Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Eric Whitley’s family.”
“That’s right.”
I note there’s no mention of David Combs’s family. But they were only up here for David’s job and they left soon after his death, wanting to move on from the entire tragedy. Where the Whitleys would have fought to bring back the death penalty, Melissa Combs asked the court for clemency on my behalf. Neither family got what they wanted.
“Is that gonna be a problem?” Glen asks.
“No, but I wouldn’t know them to see them.” Jessica Whitley came to the sentencing meeting, but it’s been decades. The kids were young. I’d never be able to pick them out of a crowd.
I once wrote letters to Jessica and Melissa to apologize for what happened. It was part of my therapy, when I finally started going. Melissa wrote back a few months later. She had moved on, remarried, and said she held no ill-will toward me.
An envelope from Jessica came back, stuffed with my letter, shredded to bits, the message loud and clear: There would be no forgiveness.
I can’t blame her.
Glen peers at me over his reading glasses. “You better get to know their faces just so you can avoid them. If you don’t, Brad Whitley will pursue a restraining order against you. How far he’ll get with that, I have no idea, but it’s not a good look for someone on parole.”
“How do you know this?”
Glen sighs heavily. “Because he paid me a visit. Maybe thirty minutes before you showed up.”
My eyebrows arch. “You’re kidding me. Brad Whitley came here?” Isn’t that some sort of violation?
“Ask Farrah if you don’t believe me.” He waves a dismissive hand toward the door.
I don’t need to. That’s what her comment meant. “What’d he say?”
“He’s convinced you’re a danger to the community, and he’s made it clear he’d like to see you back behind bars tomorrow.”
“And what’d you say?”
“That he doesn’t make the rules, no matter which tiny hiccup of a town they named after his grandfather or how much money he has.”
Interesting. “You’re not a fan of the Whitleys.”
“I’m here to make sure you keep yourself out of prison, not help put you back in, ’kay? I’m here for you. Consider me your fan, Logan.”
I snort. “How often do you use that line?”
His smile is tight. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve had plenty of failures, like Dorsey, but I’ve also had successes. Men who needed a second chance and someone to believe in them. Now, I don’t know what kind of kid you were back then.” He taps the folder holding my past. “Your file doesn’t read like the Travis Dorseys and the Ian Murphys of the world.”
“I’m not like them.”
“But prison changes a person. Especially when you’ve been inside as long as you have.” He reopens a folder, flips through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for, holding up one of my bare torso and the stitches, and another of Dorsey’s swollen, battered face.
Sometimes I can still feel his bones breaking under my fist.
“I think you learned that too.” Glen tucks them away. “You’re gonna be seeing me for the next eight-odd years, unless I keel over from eating one too many poutines from Sam’s Chip Truck or I catch that winning lottery ticket. So do us both a big favor and stay the fuck away from the Whitleys. Got it?”
Chapter 12
Emery
I drop heavily in the black leather salon chair.
“So …” Breanne repositions it in front of the mirror before her fingers weave through my hair. “What are we doing this time?”
I glare at the reflection. A tired, sallow face stares back. “Something that fixes this.” Though highlights and a blowout aren’t going to magically erase the dark bags under my eyes.
“One of those weeks, huh? Thought that might be the case.” She sashays over to the mini bar in the corner and retrieves a bottle of chardonnay, pouring me a glass. “Your favorite.”
“You are the best. Seriously.” When Breanne said she was leaving the salon she worked at to open her own little place in her backyard with more flexible hours, I was ecstatic, and that was before I discovered these added perks.
“I know. Remember that when you tip me.” She winks as she hands me a glass and then studies my hair with a furrowed forehead. “Let’s freshen up those highlights, get rid of the dead ends, and add a few long layers around the front to frame your face. A bit different but not too different.”
I suck back a sizable gulp of wine. “At this point, you could shave it off and I don’t think I’d care.”
“You do have nice bone structure—”
“Let’s do it.” I aim to take another mouthful, only this time I miss my lips, spilling wine all over my shirt. “Perfect. That’s just … great. I couldn’t wait until you put the cape on me.”