Page 98 of A Hero Comes Home

On the other hand, she had some legitimate bones to pick with her husband, as well. Like the secrets of his POW, not MIA, experience, that he kept from her. Like the fact that he’d never wanted to come home at all, and he’d been planning to leave even before he got here. Like he didn’t trust her enough to be honest with her. Like he didn’t respect her strength.

“Can you tell my parents to take care of the kids?” she asked. When he agreed, reluctantly, she added, “Don’t let them think something’s wrong. Just say Jacob and I want a few hours alone together.”

“You know what they’ll think.”

“Let them.”

Before she left, Izzie gave her a hug and advised, “Be careful, and give Jake a chance.”

She wanted to say that she’d already given him plenty of chances in the past weeks, that if he felt betrayed, imagine how betrayed she felt. But, instead, she just nodded.

Luck was with her when she saw the local taxi driver outside and she didn’t have to ask someone for a ride. She assumed Jake somehow got to the car parked behind the bakery, leaving her without a vehicle. If he was thinking at all, he would assume there were plenty of family and friends to give her a lift.

Her first clue of how bad things were was the open driver’s door on her car parked in the driveway. What kind of state must Jake have been in to leave the vehicle like that? In her mind, she pictured him staggering toward the house.

The kitchen door was open, too.

She gasped and put a hand to her mouth at what she saw. Broken dishes around the room. A chair smashed to pieces. Water running in the sink from a faucet that had been yanked from its flange. Then in the living room, dismembered pillows making the room look as if a snowstorm had hit. And the precious stained glass border on the front window had a crack in it. Most alarming of all, when she went back in the hall, she noticed blood on the wall.

“Ja-cob!” she screamed and raced up the stairs. There were drips of blood on some of the steps.

He wasn’t there, she saw immediately.

In the bathroom, she saw evidence of blood on a washcloth. He must have cleaned up whatever wound he had. In the bedroom, his blood-spattered uniform was scattered about on the floor, something he would never do. The Army trained its men to be neat. Defiling his uniform was telling, if all the other evidence of his rage was not.

She didn’t need to go to the window overlooking the driveway to see what she hadn’t noticed before. His truck was missing. She also didn’t need to go into the garage to check if his go-bag was missing.

He was gone.

Just like he’d planned all along.

Maybe sooner than he’d planned.

But he was gone.

Should she follow after him?

But where? What direction?

And would he want her to follow?

Did it matter what he wanted?

Yes. Yes, it did.

It was then that she saw the note on the dresser. It was written on a program from the Boy Scout banquet. He’d scrawled on the back, “I’m sorry.” That’s all. No salutation. No signature. Just “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Jacob!” she cried, sinking to the edge of the bed as the tears came like a river.

What you must be going through at this moment! The anguish you must be suffering to have done this!

I feel like such a failure. I should have been able to help you.

Don’t do anything stupid, Jacob.

Hold on.

And come back.