In The Pastor's Care

**This story contains descriptions of violence**

Franklin Wyatt had a voice that made people lean in, a voice you’d trust to guide you through a storm. In the sleepy town of Crosshaven, sometime in the mid-1980s, Franklin was more than a pastor. He was a caretaker for the foster kids no one else could handle and a fixture at every town potluck. People saw Franklin as a quiet man with an unshakable sense of purpose. No one would’ve guessed he was running from a past darker than any storm cloud.

Years ago, Franklin had done the unthinkable. He’d taken the lives of his wife, Elise, and his teenage daughter, Margaret. They weren’t cruel women, but they were fierce—too fierce for Franklin’s tightly wound idea of what a household should be. 

Elise never backed down from an argument, and Margaret’s quick wit was as sharp as a knife. To Franklin, their defiance wasn’t just a challenge; it was a sign of something broken that needed fixing. One thunderous night, in the heat of a feverish prayer, he believed he’d heard God’s voice telling him how to save them. And so, he acted—not out of rage, but a misguided conviction that he was doing right by them.

Afterward, Franklin vanished. Back then, it was easier to slip through the cracks. No internet to trace your steps, no databases to cross-check your lies. Franklin reinvented himself as a pastor in Crosshaven. His calm demeanor and willingness to take in troubled teens earned him a reputation as a saint. He never let on that his saintly acts were fueled by guilt so heavy it made his hands shake when he prayed alone at night.

On a brisk October morning Naomi arrived at Franklin’s foster home. She was seventeen, with wild brown hair barely contained in a bun and eyes that dared you to challenge her. The social worker’s file described her as “intelligent but confrontational,” a girl who’d burned through too many foster homes. 

Franklin greeted Naomi with his usual warmth, extending a hand. “Welcome home, Naomi,” he said. Naomi paused, her gaze sharp, before muttering, “Thanks,” and brushing past him into the house.

Naomi wasn’t one to fade into the background. She questioned Franklin’s rules, skipped prayer meetings, and made no effort to hide her disdain for his sermons. The other teens adored her—her wit was magnetic, and her boldness gave them something to admire. But to Franklin, she was a storm waiting to happen. Her defiance brought back memories of Elise and Margaret. He saw the same fire in Naomi, and it kept him awake at night.

One evening, Naomi came home late. Franklin was waiting in the kitchen, his Bible open on the table and a single lamp casting long, flickering shadows. “We have rules here, Naomi,” he said, his voice calm but heavy.

Naomi dropped her backpack onto a chair and crossed her arms. “What are you gonna do, kick me out? Go ahead. It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.”

Franklin closed his Bible and stood, gripping the back of the chair in front of him. “I’m not here to punish you. I’m here to help you.”

Naomi rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “Save the speech, Pastor. You’re not my dad, and you’re definitely not my savior.” With that, she turned and headed upstairs, leaving Franklin staring after her.

That night, Franklin retreated to the basement, where he kept his tools and spent hours in prayer. The space smelled of sawdust and damp earth. As he knelt on the cold floor, his thoughts swirled. Naomi wasn’t just another rebellious teen; she was a test. A reflection of everything he’d failed to fix before. If he couldn’t save her, what did that say about him? About the choices he’d made?

The next day, Franklin asked Naomi to join him in the basement after dinner. His house was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway. “I’d like to pray with you,” he said, his tone steady but insistent.

Naomi raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed. “What’s this about?”

“Finding peace,” Franklin replied. He watched as she hesitated, then shrugged and followed him downstairs.

The basement was lit by a single bulb that cast harsh light over the cluttered space. Franklin gestured toward a wooden bench. Naomi sat but kept her arms folded, her eyes scanning the room.

“Alright,” Naomi said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Let’s hear it.”

Franklin stood before her, gripping his Bible. “This isn’t just about prayer,” Franklin began, his voice trembling. “It’s about saving your soul.”

Naomi narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, no. I’m out.” She stood to leave, but Franklin blocked her path. “Sit down,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Naomi snapped, her voice rising. She tried to push past him, but Franklin grabbed her shoulders. At that moment, he saw Elise and Margaret—their faces blurred together with Naomi’s. The anger, the defiance, the hurt. It was too much.

Everything that happened next was a blur. When it was over, Naomi lay still on the cold basement floor. Franklin’s hands were shaking, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He knelt beside her, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The next day, Franklin buried Naomi in the woods, spinning a tale about her running away. The other teens believed him. Why wouldn’t they? He was their rock, their guide. Residents of Crosshaven rallied around him, offering condolences and praising his patience. It was almost enough to make him believe his own lies.

That evening, Franklin sat alone in the darkened living room, the weight of his sins pressing down on him. For a moment, he thought about turning himself in. But before Franklin could act, the phone rang.

“Pastor Wyatt?” the voice on the other end said. “We’ve got a new placement for you. A teenage girl, fifteen. She’s had a rough go of it, but we think she’d do well in your home.”

Franklin closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “Of course,” he replied. “Send her over.”

When the girl arrived a few days later, Franklin met her at the door. She was small for her age, with wary eyes and a scowl that could cut glass. “Welcome home,” he said, his voice warm and steady. She didn’t respond, just brushed past him into the house.

As the door clicked shut, Franklin stood in the quiet hallway, his thoughts racing. Maybe this time will be different, he told himself. Maybe this time, I’ll get it right.

The house settled into silence, but Franklin’s heart was anything but still.