Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
I spent two days in the Wilcox County jail.
A small gray building stripped of color and any semblance of activity.
The stillness pressed in from every angle, broken only by the occasional scrape of boots on the concrete floor.
Just three guards, three pairs of eyes, watched me and one other prisoner.
It’s strange how life has a way of repeating itself, of looping back, forming a vicious circle you don’t notice until you’re ensnared in it.
The hours stretched on, each one dragging its feet, as if time itself were reluctant to pass and the walls inched closer with every tick of the clock.
Being there should have hurt more. But it didn’t.
I stared at the walls, and for just a moment, only a minute, I was somewhere else.
The flat surface became a mirror to my soul, reflecting fragments of the woman I used to be and the woman I became.
I watched her, the one who survived the crash, who chased down her demons, who dared to love, and waited.
I should be more disappointed that I was here now.
What should have felt like a slice through me moved like a sigh, a breath that had been released.
Time, in a way it had never been, seemed like something I could finally hold, something that belonged to me. I would never again fear the future.
With a wobble in her voice and her hands trembling, Carly called the local police first and explained the situation.
The officer dismissed her call as a hoax, the scoff a hard sound that echoed through the phone.
It seemed inconceivable to them that an escaped felon had been hiding out in Wilcox County for almost nine months.
Things like that don’t happen in small towns, the officer snorted.
Frustrated, she hung up and called the tip line in South Carolina, who was a little more receptive but not by much.
They asked her a series of questions about me, my height, and other identifying features, and she responded, but they remained skeptical of her answers.
After months of tips, the case had grown cold.
For good reason.
They didn’t believe that I had survived.
Because I shouldn’t have. The evidence stood too overwhelming to argue with.
Officials toured the sight of the impact and surveyed the wreckage up close.
Saw the jagged rocks that jutted from the cliff and up from the ground like broken teeth.
Saw the crushed and twisted remains of the bus, its metal skin crumpled like a piece of discarded paper.
There was no way someone had lived through that. The others hadn’t.
They believed that even if I had survived the crash, I’d have died of my wounds, been finished off by those wild dogs. And the same vultures that had circled me overhead carried my bones to the wind.
They weren’t going to chase a flimsy lead all the way to Alabama without hard evidence.
It wasn’t until Carly sent them a picture of Officer Madison’s driver’s license that they finally believed her.
They called local authorities and asked that I be picked up and held until someone from South Carolina could arrive.
Walt visited. I heard him before I saw him, his voice carrying through the walls of the small jail, his cane tapping like a leaky faucet on the concrete floor. He turned the corner with a Styrofoam container in his hand.
“I figured you might be hungry. The food probably ain’t shit in here,” he said, rotating the container to fit through the bars.
I smiled. Same ole Walt. “You didn’t have to come. I don’t want this to come anywhere near you.”
Walt waved a dismissive hand as he moved a chair from the corner so he could sit just on the other side of the bars.
“What are they going to do, arrest an old man?” A small grin tugged at the skin between his eyes.
He pointed to the container. “Eat up. I hear they are moving you soon. May be the last decent meal you have for a while.”
I opened the lid, and the smell of fried chicken and cabbage wafted up, transporting me back to those early days with him, our lunches, the kindness that he had shown me for no reason other than he could.
“I never thanked you for what you did for me,” I said as a tear dropped onto the container in a splat.
“And you don’t have to,” he said, a half smile crooking one end of his mouth. “I should be the one thanking you. You got the town all riled up. I ain’t seen nothing like it. And you know I love my gossip.”
I laughed, a quick sound. “I do.”
Walt’s face turned serious, and a shadow swept across it. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anybody I could call?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have anyone. It’s just me.”
He nodded. “What am I, chopped liver? Now…I’ll do my best to write you. I don’t see as good as I used to, but I’ll do my best.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I don’t care what they said you did. You’re a good girl, Leigh.” He leaned in closer and reached out his hand. “If you don’t mind me still calling you that.”
“I don’t mind,” I said, touching his hand. “I don’t mind at all.”
With nothing left to say, Walt stood and tapped his cane on the ground. “You’re going to be all right,” he said with a quick peck to my hand. He didn’t look back, and I didn’t watch him leave. Neither of us wanted to see the tears in each other’s eyes.
The next day, officials from South Carolina arrived.
They compared my new mug shot with my old one, scrutinizing every detail, and took fresh fingerprints before finally confirming that I was indeed Leandra Wildes, prisoner #4545.
They still couldn’t believe it. They spent the day interviewing me, drilling me with questions, asking me about every detail of the bus crash, how I’d survived, and my movements after.
Each question recalled the memory of that day, of Officer’s Madison’s bravery, the chaos, the fear, and the choices I’d made in the aftermath.
One of the officers chuckled to himself as he jotted in his notebook. “I must say…you were pretty lucky.”
I cringed at the word.
“Excuse me?” I said.
I was aware of my rights to have a lawyer present, but I waived them.
It wasn’t out of bravado, though it may have looked that way.
I wasn’t interested in a game of legal theatrics.
I wasn’t innocent, and I wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
I’d made my decision. That was me standing on it and facing whatever came next.
I didn’t deny anything but one detail, one thing that gnawed at me every time they said it.
That I ran. And I didn’t push back at first, allowing the statement to settle in the air, like a conclusion.
They thought it was enough to describe me with that one word, carve me into something that didn’t fit.
But it wasn’t true. Not exactly. Not in the way they meant it.
I didn’t run.
I walked away, each step deliberate and filled with purpose.
The difference was subtle, but it mattered.
The officers exchanged glances, narrowing their eyes at me when I corrected them.
They were focused on the story, their version of events, completely oblivious to the meaning of my statement.
They would never understand the distinction.
I wasn’t running from them. I was choosing to leave on my own terms. Maybe you understand, though.
Maybe you can understand the defiance and freedom in walking away.
After Walt’s visit, I secretly hoped for another one.
But deep down, I knew he couldn’t come. In my statements to the police, I made it clear that Jackson, Tibb, and Luke had no idea of my true identity.
And a visit from them could cause doubts.
But they were with me, in my heart, in my memories.
My fellow wildflowers. They would always live there, have a home there, just like the one they gave me.
It would be enough to remember them to get me through whatever came next.
The night before I was scheduled to leave, the door creaked opened, and a figure walked in.
I didn’t need to look to know that it was Jackson.
I knew in the rhythm of his steps, the slight shuffle, the drag of his boots on the floor after walking with him every night for months.
I knew in the way he breathed, the way the air shifted when he inhaled, having been nestled within his embrace for months. Despite the risk, he had come.
He walked in dressed as usual, hands shoved in the pockets of his carpenter pants, a white T-shirt clinging to his chest, suspenders hanging on his shoulders.
His face was darker now, with the skin under his eyes bruised with exhaustion, his mouth set in a hard line.
As he took a hand out to touch the bars, a fresh cut, a thin line against his rough skin, ran across his knuckles, and I almost cried at the sight of it, something so small yet so in keeping with Jackson, so perfect.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice gravel scraping against metal.
Even now, my safety concerned him, and that cracked something inside of me, something I thought I’d sealed away.
I thought I made my peace with not seeing him again, but the truth was, I wasn’t ready for this.
I drew in a shaky breath, forcing it to fill my lungs, to still the tremble building inside of me.
I had to hold it together, understanding that this would be the last time I saw Jackson.
We needed a proper goodbye. One last moment that stayed whole.
“No, they’ve actually been very nice.”
He looked around, his eyes not focusing on anything, and paced the small space, his body stiff and rigid as a board, his jaw clenched.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” I said, now approaching the bars and wrapping my hands around them, gripping them tight.
He snuffed, an ugly sound that echoed. “I wasn’t going to come.”