French Nancy - Forgiving my daughters killer: a true story of loss, faith, and unexpected grace

2016 by Kathleen A. Grosmaire

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Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

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In rare instances, a name has been changed to protect the privacy of the person described. Events and conversations have been constructed from the authors memory.

Unless otherwise credited, photos are courtesy of the Grosmaire family.

Scriptures are taken from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.

ISBN 978-0-7180-4152-6 (eBook)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Grosmaire, Kate, 1958-author.

Title: Forgiving my daughters killer: a true story of loss, faith, and unexpected grace / Kate Grosmaire, with Nancy French.

Description: Nashville, Tennessee: Nelson Books, [2016]

Identifiers: LCCN 2015032672 | ISBN 9780718041519

Subjects: LCSH: Grosmaire, Kate, 1958-| Parents of murder victimsUnited States. | ForgivenessReligious aspectsChristianity. | Restorative justiceReligious aspectsChristianity. | Christian life.

Classification: LCC HV6529 .G76 2016 | DDC 362.88dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015032672

16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Ann

CONTENTS

A ndy, can you get the door, please? I yelled from our upstairs bedroom.

I listened for my husband.

No response.

The doorbell rang, as it tends to do, just as Id gotten undressed. I kicked my dirt-covered clothes away from my feet and reached for a sundress from my closet.

It was late March. Andy and I had been gardening, as we worked to transform a pasturewhere our horse BJ used to liveinto a haven for tomatoes, peppers, and beans. Wed inherited the horse years ago from Andys sister, and when Andy and I worried we didnt have the time to devote to BJs care, we had found him a nice home in Georgia where they cared for older horses. BJ would be happy in the company of other horses, but it still bothered Ann, our youngest daughter, to see him go. Her boyfriend, Conor, had come over the afternoon BJ left and comforted Ann in the backyard by the orange trees.

Ann had always loved animals. When she was four, she tried to surprise us with a wriggling snake nearly as long as she was talland wouldve succeeded had it not slipped away. Over the years, she carried her guinea pigsAlvin, Snuggles, Holly, Elvis, Snickers, and Pumpkinon pillows and wheeled them around the house in a toy school bus. By the time we got BJ, she was twelve. She immediately began caring for himfeeding him, brushing him, and making appointments for the farrier to trim his hooves. Once, while waiting for the vet to arrive, Ann went out to the pasture to sit with her colicky half-ton baby. Though I was intimidated by the animals size and strength, Ann tenderly stroked his head when he was sick and firmly reined him in when he was healthy.

That little girl in braids was now in college.

After BJs departure, we had a sunny pasture and a nice pile of horse manuretwo ingredients for a great garden. We borrowed a tiller and clawed through the hard-baked dirt. Our daughter Sarah helped us form the five rows in which Id plant my seedlings. Good gardeners plant several seeds in each container, then weed out the weaklings. But I ignore the directions and give each seed its own space, to offer it at least a fighting chance at life.

Of course, that means I sometimes have more plants than I really need. In February I had started four trays of plants: two trays of tomatoes, one of peppers, one of zucchini and watermelon. Four dozen plants? The entire garden would be packed.

But every seed deserved a chance.

Early that spring, my sugar snap peas and pole beans were thriving, but everything else had to wait until the threat of frost had passed. In North Florida thats around the first of April. During the last weekend of March, I began to transfer the seedlings outdoors. If I was lucky, my tomatoes, peppers, and zucchini would come in just as it was getting too hot for the sugar snap peas and pole beans.

The Florida sun had not yet developed its punishing summer rays, but it was still eighty degrees outside. Andy had pushed a wheelbarrow full of dirt from one side of the yard to the other and was tending the flowerbeds as I worked on my tomato seedlings. Id already planted the melons and squash, but that day I was planting tomatoes and peppers. I planned to put them in salads andif the harvest proved abundanttake them to work to share with friends.

As I patted the loose dirt around the little plants with my spade, I whispered a few lines I had delivered that morning in church. Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom. It was Passion Sunday, a week before Easter, and I had volunteered to read the Scripture related to the good thief for the gospel reading. The warm soil got under my fingernails, and I wiped perspiration from my brow. While I planted the vegetables, Andy planted flowers. I loved how carefully he arranged them in the beds, as if he were tucking them in. He loves irises, but they wont grow in Florida, which lacks a prolonged cold season. He planted some canna lilies in the sunny areas to make our home look warm and inviting.

Not that we have many visitors. Being situated in a rural neighborhood about five miles outside of Tallahassee, we dont get many drop-ins. Trick-or-treaters and religious doorknockers frequently skip our house, which sits far back on a three-acre corner lot in the neighborhood. Plus, weve never gotten around to making a walkway from the drive to the front door. When friends come over, especially for parties, we have everyone park in the back forty, which is the grass around the workshop. Everyone who knows us comes in through the back door.

Andy? I yelled as I yanked the sundress over my head and rushed barefoot out of my room.

The doorbell rang again.

Undoubtedly, it was a stranger... probably a freckle-faced Boy Scout trying to unload overpriced popcorn. I wondered if I had enough cash in my purse.

Andy arrived at the door at about the same time I got to the bottom of the stairs.

Where were you? I asked.

Washing up, he said, but I could tell by one look at him that hed been interrupted. His shirt and pants were covered in dirt, and the hair around his face was still a little wet from his attempt to clean up.

We exchanged quizzical glances before he placed his hand on the door.

We didnt know it, but that was the last second of normal wed ever have. It was as if the doorknob were invisibly connected to our fate, turning our lives upside down.

Two women stood solemnly on our porch. One was dressed in business attire: white blouse, dark skirt, and dress shoes. The other wore a deputy sheriffs uniform. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing a stern face. I looked out and noticed a Leon County Sheriffs car in the driveway. The lights werent flashing.

Are you Ann Grosmaires parents? the first woman asked.

Andy nodded.

My name is Gwen Williams. May we come in? We have some news about your daughter Ann.