Donald and Dahlia returned to Johnny's apartment, but its locked door offered no response. Donald walked to the nearest window and tried to open it. Failing that, he picked up a stone. It was a smooth stone, part of the ambitious landscaping on the neighbor's tiny lawn. He threw it through the window.
The crash seemed so loud to Dahlia, but she looked around and nothing seemed affected by it. There were no pedestrians on the block. Cars just kept driving past. Now, the window was open and Donald was crawling inside. Dahlia followed right behind.
She was shocked by his violence, but decided not to comment. After all, wasn't it justified? But even when a bold act is called for, it often does not occur. And when it does, it still can shock with its boldness. Foolish as it seemed to her, she was proud of Donald. She seemed to perceive him as a man as well as God. And that was the paradox at the center of her faith, after all.
Maybe it was the God part that surprised her. There was something passive about her perception of God. He seems to act through others, or merely as a cosmic nudge. Here she was, the great saint supposedly, underestimating God.
There was light. Donald must have found the switch.
"I don't think they're here," he said.
They searched the rest of the apartment, looking for clues to their whereabouts. Dahlia checked her messages, but Donald didn't think to because for all he knew Johnny didn't have his phone number.
"Leave the book," said Donald.
"It brings us one step closer. It's his game, not ours. Or maybe it's Sarah's game."
"She wouldn't play with you like that."
"I don't mean some facetious trivial game. This is big."
"You think maybe Johnny can't control what happened to Sarah?" she asked.
"I'm wondering if Johnny had anything to do with it at all."
Object: of hatred
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