXT) 📕

over, strengthening her resolve. Tomorrow was going to be difficult enough, without adding more anguish to the mix.

She arose early and hummed, while she brushed through her long hair. As instructed, she picked out her most favorite jewelry to wear. Everything else had to remain. Nothing had to look like she was planning to leave.

She dressed in a plain black outfit and simple earrings and then went into her mother’s room. She’d at least wear something of her mother’s to remember her by, but the simple act of not seeing her mother in the room, brought her to tears.

“Oh, Sis.” Eddie’s normally loud voice was soft. In one stride, he was at her side and embraced her.

She couldn’t let go. Every muscle in her body said, release him, but she could not. She couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.

“Hey, Sis, it’s going to be alright. I mean, we’ll miss her, and all, terribly,” he said, with a crack in his voice, “but she lived a good life, now didn’t she?”

It was just like him to be so strong, so his next words, nearly brought her to her knees.

“Not like little Sally . . . Sally,” he broke down into sobs, “she was way too young to die.” His great shoulders heaved as he wept. “Why sweet, little, Sally?” He regained his composure and wiped his hand across his nose. “Sorry . . .” Sighing heavily, he took her hand in his. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

That was it. That was too much. “Eddie. Sit down. We need to talk.”

At the funeral, Eddie wept like a baby, but Nancy knew most of those tears were tears of joy. They had talked into the night, making plans about how they could secretly rendezvous after a few years had passed while waiting for Merrick’s execution and the whole thing to hopefully be over. He swore on their mother’s grave that he wouldn’t tell a soul, and she knew he wouldn’t. The only problem was his occasional grin during their mother’s funeral. She had to elbow him more than once.

Finally, it was over, and they stood at her graveside. “Funny thing,” he whispered, so only she could hear. “I’m gonna miss you like crazy, but just knowing . . . you know what,” he said, with a wink. “I can get through anything.”

She looked down at their mother’s gravestone. “Do you suppose that that’s what death is like?”

He tilted his head to the side. “What d’ya mean, Sis?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Ever since I learned of Malcom’s death, and now Mom’s, I just wonder.” She was silent for a moment and then continued. “That if we could know for sure that we’d be together after death, I bet we could get through anything.”

He nodded and then squeezed her hand. “True—so true.” He groaned. “Bye, Sis.” Tears flowed down his face.

“Bye, Eddie.” She stood on the tips of her toes and pecked him on the cheek, then turned and walked toward her destiny—her new life with the person she loved most, Sally.

Sixteen

Cover- Up

The man flipped the cigarette butt to the ground and stared at the notice in the newspaper. “He’s not going to like this.”

Nancy Snyder is survived by a brother, Edward McKechnie of Scranton, PA. She is preceded in death by her husband, Malcolm Snyder, her daughter, Sally Snyder, and her parents, Edward, McKechnie Sr. and Betty Lindsey McKechnie of Scranton . . .

He held his hand on the folding door before pushing it open and then stepped inside the phone booth.

“I’ve been waiting. What did you find out?”

The man shuffled his feet and leaned against the side of the booth. “The broad is dead.”

“Perfect.”

His low chuckle sent chills up the man’s spine.

“So, where’s the kid?” the gruff voice added. “You got their location first, right?”

“Nancy was dead before I got to her, sir.” A loud slam on the other end startled the man. “Nothing I could do about it, sir.”

“Did you see the body?”

“Ah, no,” the man said, “but I’ve got the obit—”

“See the body.”

“Sir?”

“Even if you have to dig it up. See. The. Body.”

The man hung the phone up and looked down at the obituary. Nancy’s viewing was later that evening, and like it or not, he would be there. You didn’t cross Merrick Snyder. He’d learned that, a long time ago—

As a young child, he pushed the box around on the floor, pretending it was a car. It was cool, because it had a picture of the small car on it. Jimmy had thrown it away in the trash at school, and he’d dug it out. He didn’t see Merrick come up behind him.

“Stupid kid,” he grumbled, and smashed the box with the heel of his boot. He swung his foot around and planted it in the young boy’s gut. Merrick didn’t seem to care where he hurt him. Back in those days, no one seemed to care if the child came to school with his face scraped up or a bruise on his arm.

Merrick Jr. didn’t need to be doing anything wrong, just the act of existing—being within his father’s sight—usually brought some form of swift retribution. A kick, a shove, or a harsh word was what he got, never any tenderness that one would expect a father would give.

After Merrick discovered who had given him up at birth, he changed their last name to Snyder. He was so young then, it didn’t matter, and guessed as he grew older, that having his real bloodline name was sort of cool. But, Merrick Jr., how he hated being called that. He was nothing like his father.

A kid at school started calling him Ricky. He didn’t like that much either, but at least he didn’t have to be called by that cruel man’s name. Ricky never could bring himself to call him Father, Papa, or Dad. Those were titles of endearment, something he’d never