Chapter 4 Willow
Willow
Fourteen years old…
“We’re gonna be late.”
I roll my eyes at my mother. The charity dinner doesn’t start until eight, and it’s only five o’clock. She picked me up from the private school I attend, and we’ve been racing around town ever since. Mother insists that we take a hostess gift to the dinner, even though it’s not at anyone’s house.
“I don’t think the police chief cares about a gift, Mother,” I say.
“Willow Grace, watch your tone with me,” she snaps, clearly not in the mood.
I hate when she gets like this. Normally, I have fun with her. She takes me shopping, to the movies, and on girls’ days at the spa. But not today. Today, I get the socialite, not the mom.
“Can you turn on the radio?” I ask, knowing that arguing with her is pointless.
She does, and I grin as “Let Me Go” by 3 Doors Down comes through the speakers. If my father were in the car, he'd immediately change the station to some boring oldies crap, but not Mother. Music is one thing we have in common.
“We’ve just been informed that a sentence has been handed down to Craig Hunter for the triple homicide he was found guilty of earlier this year,” the radio host announces as the song fades out.
“Mr. Hunter was sentenced to death by lethal injection and remanded to SCI Somerset, where he’ll wait for his execution date. ”
My stomach cramps at the thought of Mr. Hunter sitting in a cold jail cell. My parents don’t know it, but I followed the widely publicized trial, and when the jury found him guilty, I almost cried. I’m a teenager, and even I recognized the fact that he wasn’t getting a fair trial.
“That should make this dinner more interesting,” Mother comments dryly.
I don’t say anything to that, but she’s not wrong. The dinner is being held for the police department, the very people who investigated the triple murder, and I’m sure there’ll be a lot of backslapping and good ol’ boy congratulations for how the case panned out.
An hour later, we arrive home, and I race inside the moment Mother puts the car in park in the garage. Tossing my book bag onto the floor just inside the door, I rush through the house to my bedroom.
“Willow Grace!” Mother’s voice booms behind me. “Come get your backpack off the floor.”
I do as I’m told before returning to my room. Slamming the door shut, I flip the lock, so I’m not interrupted. I drop to my knees next to my bed and pull out the box I’ve kept hidden underneath.
Clipped newspaper articles taunt me from the top of the huge pile I’ve collected regarding Mr. Hunter’s arrest and trial. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with this case, but from the moment I saw him on TV being led into the police station, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
I don’t have a lot of time before I have to jump in the shower to start getting ready for the evening’s events, so I grab a notebook out of my book bag, as well as a pen. At my age, there’s nothing I can do about Mr. Hunter’s sentence, but maybe, just maybe, I can put a smile on his face.
Dear Mr. Hunter,
You don’t know me, but I feel like I know you. I’ve watched your trial, and I wanted you to know that I think you’re innocent. I’m only 14 so there’s nothing I can do to help prove it, but I hope that receiving this letter will at least make you realize that there are people who believe in you.
Sincerely,
W.G.
I debate on using my actual name but decide against it. I might believe he didn’t do what he was found guilty of, but I’m not stupid.
What if I’m wrong?