Prologue
EVE
Five Years Ago
Douglas McCavern drops to one knee in front of me. His reassuring grip holds me in place, one thumb wiping away the single tear rolling down my cheek. He’s been my rock through this process. My shield against a nightmarish week, after nearly being ripped away from my mother.
“Eve, you’ve been incredibly strong today. This is the final push, and then it all goes away.” He’s a thin man, with an oversized head and hands that don’t match his proportions.
The kicker is his big old nose. The first day we met, Douglas made fun of it, to ease the burden of my court proceedings. I can’t remember the joke, but I remember laughing at it. Shy, humbled laughter. As if I was in the wrong for giggling at another person making fun of himself.
“We’re so proud of you, baby. Everything you’ve done today, and during this trial. You’re going to be okay, my little angel,” my momma says. She reeks of stale alcohol. She’s standing behind Douglas, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder.
Some lady came by during the trial and said they wanted to take me away from momma. Douglas managed to stop it from happening.
“I’m scared,” my voice sounds foreign to me, and I gaze at the giant double doors. Beyond this wooden barrier, chattering voices can be heard, all waiting for our exit with keen anticipation.
“Don’t be, little one,” Douglas’s voice is rich, deep, and soothing. “The hard part’s done. Soon, your life will go back to normal.”
Back to normal? Is it even possible?
“I’m ready,” I say. There’s no point in delaying this. Douglas has given me all the advice he can, to ensure the process runs smoothly. He stands up straight, towering over me and Momma. He extends his hand. I take it without a second thought.
He turns to Momma, and she gives him a nod. Together, the three of us push through the doors of the Jackson, Wyoming courthouse.
Reporters line the sidewalk; they are rabid dogs, frothing at the mouth for their next story. The police have set up a barricade and are holding the line against the reporters, who are all barking questions simultaneously.
“Couldn’t you have done more to ensure Jeremiah Williams will never do this again?” The first question is directed at Douglas, the lawyer who handled my case. Douglas shields my head, guiding me down the first few steps.
Protesters have gathered among the reporters.
Most of them are in favor of the verdict, but a smaller group standing off to one side opposes the judge’s decision.
The sounds of cheering and the chanting of various slogans come from both groups.
With the police around, neither are brave enough to cause actual havoc.
“Eight years is hardly a just sentence for a man like him. Abduction of a minor should incur a life sentence,” one of them shouts. The words WHY MUST THE WEAK SUFFER? loom over me, written in black across pink and blue signs.
“Inconclusive,” someone scoffs at the verdict. “The girl was left in Jeremiah’s care by her mother. She lied, and put a good man in prison. He didn’t touch that little liar.”
But, he did.
The crowd gets riled up. Each new comment is met by the bright flashing lights of cameras, catching every second for tomorrow’s newspaper. This morning’s read: Eve Gardener, Sowing the Seeds of Deception?
The questions are getting lost in a wall of noise.
Douglas’s pace starts to quicken, rushing me to my mother’s cherry-red Honda Civic, which is parked on the street nearby.
Between the voices, the cameras, and the police force encircling us, my heart begins pounding.
I nearly freeze in fear, yet my drive to leave pushes me forward. All I want to do is scream.
Momma’s and my name get shouted repeatedly, followed by questions I can’t answer. Hands reach out, even from behind the police, shoving microphones in our faces. I can’t hear their words anymore. It’s only a garbled mess of noise, escaping a massive-limbed beast, trying to entrap me.
“She’s just a girl. Leave her alone, you animals,” Douglas roars over their questions.
His reassuring grip grows tighter on my hand.
I turn to look up at him. His frame shields me from the sun.
A goofy grin is on full display. It warms my heart, and reassures me that we can get through this, together.
We’re on the final push now. We’re so close to our destination.
All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other.
The car door’s already open, a police officer standing ready to shepherd us into the car.
But, like any horrible situation, I don’t escape unscathed. As we reach the car, a voice cuts through the noise of reporters. It’s familiar, though different somehow. It’s a whiskey-soaked Jeremiah Williams. Pins and needles tear through my body, and I freeze at the sight of the speaker.
“How do you feel sending an innocent boy to his death in prison? You’re a sinner.
You and your bitch mother,” a pot-bellied Bart says.
He’s older, with greying hair and sideburns to match.
But, those devious, predatory eyes are the same.
Two pits of brown, so close to black. It’s as though I’m sizing up the Devil himself.
I stop, paralyzed in fear as my captor stands before me. Logic and reason go out the window.
He might as well be Jeremiah. But it can’t be. Jeremiah’s off to prison now. So who is this man? Of course, I should’ve recognized him immediately. He was a key witness in Jeremiah’s defense. It’s his father, Bart. With my mind in turmoil, it’s no wonder I can’t reach a logical conclusion.
There’s only fear.
“I didn’t…”
Before I can finish my sentence, Douglas has me raised in his arms and is gently placing me onto the back seat of the Civic. He shuts the door. He’s angry, and he shoves a finger in the old man’s face.
“You stay the fuck away from her, Bart,” Douglas yells, his finger closing into a fist.
“You going to let him get away with threatening me?” comes Bart’s reply, with an accusatory finger pointed at a cop.
Douglas doesn’t respond, just helps Momma into her seat. He doesn’t waste a second getting to the driver’s seat and he starts the engine.
Reporters continue barking questions, while protesters continue their chanting, but Douglas speeds off, taking us to safety.
But, even at his dangerous speeds and with a police escort, it doesn’t feel fast enough.