by Rose, Callie
When River slides into the back seat next to Chase, I crane my neck to look back at him.
“I heard this little excursion was your idea.”
He shrugs, a secretive smile pulling at his lips. “I had the germ of the idea, but it’s not just mine.”
I squint at him. “So… I don’t suppose you’ll give me a hint where we’re going?”
He doesn’t even answer that, just smiles wider.
Yeah, thought so.
Rolling my eyes at him with a grin, I flop back on the seat, facing forward again.
As Dax drives with one hand lazily slung over the wheel, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and pull it out.
HUNTER: Happy birthday, bestie. Love your face. Miss your face.
The message is followed by several memes of animals attacking each other with hugs, and I snort a laugh.
ME: Love you back. Graduate already so we can go to the same college and see each other every day.
HUNTER: You joke, but I’m 100% serious. This is happening.
My grin widens, and she doesn’t have to know that tears are pricking at my eyes as we text back and forth. I can’t help the ache that tugs at my heart, but it’s nice to pretend for a few minutes that my life is normal. That I can have the kind of future we’re talking about. That I’ll be celebrating on my graduation day instead of visiting my mom in prison.
I can tell she’s trying to give me good things to think about on my birthday, but the bad shit is never far from either of our minds, something that’s made clear with her last text.
HUNTER: Love you, girl. Be strong, okay. Call me if you need ANYTHING.
ME: I will. Thanks, dummy.
As I slip the phone back into my pocket, Dax’s free hand moves to rest on my thigh. I’m getting way too used to this—to the comfort even that small touch provides.
A few minutes later, we pull through the gate and up the familiar driveway to Lincoln’s house. The Black family mansion looms above us, broad and imposing, and it seems both utterly familiar and strange at the same time.
I lived here for nearly three months, but that seems like a lifetime ago—or like a snippet from a different girl’s life entirely.
I’m pulled from my thoughts as the front door bursts open and Lincoln heads down the front steps with a heavy gait. He’s pissed about something. I can see it in every line of his body, in the stormy expression on his face. My gaze follows him as he strides toward the car, but movement near the door draws my attention back toward the house.
Samuel Black stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches his son yank open the car door and slip inside.
Dax doesn’t hesitate or wait to find out what’s going on. As soon as the door slams shut, the car rolls into motion again, curving around the circular drive before heading back out toward the street.
“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” I turn around as far as my seatbelt will allow, trying to get a glimpse of Linc’s face. He’s sitting directly behind me, so it’s hard, but I can feel anger surging out from him like a magnetic pulse.
“My dad is what’s fucking wrong,” he growls. “That conniving bitch Paige is holding their affair over his head, threatening to tell the whole world if he doesn’t do what she wants—and he’s caving. It’s like he doesn’t fucking see that no matter what he gives her now, it’ll never be enough. She as good as admitted to him that she tried to get pregnant, that she wanted this to happen, and he’s still letting her control him like a damn puppet.”
“Fuck.” Dax scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, sliding his fingers through the short strands of coppery hair at the base of his skull. “That’s messed up.”
“That’s not the worst part.” A muscle in Linc’s jaw twitches. “He’s agreed to her terms, for now, but it’s only a matter of time before they change again. Before she wants more. So he’s trying to shield himself preemptively against the fallout in case she decides to follow through on her threat and try to ruin his reputation.”
“That’s not the worst thing, Linc,” I say softly. “I mean, it’s awful that he cheated on your mom—er, Audrey—but it could affect all of you badly if Paige goes after him hard. Maybe he’s just trying to protect you guys.”
I don’t know quite why I’m defending Mr. Black. Maybe it’s because I feel bad for suspecting him of being a murderer and not just a philanderer. Maybe it’s because he’s always been kind to me, even after everything that happened with my mom. I wouldn’t tolerate cheating from any guy I was with, so I can understand why Audrey’s so pissed, but I get the sense that Samuel is trying to make things right the best he can.
Linc’s shoulders sag, his posture shifting from anger to defeat in a heartbeat. “He’s trying to make strong connections and bolster himself in his social circle. And he just donated a massive amount of money to Judge Hollowell’s election campaign.”
My heart stops. I wasn’t prepared to hear that name, wasn’t prepared to have that face flash in front of my mind’s eye.
“He’s… what?” I ask softly.
“Judge Hollowell is planning to run for a Senate seat. Apparently, he’s been looking for early donors.”
“And your dad gave him money?”
Linc’s lip curls in disgust. “Yeah. A fat fucking check.”
“Holy shit,” Dax breathes, glancing around the car quickly before putting his attention back on the road. “He’s running for Senate? No wonder he didn’t want anything about him and Iris getting out. Hooking up with a teenager and getting her pregnant? His campaign would be over before it even started.”
I feel queasy. The idea of this man, who so far has managed to get away with murder—with taking not one, but two lives—deciding the fates of other accused criminals makes me sick. And as a Senator, he’d have even more power. People would look up to and follow the lead of a man who deserves to be in prison himself.
“No.”
The word is strangled and raw, but it’s the only response I have.
No. This can’t happen. I can’t let it happen.
“I know, Low.” Lincoln reaches up from where he sits behind me, grabbing my hand and gripping it tightly in his. “I can’t get my dad to take the money back without raising all sorts of questions about why. And I’m sure Hollowell’s got other influential people donating to his campaign. But we’ll stop him. We’ll find a way.”
The car falls into a tense silence as Dax drives, taking us through a part of Fox Hill I don’t recognize.
My mind is racing, trying to figure out all the implications of this. If Judge Hollowell is planning to run for office, it means he has even more to lose than we thought if any connection between him and Iris is exposed. It also means he’s hitching his wagon to some powerful people, and they won’t want to be brought down by scandal any more than he will.
“Well, I’d say we picked the right activity for the day,” Dax notes, dry humor in his voice as he pulls into the parking lot outside a large warehouse-type building. “I think we all need to blow off a little steam.”
I tilt my head to peer out the windshield as he pulls into a spot in front of the building, reading the large lettering on the side. Then I turn around to look at River.
“A… shooting range?”
The tension in the car dissipates a little as the guys react to the surprise in my voice.
“Yeah.” River grins. “You ever shot a gun before, Low?”
I shake my head. I was too busy going through cancer treatments and then playing poker with anyone who’d sit down with me.
He takes in my expression and nods. “I’ve only gone a few times. My dad took me when I was younger, to help me become a man or something. It can be a great stress relief.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I’m still dubious, but I pile out of the car with the guys anyway. We head inside and get checked in, presenting our IDs to the woman behind the front counter.
Then we’re escorted into the back and taken
into the shooting gallery. My gaze swivels around with interest as we go, checking out the space around us but landing far more often on the four boys who accompany me.
They brought me here for a reason. For several, probably. To take my mind off my mom and off the loneliness of being without her on my birthday, to give me a chance to release some of the pressure inside my heart from the stress of everything… and to make sure I know how to defend myself.
No one has mentioned anything about that, but it’s impossible not to think about it as the man who showed us into the back takes us through the proper safety procedures and techniques of handling firearms.
A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined any reason I might need to fire a gun.
Now I can think of more than one.
My stomach tightens into knots at the thought, but I brush it away as the instructor fits us with protective eye and ear wear and then hands me a heavy black handgun.
It’s cool and solid in my hand, and I step up to the spot where I’ll fire from, focusing on the hanging target ahead of me—a black sheet of paper with the silhouette of a man drawn in white.
I stare at the silhouette. At the rounded shoulders, the lines of the neck, and the empty oval representing the head.
Unbidden, a pair of hazel eyes come into my mind. A forehead with deep wrinkles framed by salt and pepper hair. A round face with a small dimple in the chin.
The image is so clear, so real, that for a moment, I think I won’t be able to shoot. But my finger finds the trigger anyway, my other hand bracing the gun as I squeeze just like the instructor taught me.
There’s a loud bang, and the gun jerks in my hand as a small hole opens up on the edge of the target’s left shoulder.
A surprising pang of disappointment fills me.
I wanted to hit the face.
“Damn, Low! Nice shot.” Chase whistles as he sets up his own shot. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”
I shake my head, already lifting the gun to try again. The recoil is a bitch—or maybe I’m just a baby—but I don’t even care. My arms will be sore tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it.
River watches me with something warm burning in his storm-gray eyes as I shoot two more times, and then he takes a few shots of his own as the instructor steps in to correct a couple things in my technique.
The five of us stand in a line, and I lose myself for the next hour in the erratic pop, pop, pop of guns firing.
They were right. It is a good way to blow off steam.
And I get better with practice, managing to hit the target with more and more accuracy.
By the time we leave, my arms are shaking, but I do feel better. River slips his arm around my waist as we walk out of the building into the cold January air, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
I wonder for a second if he would’ve been allowed in the gun range if they knew he was partially deaf—if it would’ve been considered a liability or something—but it’s sort of a moot point, since he’s so good at hiding it that I’m sure none of the staff at the gun range even guessed.
Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze him back and tilt my head up to find his eyes.
“That was a good idea. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His lips find mine this time, and it feels… nice to kiss like this. Casually and openly, without thought or hesitation.
We all crowd back into Dax’s car and head to a diner nearby for a lunch of greasy burgers and French fries. Then we sit in the car in the nearly empty parking lot and pass around a joint as tiny snowflakes dance around in the air outside, too light and little to fall straight down.
Throughout everything, the guys have been careful never to call this a “celebration”. In fact, there’s been almost no reference to my birthday at all, except for by the twins this morning.
I’m glad. I don’t want a celebration. I don’t think I could celebrate right now.
But this is better than that anyway.
It’s a reminder that I’m not alone.
8
“Dammit. She didn’t know Iris at all?”
“No.” Lincoln shakes his head, wadding up his napkin and tossing it on the table. “She matched the description Savannah gave you—goes to Waverly, has a flower tattoo, but she’s not the girl we’re after.”
“Shit.”
My soft curse is nearly drowned out by the sounds of the lunchroom around us. The kings and I have taken over a table near a wall on the far side of the room, isolating ourselves so we can talk without worry of being overheard.
The guys thought they got a lead on Wednesday, so Linc snuck over to Waverly yesterday to see if he could find the girl who introduced Iris and Hollowell.
But if it wasn’t her, that means we’re back to square one. Another week has gone by with nothing, and Mom’s trial date marches steadily closer. I visited her again yesterday, and even though she tried to hide it, I can tell she’s scared out of her mind. In some ways, the trial will only be the beginning, but for some reason, it feels like it will be the end. Like even just walking into that courtroom will seal her fate.
She told me Scott Parsons was enthusiastic about her suggestion of basing her defense on her character, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The man is an idiot.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing around at the crowded cafeteria. Savannah is sitting on Trent’s lap several tables away, but her baleful glare keeps flicking in our direction for no reason that I can figure out besides the fact that she’s a sullen little bitch.
Ignoring her stare, I turn back to look at the guys. “Are we making a huge mistake? Should we just take what we know to Detective Dunagan and let him take it from there? He’s the one who’s got the training and resources to investigate, not us.”
“Yeah, but he’s also the one who arrested your mom based on planted evidence,” Chase mutters, his gaze darkening. “And even if we trust him, we don’t know what cops Hollowell has in his pocket.”
“Going to him without solid evidence is risky.” River chews his lip as he thinks, speaking softly. “He might not even investigate if it’s just your word, especially if he has any idea Hollowell plans to run for office. It’d be a risky move politically to start poking around in his life without a very good reason.”
Fuck. I know he’s probably right, but I hate it.
We can’t just wait this out though. We need to do something, find some piece of evidence strong enough to convince Dunagan that this is worth looking into.
We need to find that fucking Waverly girl.
But the weekend turns up nothing.
On Monday, I shuffle through classes like a zombie, relying heavily on the guys to make sure I don’t fall too behind. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, part of me is with my mom in her little cell in the Fox Hill Correctional Center.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Worrying.
I ditch class on Tuesday, and Dax and Chase drop me off at the courthouse so I can watch Mom’s pre-trial hearing. I want the guys with me, but I know if they all came in, she’d pick up on the thing going on between us in a heartbeat, and I don’t want her wondering or worrying about that right now. I want to tell her in my own way, when I’m ready.
The Fox Hill Courthouse is classic looking and well-maintained. It’s a beautiful building, actually, but my skin still crawls as I step through the entry doors. I can feel my heart rate picking up, and I clench my hands into fists and then release them, trying to banish some of the nervous tension flowing through my body.
I wander the halls on shaky legs for a few moments before I find the courtroom mom will be in. When I pull the door open and step inside, the room is mostly empty. I take a seat behind the defendant’s table and wait, shrugging off my coat and twisting my hands together nervously. My phone buzzes several times in quick succession. Text messages from each of the guys wait on the screen, and I try to let them comfort me.
> Finally, Mom is led in through a door at the side of the room, and I practically leap to my feet.
She looks different—again. When she first went to prison, the sight of her in orange was so jarring, so unsettling, she almost didn’t look like my mother. For better or worse, I’ve gotten somewhat used to it by now, but seeing her in her orange jumpsuit in this austere room, with a guard holding her lightly by the elbow, makes my stomach drop.
She looks like a convict.
And it occurs to me with a slow burn of acid up my throat that this is how a jury will see her when the time comes. Not wearing her comfy old jeans and a t-shirt like she used to at home. Not even wearing the stupid maid uniform she wore as the Black family’s Executive Housekeeper.
But wearing prison orange as if she belongs in it.
I shove that thought away as she catches sight of me, and when a smile breaks out across her face, she looks like my mom again, no matter what the fuck she’s wearing.
She settles into the seat in front of me, and I lean over the divider a little to speak to her.
“Hey. You look good.”
Mom shoots me a deadpan look in response that makes my heart ache. “You’re a bad liar, Low. But you’re the sweetest girl.”
Before I can say anything else, Scott Parsons bustles up and sits in the seat next to her. He’s in his early forties, round at the middle and thin everywhere else. He’s got an earnest, wide-eyed face that makes him constantly look a bit surprised by everything around him—which I can’t imagine is a quality that makes for a good lawyer.
“Hi, Penelope. Harlow.” He nods in my direction as he pulls things out of his leather briefcase, dropping several papers on the ground.
Mom looks almost embarrassed, like she doesn’t want the world to know this mess of a human being is her lawyer. But I keep a smile plastered on my face. I don’t want to throw him off his game, and I don’t want to put my mom in her head. I’m here to offer as much emotional support as I can, and that means keeping my own emotions under control.
Mom and Scott confer in low voices for a few minutes as the prosecuting attorney walks in and gets settled, and then the bailiff tells everyone to rise as the judge comes in. Judge Conway is a severe looking woman with a white and gray bob and reading glasses hanging around her neck. She settles herself behind the judge’s desk like a queen settling onto her throne, and nerves prickle my skin.
