Whispers Turn to Whimpers: Could He Ever Change? novel Chapter 1227

“I want to…”

Joyce glanced at his face, gauging his mood. “I’m guessing Sherilyn didn’t tell you what happened, did she?”

That was exactly right.

He’d asked Sherilyn about it earlier, but she hadn’t answered—then she’d broken up with him right after. The anger and heartbreak had left his mind in chaos; he’d forgotten to press her for the truth.

“Let’s find somewhere to sit down and talk.”

…

In the quiet of a private booth, Gilbert and Joyce sat facing each other.

“Dr. Cooper.” Gilbert poured her a glass of water and slid it across the table. “Please, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Joyce took the cup, drinking a couple of sips before setting it down.

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Mr. Harrison, do you know how I met Sherilyn? Has she ever mentioned it to you?”

“She hasn’t,” Gilbert replied, frowning and shaking his head.

All he knew was that Joyce was Sherilyn’s friend, that they’d met in Crestwood, and that Joyce was a doctor. Beyond that, he knew nothing. Sherilyn rarely mentioned anything that had happened in Crestwood.

“Then let me start from the beginning…”

Joyce understood now. She let out a quiet sigh. “The first time I met Sherilyn was on a house call…”

The place she’d been called to? The police station.

…

That night, when Joyce arrived at the station, a police officer led her down the corridor to the holding cells.

“Ah—!”

A sharp, panicked cry echoed from inside one of the rooms.

“What’s going on?” Joyce frowned. “What’s her condition?”

“Who knows?” the officer replied, sounding exasperated. “She’s been like this since she got here. If anyone gets close, she loses it—screaming, lashing out, fighting.”

Joyce’s frown deepened and she quickened her pace. “Alright, let me see her myself.”

Inside, chaos reigned.

A slim figure darted past Joyce, immediately pursued by two stocky white officers.

The officers exchanged uncertain looks, then reluctantly released their grip.

Almost immediately, the girl snatched up a chair and swung it at Joyce.

“What’s her name?” Joyce asked, bracing herself and grabbing the chair’s legs to stop her.

“S—Sherilyn,” one of the officers answered.

“Sherilyn!” Joyce locked eyes with the girl, raising her voice above the commotion. “Sherilyn, is that right? Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Suddenly, the girl paused.

Through the tangle of her hair, she looked up at Joyce.

Thank God—she understood.

Joyce allowed herself a flicker of hope. “You can understand me, can’t you? We’re from the same place, you and I.”

Away from home, even a stranger from your own country feels like kin.

Sherilyn didn’t answer. She just stared at Joyce, wary, mistrust still flickering in her eyes.