Page 51 of Unseen Danger

“Do you think he’s right?”

Branson paused. He’d learned the hard way that clients rarely wanted an honest opinion, even when they seemed to ask for it. He could pretend he didn’t know who or what D-Chop was referring to, but dishonesty and subterfuge was never a good idea. “Are you asking if I think it’s your fault his son OD’d?”

D-Chop leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he held the glass between the fingers of both hands. He didn’t look up at Branson. “Yeah.”

Branson waited. Another technique he’d learn to navigate these tricky situations was to keep silent. More often than not, people wanted to talk and be heard more than they wanted answers.

Sure enough, D-Chop opened his mouth again before Branson had to respond. “I just wanted to make good music, you know? Just wanted to get out of here.” He leaned back, casting his glance around the room that perhaps, to him, represented the school and world he’d come from. “To make it. That ain’t wrong, is it?” He looked at Branson this time, his brown eyes sharpened with angst and a glint of fear. Maybe the fear that he was guilty.

Answers D-Chop needed to hear swirled through Branson’s mind. That he was guilty because all people were. Everyone did wrong and needed God’s forgiveness.

That D-Chop’s raps celebrated violence, drug abuse, and sexual promiscuity as well as other immoral and sometimes illegal behaviors. That his music wasn’t the harmless escapism he liked to pretend it was. That he was lying to himself about that and a lot of things so he didn’t have to face the truth about himself and his need for a Savior.

But Branson couldn’t say any of that. One word about God or sin—the most unpopular topics in the celebrity world—could get him fired. Even by an easygoing guy like D-Chop.

He was paid to protect D-Chop and occasionally build him up, make him feel better about himself when he invited conversation. If Branson dared to speak the truth about guilt and the Gospel, he’d be out on his ear. And his dad could lose his life to cancer because of it.

He pushed a safe response through his lips. “You’ll have to answer that one yourself.” An unfamiliar, creeping sensation of cowardice inched through Branson’s torso, settling uncomfortably in his tense gut. But what other choice did he have? “Let’s get you home.”

Home. The word sprang the image of his dad instantly to mind. In his office behind his desk, poring over the Bible and commentaries as he prepared for his sermon every week.

He would be ashamed.

But at least he’d be alive.

Branson clung to that most important factor in a failed effort to soothe the sting of shame he apparently didn’t need his dad to inflict.

She was missing something.

He stopped to talk to her. They laughed.

It was familiar. Like all the times before.

But something was different.

His face was hidden in shadow. She couldn’t make it out.

He walked away with a laugh.

He was gone.

Until he grabbed her from behind.

Somehow, she saw his face.

Blue eyes, features contorted with anger, violence. It was Branson.

He swung his massive fist.

Bone-crushing pain surged—

Nevaeh jerked awake. She pushed up in bed, breathing hard. Sweat dampened her body, her cotton T-shirt clinging to her torso.

Something brushed against her chest.

She jumped.

A warm nose touched her chin. Cannenta.