The Jonah Complex

By Laurie Norlander

A KILLER STALKS THE STREETS MADNESS STALKS THE WOMAN OUT TO EXPOSE HIM

Psychiatrist Bai Donovan is a perfectionistwho sent an innocent man to death row. Consumed by guilt, she vows to make amends.

When Bais efforts backfire, a homicide detective has questions she cant answer. He thinks shes a serial killer; she cant clear her name without divulging a past shell do anything to hide.

Motives collide and passions ignite as the Southside Stalker amasses victims. Deception and danger draw Bai down alleyways of madness. Will she discover the truth in time? Or will the Southside Stalker make sure Bai takes her secrets to the grave?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512743661

Laurie Norlander

Award-winning author, Laurie Norlander, believes in second chances. As a CPA turned novelist, Norlander writes uplifting fiction to challenge, encourage and inspire.

Book preview

THE JONAH

COMPLEX

Laurie Norlander

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Copyright

© 2016 Laurie Norlander.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by JoLynn Norlander, Beyond Photography.

Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-4365-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-4367-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-4366-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016942640

Print information available on the last page.

WestBow Press rev. date: 6/3/2016

Contents

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

To Bob and Jim, absent but ever-present in the legacies they built—generosity and commitment in life, courage and dignity in death—and to the strong and devoted women who loved them.

And always, always, to Stephen, my husband and friend. You are my rock in stormy times.

Now the word of the Lord came to Jonah the second time, saying,

Arise, go …

—Jonah 3:1 (NAS)

1

B ai was freefalling. Terror mocked her deliberate plans, and she knew she wouldn’t get a second chance. Contain the chaos, Donovan. Analyze the dissonance . The staccato of her boot heels echoed through the parking garage as she hurried toward her BMW. Rewrite your fear belief. Become the new narrative. Despite the self-directed therapy session, Bai sensed panic would prove both mindless and illiterate.

Shortly after her move to Chicago, Bai had sat on a jury that sentenced De’Ken Stone to death for the murder and mutilation of a city alderman. According to the morning papers, the state crime lab had uncovered backlogged DNA samples that cleared Stone of the 2006 crime and implicated a man executed three months ago in Texas. Twenty-oh-six. How would Stone feel, waking as a free man for the first time in seven years? What would he do first?

Payback. It was hard to imagine him doing anything else. De’Ken Stone was a volatile hulk of society gone awry. An angry man with impulse control as limited as his vocabulary, he’d come unglued after the verdict. Three burly guards had physically restrained and dragged Stone from the courtroom as he screamed threats at the judge, jury, and wife of two years—a timid woman who refused to corroborate his weak alibi. He swore he’d kill them all if he got the chance.

Could the headlines be wrong? She was practically engaged to the DA. Wouldn’t the police or Peter’s office have notified her of Stone’s release? Bai hated ambiguity nearly as much as the dread buffeting her composure. Flight smacked of weakness but seemed her best recourse until she had time to think, to neutralize the threat. Despite her father’s wealth, Bai wasn’t sure there was enough money in the world to appease Stone’s rage. She threw her overnight bag into the trunk and gasped as a strong hand closed around her wrist.

Going somewhere, Miss Donovan?

Bai palmed the canister attached to her key fob and hit the alarm. As the horn erupted in the confined space, Bai wrenched back, hoping to use the distraction to break free of the man’s grasp. She stumbled when he unexpectedly released his hold. Her face flushed as she processed that her attacker was not a massive black man but an amused blond in a cheap suit.

Chase Winters. Bai’s jaw tightened as she silenced the alarm and slipped the canister into her purse. Winters was the homicide detective who had testified about Stone’s priors.

Hope that’s not pepper spray, he said. It’s illegal to discharge in an enclosed space anywhere in the city.

It was Mace, but Bai held his gaze. If you’re here to warn me about Stone, Detective, you’re woefully late.

You might want to lay low. There’s a pack of reporters on the ramp and a film crew out front clamoring for a statement.

Paparazzi are the least of my concerns.

Winters stuck a cigarette in his mouth. His lips moved slightly. Stone’s got you spooked.

Bai slid on oversized sunglasses. She hated that she’d let a man—this man—see her fear.

His grin broadened. Relax, Miss Donovan.

Easy for you to say. She willed her voice to remain steady. A measure of anxiety was normal, but the hysteria threatening to devour her reason was completely unacceptable. Stone was a drive-by waiting to happen. I doubt death row improved his disposition.

No one’s going to hurt you, Bai. Winters’ voice was cashmere. You have my word.

She swayed toward the unexpected gentleness. At the last second, Bai stiffened, appalled she’d nearly collapsed into his arms simply because he’d used her first name. Winters always called her Miss Donovan in a wry tone—an attitude and title, she suspected, chosen specifically to annoy.

Gee. I feel safer already.

His gaze sliced through her sarcasm. You weren’t the only juror.

No, I was the only heiress. The only one skewered the following year in a thinly veiled novella implying Bai had used her money and professional expertise to influence the verdict.

"You might be the center of your own universe, Miss Donovan, but I doubt Designer Justice made the reading list at Statesville."

Bai’s cheeks warmed. With Stone safely incarcerated, the provocative but poorly written book—the first in a crime series by Racey Delaney—made a loud, local splash before fading to relative obscurity. With the unpredictable man back in the headlines, the novel would likely resurface, thrusting her into the spotlight of media speculation and Stone’s understandable bitterness.

Besides, De’Ken claims he found religion in the pen. Winters flipped out a silver lighter. Says he’s changed.

Into what? Fatalism wafted toward her like burning tobacco. Do you believe him?

Jailhouse conversions are fairly common. Winters puffed twice, frowned, and tossed the cigarette to the ground. Most tend to be dramatic and short-lived.

Fabulous. Bai glanced at her diamond watch. With any luck, she could be in St. Louis before dark.

Off to hide in Daddy’s castle, Princess?

I’m not six, Detective. Bai bristled. I don’t need Andrew to protect me.

What do you need? Winters asked oddly.

A friend, she nearly admitted before she recognized his tactic. For you to run off the press. If you don’t care about the threat to my life, you can at least protect my privacy.

Newshounds annoy me too, but unlike you, they haven’t broken any laws.

Excuse me?

Mace is illegal in Chicago, Miss Donovan. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me. He pulled her suitcase from the trunk and moved toward a battered white Honda parked nearby.

You can’t be serious.

They’ll probably toss the charges. He glanced back at her. But I’d love an excuse to cuff you.

Bai arched a brow. Was he joking, threatening, or flirting? Despite her psychiatric degrees, she found Winters a difficult man to read.

Bai locked her car and trailed after him. Although it wasn’t the police protection she wanted, it was better than nothing. While Winters shuffled debris to make room for her case, she fished a prescription bottle from her purse and snuck two blue tablets under her tongue. She jumped when he reached around her and swung open the passenger door.

Discarded fast food containers and empty soda cans littered the floor. The ashtray overflowed. A faded air freshener dangling from the rearview did little to camouflage the smell of stale cigarettes and week-old fries. Her hand brushed the soft leather of her trench coat. She hesitated and slid inside.

Lose the Mata Hari look and tuck your hair inside that, he said, tossing her a boonie hat with an NRA logo. The secret to hiding is not to be what everyone’s looking for.

Bai removed her designer sunglasses and exchanged her wide-brimmed hat for his. Although she looked ridiculous, Winters proved right. The reporters outside parted for the old car without a second glance.

Want to grab a pizza? he asked as he pulled into traffic.

Flirting. Her jaw clenched as she swept off his hat. Drop me at the corner. I’ll call a cab.

At least let me buy you a drink. If memory serves, I owe you one.

Bai ignored him and dug into her purse for her cell. Although she typically avoided alpha males, she’d asked the taciturn cop to buy her a drink after the verdict. He blew her off in front of several onlookers with a snide comment about rich chicks gone slumming. His reaction reinforced her distrust of men in general and ones who reminded her of her shrewd, pragmatic father in particular.

Better woefully late than never. Winters smirked.

Not in this case.

He laughed. Where’d you say you were headed?

Why the interest in my travel plans, Detective?

To be honest, Bai, I suddenly find myself interested in everything about you.

Really? Bai murmured. Although intimacy didn’t factor into her hierarchy of needs, she knew lust made otherwise careful men do stupid things.

Absolutely. He paused and darted her a look. The guy who offed Crenshaw was a professional.

Who? Oh … Bai flinched as a rumble of thunder shook the car. Bobby Crenshaw was the alderman who’d been shot in the back of the head, sawed into pieces, and stuffed into an oil drum. What’s that have to do with me?

You’re a smart lady. Use your imagination.

Woman. She corrected. Where was her phone?

Winters’ lips twitched, but his eyes remained as cold as the wet flakes splatting onto the windshield. Jackie Davis works for your father.

Who?

Crenshaw’s aunt.

Bai tensed as lightening split the sky, and the sleet ceded to rain. It drummed against the roof, making it hard to hear. To think.

So what? Lots of people work for Andrew. He owns two international conglomerates and several third world countries.

Winters swerved into a service station and parked under the canopy. He turned and eyed her soberly. Just thinking out loud. First, you concealed a close personal connection to the victim’s family at pretrial. Then you played a key role in the conviction of an innocent man.

Bai nearly snapped she didn’t have a close personal connection with her own family, but thought better of it. In her experience, people were of two camps—those impressed with her father’s money and those intimidated by it. Winters didn’t seem like a man who scared easily, but she’d cut her teeth on sycophants.

The defense based its case on Crenshaw’s ties to organized crime. Bai reminded. At the time of his murder, Bobby Crenshaw was awaiting trial for his role in a lucrative housing scam. Stone’s public defender, Geoff Gintz, theorized the mob took Bobby out before he could turn state’s evidence.

Gintz is an idiot. Winters’ ice-blue eyes flashed. The Outfit doesn’t hire freelancers. They have in-house soldiers to do their dirty work.

Then you have a mystery to solve, Detective.

Trust me. I will. He pulled his badge and gun from the glove box and got out of the car. Raw wind gusted Bai’s shoulder-length hair across her eyes as Winters grabbed a denim jacket from the backseat and moved to the gas pump. She gave up the hunt for her cell and climbed out to assess the neighborhood. Rain sheeted off the edge of the overhang and streamed across the asphalt. Despite the downpour and her new coat, Bai considered making a break for the nearest phone.

Winters finished fueling the Honda and surprised her with his keys.

It’s a lousy night to get a cab. I can bum a ride with one of the guys. He nodded toward the bar and grill next door. Three squad cars sat in the lot.

Why would you do that?

Maybe I’m a sucker for pretty blondes. Call me when you get back. I’ll pick up the car.

Bai eyed him suspiciously. You know my father, don’t you?

We’ve met.

Tell him he wasted his money bribing you to birddog me. I won’t be gone long enough for him to … notice.

No one pays me but the city of Chicago. Chase growled.

Bai hadn’t expected her gibe to elicit such a visceral reaction. Winters had been unflappable on the stand despite attempts by both attorneys to needle him into embellishing—or contradicting—his testimony.

Then go protect and serve. She rallied her composure. Arrest a jaywalker. Eat a doughnut. Just leave me alone.

His nostrils flared. Interrogating suspects is part of my job.

Is that what I am, Detective? A suspect?

Someone hired that hit man, Miss Donovan. Everyone’s a suspect until the evidence says otherwise.

Bai rubbed her temples. Despite the anxiety meds she’d taken, her pulse was racing. It was bad enough Stone was out there plotting revenge. She didn’t need Winters poking into her past.

Your chariot awaits, Princess. He swung open the door. Just don’t leave the country.

She glared at him and slid inside. The empties on the floor rattled nearly as loudly as his exhaust pipe as she squealed into traffic. In the rearview, Winters stood motionless, staring after her as rain soaked his coat.

Bai shook her head and drove south. Seventy miles later, she remembered what Winters said about hiding. She was a creature of habit and always stayed at the Four Seasons in a suite overlooking the Arch. She veered off the highway, stopped at the first inexpensive motel she saw, and paid cash for two nights.

When Bai retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she saw Winters’ iPhone—undoubtedly armed with a GPS—tucked inside his gym shoe. Bai sighed. She didn’t have time to worry about the detective’s faulty radar. She had to find a way to make amends to De’Ken Stone before he designed his own brand of justice and came looking for her.

2

A s far as dreams went, this one was better than most. Bai was sliding down a rainbow on a pink unicorn when a man leaned over the bed and pulled back her covers. His scent was familiar, offsetting the unpleasant chill that wrapped around her bare arms.

Daddy? Bai mumbled.

Wake up, sleepyhead. I have a surprise for you.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. What time is it?

Time for a midnight movie.

Mother won’t like it.

Then we won’t tell her.

He was disappearing out the door, so Bai slid off the bed and stumbled after him.

The older Bai, the one sleeping restlessly at the cut-rate motel, knew she was dreaming. She wanted to warn the child to turn around, but dreams didn’t work that way.

The girl paused outside his office. According to Mother, the room was off-limits.

C’mon in and shut the door, he said from the shadows. She inched inside. In the glow from the TV, she could see the open window behind his desk. The room was cold, but there was a bowl of popcorn and a mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

She nibbled at the buttery kernels as he started the movie. A classic, he said, called The Birds.

He sat next to her on the couch and handed her the mug. You’re very grown up for ten, but parts of this are scary. Let me know if it’s too much.

The girl nodded and sipped at the cocoa. It tasted weird, like he’d melted candy canes in it. She almost asked for marshmallows.

The movie was lame—a rich lady buying lovebirds for a man she met in a pet store—but the girl’s drooping lids sprang open when hundreds of crows began to gather on a school playground. She was too scared to look away as the birds attacked a group of terrified kids. She stared into the dark until her eyes burned. Something tugged, draining will and courage through her sockets into the icy blackness. Her cup was empty. She set it on the table and snuggled closer to him for warmth. Protection.

Cold? the man asked.

She nodded although the cocoa had left a funny heat in her stomach. He put his arm around her and pulled her into his lap. She could feel the buttons of his shirt against her back, the tickle of his breath moving stray hairs from her ponytail. She sat quietly, vaguely uncomfortable, despite the solid shelter of his nearness.

When a flock of birds began to peck and bite the blond lady, the child shifted uneasily. The man’s breath caught. She felt his heart thudding. He must have been scared too.

2

Bai woke abruptly. Her hair was damp, her own heart pounding. Through the thin motel walls, she heard a woman scream in the next room. Bai jerked upright and reached for the phone. She stopped when the woman’s cries abruptly segued to a man selling car insurance. Irritated, Bai banged on the wall. A male voice slurred a response, but the volume of his TV remained unchanged.

Bai stared at the ceiling. The bed was lumpy, and the musty room reeked of harsh disinfectants. Next door, the screaming resumed, punctuated now and then by inhuman wails and ominous music. Bai sighed and glanced at the clock. 4:34. The stark room invited starker introspection. It occurred to Bai that her reaction to Stone’s release exhibited the same mindless panic as the unfortunate victim in the horror film next door. It had been foolish to leave the security and comfort of her penthouse, and she was not a foolish woman. Bai snapped on the lights, got dressed, and drove home.

2

The Beemer was in her stall, so she drove the rusty Honda around the block and left it in a tow-away zone. Bai chuckled at the thought of Winters retrieving the heap from impound but sobered when she visualized De’Ken Stone similarly caged for the past seven years. She glanced over her shoulder and hurried toward the sanctuary of her apartment.

Inside, Bai flipped on the television. Ironically, The Birds was on the movie channel. She watched for a few minutes, wondering whether it was worth the mental exercise to accommodate her childhood fears with her current reality. Deciding exposure therapy had proved ineffective in the past, she turned off the TV, called her broker, and paid some monthly bills.

Exhausted, Bai stumbled to her room and fell into bed. Vivid dreams, less benign than last night’s, disrupted her sleep. Despite years of clinical training and months of therapy as a young adult, the recurring nightmare was proof she’d never dealt with New Orleans.

3

B ai stretched and glanced out her office window. Lights were popping on through the late afternoon gloom. Despite an unseasonably mild fall, Shiloh Reid, her secretary of six weeks, had gone out for lunch and said it felt like snow. Bai thought longingly of her brother, Logan, a successful attorney living in Fort Myers, and tried not to dwell on the reasons she’d chosen to finish her residency and open her practice in Chicago.

She started when Shiloh knocked and stuck her head in the door. Bai glanced at her wristwatch, a graduation gift from Andrew who’d been a no-show at her commencement. She often felt her ambivalence toward the timepiece—and her father—bordered on the neurotic.

Sorry to interrupt.

No problem. Bai eyed her blank computer screen. I’m ready to pack it in anyway. She had cleared her schedule to work on a professional article but wasted most of the afternoon stressing over Stone. Without thinking, Bai slid open her drawer and popped a blue tablet under her tongue. The bitter taste seemed oddly apropos. You can lock up and take off too, if you like.

You never leave early, Dr. D. Are you feeling okay?

Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.

So put the guy out of his misery and set a date already. Shiloh grinned. You and Mr. Maxwell are super cute together. Like a high-end Bogie and Bacall.

Bai was fond of Shiloh, who seemed immune to the Donovan mystique, but wasn’t sure she cared to discuss her personal life with her secretary. Unfortunately, Shiloh had dropped off a file at the penthouse last week and noticed the ring box in Bai’s study.

It’s a big step. Bai explained. Peter’s ambitious and loves the limelight. I value my independence and my privacy. I need to be certain I can make it work before I commit.

I get cautious, but don’t wait too long. Guys like Mr. M probably have women waiting in the wings.

Bai nodded vaguely. Although Peter was as circumspect as he was handsome, he was also a vain, modern male. In a city where politicians were what movie stars and divas were to Hollywood, she wasn’t naïve enough to think Maxwell had been celibate for the eighteen months they’d been dating. Bai logged off her computer and stood.

Take the service elevator, Shiloh whispered, stepping into the office. She popped a cinnamon Tic Tac into her mouth. There’s a crazy woman in the waiting room. I told her she needed an appointment, but she insists on seeing you.

We don’t use the word ‘crazy’ here, Bai said firmly. What’s her name?

Jamie Nichols. I had her fill out an intake sheet. Shiloh held out a thin file. She might not be crazy, Dr. D, but she’s definitely weird. Look what she gave me.

Shiloh handed Bai a white business card. Its stark black letters warned: Be ready. The end is closer than you think. Bai’s stomach knotted. Was the message from Stone? She flipped over the card. On the back, Nichols had scrawled her initials and 3-16. Bai stared. March sixteenth was her birthday.

Tell her I’m busy. Bai refused to entertain chaos. Her handpicked clientele was safe and predictable, comprised of upscale professionals from backgrounds similar to her own. She asked the questions, set the boundaries.

Shiloh hesitated. Just so you know, she’s out there talking to herself. She doesn’t have an ear bud or look high, so I’m guessing she’s schizo like that son of Sam guy.

I’m sure she’s—

Holy Toledo. What if she flips out on her way home and shoots everyone on the ‘L’? Shiloh interrupted. It would be super embarrassing if the press found out she came here for help, and you sent her away.

Bai bit back a smile. When Martha McIntyre, her no-nonsense former secretary, eloped to Tucson in mid-September, Bai contacted a temp agency for a replacement. She asked for a bright, personable candidate and got Shiloh: an odd mix of efficiency and sophomoric drama. Despite the girl’s effusiveness, Bai quickly offered her a permanent position.

Shiloh was energetic and detail-oriented. In the first week, she reorganized Martha’s filing systems and set up spreadsheets to track Bai’s business income and expenses. By the end of the second, she had a tech friend network the office computers and install an electronic scheduling program. An admitted control freak, Bai wasn’t altogether comfortable with Shiloh’s initiative and vetoed her next project—a plan to scan handwritten patient files onto the network. Bai cited security concerns. In truth, she didn’t want Shiloh, or anyone else, rooting through her case notes.

Although Shiloh could be overzealous, Bai was honest enough to admit she was lonely and at a point where she’d willingly trade stodgy professionalism for bubbly enthusiasm—even if it came with the occasional breach of protocol. Shiloh could be flighty, but she was bright and intuitive. What if Nichols did suffer from schizophrenia? Bai had never treated anyone with the disorder, and a complex case would get her mind off De’Ken Stone.

All right. Bai reached for the file. The referral line was blank. Give me a few and send her in.

As she finished scanning the woman’s short bio, the door swung open, and Jamie Nichols stood silhouetted in the doorway.

Hello, Ms. Nichols. Bai greeted. I’m Dr. Donovan.

Jamie, please, Nichols said as Shiloh ushered her into the office and closed the door.

Jamie was a pleasant-enough looking woman with an easy smile and a lush mane of nearly waist-length, blond hair. She was dressed in jeans and a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt. Bai motioned her toward a group of chairs and the obligatory couch, which formed a cozy niche in a corner of the suite.

I see we have something in common, Bai said. When did you graduate?

Jamie froze. Her expressive face held confusion—and a hint of suspicion. What?

The sweatshirt. Bai smiled reassuringly. Hopkins is my alma mater too.

Oh, sorry. Jamie flushed. I bought this at a yard sale.

Bai hid her surprise. Her rates were among the highest in the area, and she didn’t accept insurance. Bai’s patients had personal shoppers who patronized trendy boutiques. They didn’t rummage for bargains.

Jamie held out her hand. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Donovan.

Bai hesitated before accepting Nichols’ handshake. She disliked being touched, especially by strangers.

Sit wherever you feel comfortable, and we’ll get started.

Nichols paused in front of the couch. I don’t have to lie down, do I? She grinned, an engaging blend of humor and self-deprecation. According to Jamie’s bio sheet, she was forty—five years older than Bai—but seemed far younger.

The only ‘have to’ here is honesty. Bai settled into her favorite chair. Despite Shiloh’s concerns about the woman’s instability, Jamie appeared more at ease than most first-timers.

As if to contradict Bai’s observation, the woman’s face shuttered. Bai flipped open the file and clicked her pen. Jamie’s head swiveled toward the sound. Tension crackled. Bai pretended to make a notation in the file. Nichols was an interesting dichotomy. Her home address wasn’t a neighborhood where Bai’s clients would normally even stray, but the woman wore a twelve hundred dollar pair of shoes, and her thick blond tresses were courtesy of an expensive human hair wig. The incongruities curled Bai’s lips. She loved puzzles.

4

J amie settled onto the couch, one foot tucked beneath her. Her eyes drifted to the far wall where water cascaded down a pearl and abalone backsplash into an onyx basin lined with shells. An East Coast transplant, Bai missed the ocean.

Wow. That’s gorgeous. Jamie enthused.

The woman’s reaction reminded Bai of a precocious child. What was her story? Jamie was outgoing, observant, and seemingly in touch with her emotions. On the surface, she embodied a level of contentment Bai envied.

Despite her degrees and expensive façade, Bai used prescription drugs to combat anxiety, depression, and chronic insomnia. She’d bet her father’s last billion the hopelessly cheerful Ms. Nichols went to bed every night in her crime-infested neighborhood and slept like a baby.

Can I get you coffee or a soda?

Just hot water, if it’s not too much trouble. Jamie dug into her pink plastic purse and pulled out a ziplock of herbal tea packets. I’m kind of a health-food nut.

Bai smiled indulgently and buzzed Shiloh with the request.

Care to join me? Jamie asked.

Although she practically inhaled strong, black coffee, Bai nodded. Intimacy, be it in therapy or a relationship, was predicated on feelings of safety. Trust was an odd thing, spawned by any number of illogical reasons, some as simple