23. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Early morning sunshinestretches across the bed and the two snoring golden bodies next to me.
I push aside all thoughts of yesterday’s conversation with Grace and get up with a bounce to my spirit. Today, I want to focus on the steps I need to take to write the novel for Anne. Based on what I’ve gleaned so far from the journals, I have a good sense of the characters and the story. I was up late last night transcribing the final journal. The ink is so faded, the writing shaky, I need to take a break from it. Working on the novel is the perfect change of pace.
Bailey’s head pokes up, and she adjusts her body to a sitting position.
“You ready for breakfast and a walk?” I ask.
Those magic words are all it takes to wake Butterscotch. The two dogs jump down from the bed. Butterscotch heads out of my bedroom. Bailey waits for me, flashing me her adorable puppy eyes that plead for me to move faster.
I laugh. “Okay, I’m coming.” I pull on my jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt. Even though it’s mid-August, the mornings in the area are cooler than I’d like for wearing shorts at this time of day.
I head to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror. Half circles still darken the skin beneath my eyes, but the nightmares aren’t as frequent now, the shadows not as deep.
I go to the toilet, wash up, brush my hair and my teeth, and head downstairs. I tie the laces on my sneakers and clip the dogs’ leashes onto their collars. “Just a quick walk. We can go on a longer one after breakfast.”
I disengage the alarm system and open the door. Two words, scrawled in bright-red paint, scream out against the door’s gray-blue color. COP KILLER.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I stare at the words that weren’t on the door last night when I walked the dogs. I tentatively touch the last letter. My fingertip comes away free of wet paint. Dammit.
Loud, angry voices jerk my attention from the vandalized door to a small group of people standing on the sidewalk in front of my house. Troy painted the door a medium shade, but the color isn’t dark enough to obscure the words. It’s obvious the people glaring at me have also seen them.
I hurriedly shut the door.
Oh, God, there’s no doubting it. I’ve been outed. I don’t know who pulled the trigger that sent the dominos falling after they realized Cora’s article was about me, but it’s clear I can’t escape the truth and the lies.
“I’ll have to take you two into the backyard to do your business,” I tell Bailey and Butterscotch. “Hopefully those people don’t stay out there long.” Surely, they’ve got better things to do.
We go into the garden, which is somewhat secluded from the street. If there was ever a time to be thankful for the tall hedges skirting my garden, now would be it. But they don’t completely hide me. Pockets of bare branches from years of neglect leave me exposed. Vulnerable.
I have no idea what to do about the front door. I don’t have enough paint left to cover the lie.
Fuckers. Fuckers. Fuckers. I pace to the rhythm of the words repeating in my head.
My phone rings on the patio table, the round glass top glinting in the sunlight.
I check who’s calling. Zara. Relief rushes through me. She knows about my past life. She knows me and doesn’t buy into the lies and misinformation surrounding Savannah. “Hi, Zara.” My voice comes out raw and at a loss.
“How’s it going?” There’s a hesitancy in her words. Does she know about the vandalism?
“Not great.” The speed of my pacing picks up. “Someone wrote ‘cop killer’ in red paint on my front door.”
A string of muttered curses comes from Zara’s end, which under any other circumstance would be funny. “I’m so sorry, Jess. I’m at Treats because one of my employees called in sick. I overheard a group of customers discussing that you’re Savannah Townsend, and how you spent five years in a maximum-security prison.”
Wonderful. “What happened? With the discussion.” Do I want to know?
Zara doesn’t answer right away, and I get the feeling she’d rather not tell me. Guess that’s my answer right there.
“What did they say?” I push, dreading her next words but unable to let it go.
“It resulted in a heated conversation.”
“About what?” I close my eyes.
“Whether you really are innocent.” Zara’s normally smooth and smoky voice is reduced to a gravelly whisper.
“And? What was the verdict?”
A loaded silence stretches between us. And with each passing second, growing powerlessness, resentment, and dismay press down on my lungs.
“What was the verdict?” I repeat.
I see Bailey and Butterscotch and grass…
“They decided it didn’t matter if you’re innocent. They said the last thing Maple Ridge wants is someone who was incarcerated with dangerous offenders. You’ll be no better than the…real murderers.” Sorrow colors the tone of Zara’s final words. I barely hear them due to the pounding in my head.
I see…
An ant climbs from a short blade of grass onto a cobblestone.
I see the future I’ve been working toward squished like a stepped-on ant.
I hear…I hear a commotion out front. I hear the angry yells telling me I’m not welcome.
“What’s that noise?”
“The villagers with their pitchforks,” I reply dryly, a quiver to my voice. “I’m about to find out how Dracula felt when the villagers wanted to get rid of him.”They succeeded in killing him. “I guess I need to do a better job at keeping my head than he did.”
Zara snorts a humorless laugh. “Have you called the cops?”
I lower myself onto the cobblestones, all my hopes and dreams sinking with me. “I can’t. What if they believe I was guilty of my husband’s death?” What if they don’t give a damn about the vandalism? Or about my safety?
Robyn asked me at my session over a week ago what makes me feel safe. I told her Troy.
But that only works if he’s here. He’s not due back until tonight.
“Phone Noah,” Zara says. “He’ll know what to do.”
“I can’t. He and Avery left this morning for San Francisco.” They’ll be gone for five days.
“You can still call him.”
“He’s driving, and I won’t dump this on him while they’re away on their romantic getaway.” After what he did to help me renovate my house, I refuse to interrupt their much-earned vacation.
“I’ll be over as soon as I’m done with my shift here. I’ll call Simone in the meanwhile so you’re not alone.” Zara ends the call before I can respond.
I push to my feet, feeling no better than I did prior to her call. I take the dogs inside and feed them. “Maybe Simone can walk you two if she comes over,” I tell them as they gobble their food.
I leave the kitchen while they’re eating and track down the white paint I’ve been using on the floor molding. It’s better than leaving the words on my door, even if the paint doesn’t match the new door color.
I grab the can and a paintbrush and fill a bucket with hot soapy water. I locate an old scrub brush under the sink and step onto the front stoop, leaving the safety of my home.
I shut the door to keep the dogs from getting out.
The crowd hasn’t dissipated in the short time since I woke up. Just the opposite. It’s grown to over a dozen people. A few of them are holding signs proclaiming, Convicts Not Welcome! and Go Back Where You Belong! and Make Our Streets Safe Again!
“Protect our children! Protect our children!” the crowd chants, their voices carrying loud and clear.
“Move away, Savannah, or we’ll make your life miserable!” one woman shouts.
Ignoring them as best as I can, I scrub, scrub, scrub at the paint. I scrub until my hands cramp. Scrub until I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to straighten my fingers again. Not once does the chanting stop.
Tears wet my face, but I refuse to let anyone see I’m crying. Refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing what their mean words do to me.
Nothing ever changes when it comes to the mean words. First it was my late husband who used them, who crushed my self-esteem, my self-worth. Then the inmates and the guards. And now this. It’s just one endless circle of oppression, and I don’t know how to get off.
I dry the door with a wad of paper towels. They come away pink, leaving the red paint no less vibrant than before.
I open the can of white paint. The contents are almost empty. Troy had planned to get more next Friday.
I brush over the two words, but there’s only enough paint for one thin layer. The white paint doesn’t hide the words. If anything, it highlights them.
Damn. What do I do now?
Does it really matter? Everyone will soon know the truth even if it isn’t on the door anymore. The news is spreading like wildfire, and I don’t have a clue how to douse it.
I gather up the supplies and go inside the house, shutting the door behind me.
The chanting switches from “Protect our children” to “Convicts not welcome.” And now someone with a megaphone has joined the group.
I step away from the door and keep moving in reverse, my mind in a daze. My back hits a wall, and I sink to the floor. I cover my ears with my hands and sing Amelia’s lullaby.
Hush-a-bye baby, my sweet little one.
Fall asleep, my love,
And dream of the stars and the sun.
Unicorn wishes and rainbow dreams,
Fairy-tale princesses and butterfly wings.
Hush-a-bye baby, my sweet little one.
I will protect you while you slumber on.
I imagine Amelia as a baby safe in my arms, and I keep singing the lyrics over and over until my throat is hoarse and my body is numb.
No, don’t give them that satisfaction. I’m not the person they think I am.
I stand, fetch my laptop from my bedroom, and go to the kitchen table. I hadn’t gotten around to opening the living room curtains this morning, and now I’m grateful for that. They give me some privacy against the people on the sidewalk.
I get to work, losing myself in the plotting of Angelique’s story.
The doorbell rings, and my heart startles into my throat. I check the time on my phone. I’ve been working for thirty minutes. I was so focused on the plot and the story, I’d blocked out the chanting. But now it’s back, the voices louder than before.
My phone pings with a text.
Simone: Jess, I’m outside your door.
Me: I’ll be right there.
I hurry to the front door, open it while keeping out of view, and let Simone and Jasper into the house. The chanting grows more fevered.
I shut the door with the goal of blocking the noise out. Too bad that was wishful thinking.
“Convicts not welcome! Convicts not welcome! Convicts not welcome!”
Bailey and Butterscotch greet their friend. Simone hugs me tight. It feels so good after the morning I’ve had, I’m afraid to let her go. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll lose her too.
We go into the living room.
“I can’t believe all those people out there,” Simone says. “What the hell is their problem? You were innocent of your late husband’s murder.”
“Not everyone believes that. I don’t even think that’s what their major concern is.”
“Doesn’t matter what it is. They’re wrong.” Simone flashes me a sad smile.
“Unfortunately, they don’t seem to realize that.”
Bailey barks, reminding me I haven’t been able to walk her and Butterscotch. “Do you think you could take the dogs for a walk?” I ask Simone. “I’m afraid of what will happen if I go out there.”
“I can do that.” She splits a glance between the front door and me. “Have you called the cops?”
I shake my head and fold my arms across my chest, trying to keep my pieces together at the thought of calling them.
“You really should.”
“And what will they do? Yes, someone vandalized my front door, but do you think any of those people will tell the cops who did it?” My voice comes out sounding defeated. Fed up. Frustrated. “Do you really think the cops will do anything about the people out there chanting and waving signs at me? They’re not breaking any laws.”
Simone releases a long, agreeing sigh. “I wish the guys were back from their trip. They’d know what to do.” Unfortunately, there’s no cell reception where they are.
A grin curves my lips, despite the gravity of my situation. “They only have to stand outside and flex their muscles. That might be enough to chase some of those people away.”
She laughs. “You might be right about that. All right,” she says to the three dogs. “You ready to go for a walk?”
They bark and rush to the door.
“Text me if things get unruly.” Simone tilts her head toward the closed curtains.
My stomach twists just thinking about what’s waiting for her outside. Sure, we’re not talking the zombie apocalypse, but those people might end up being just as dangerous. “Be careful out there. That mob might take offense to you helping me.”
Lucas will never forgive me if something should happen to his wife.
“I’m not too worried about them. They won’t do anything to hurt me. I’ve got three guard dogs.”
“I hardly think two large energetic puppies count as guard dogs.”
Simone chuckles. “You clearly haven’t been jumped on by an overly eager Jasper. He doesn’t realize his own strength sometimes.”
They leave, and I peer through the narrow gap in the curtains, making sure they get past the crowd without being harassed. A few people yell at her. She scowls at them but doesn’t respond.
Simone and the dogs walk away from the growing crowd. I remain at the window, watching for her return.
A police cruiser pulls up in front of the house. The officer climbs out but doesn’t appear to be in a rush to do anything. He takes his time to assess the situation on the sidewalk.
I recognize him. He’s the same officer who came to the door when Violet went missing, and he questioned me about her disappearance. Troy knows him. Roy or Royce or something like that. The man is in his mid-thirties. Works out. Light-brown hair. Nothing particularly noteworthy about him. No scars or visible tattoos peeking from under the short sleeves of his uniform.
He walks up to the protesters, his long stride slow and easy, and I can tell I’ll get no support from him.
Some of the protesters smile and nod at him like they know him. Which they probably do.
I’m the stranger, the one to be judged and scorned.
A few faces I do recognize in the crowd, but it’s not because I’ve spoken with my neighbors. I’ve only seen them walking on the sidewalk or on their front lawn. Except for with Delores, I’ve mostly kept to myself, too afraid that someone on the street would recognize me.
Guess the joke is on me.
The officer chats with the protesters for a few minutes. No one appears offended by what he has to say. Nor do they disband, taking their hateful signs with them.
Once he’s finished catching up with everyone, or whatever he’s doing out there, he casually strolls up the path to my house. He draws closer, his hand going to the butt of the gun in his holster. The officer has already labeled me. I’m the troublemaker. The dangerous offender. The risk to everyone’s safety.
He disappears from my view, which means he’s on my front stoop. The doorbell rings.
I want to pretend I didn’t hear it, stay sheltered in my home. But at the same time, I don’t want to be a prisoner in it.
My breath shaky and my limbs trembling, I go to the foyer, disengage the alarm, and open the door.
“I received a report of vandalism.” The cop’s tone is stiff and unfriendly. I can guarantee it’s not the same one he used a few moments ago with the crowd.
“You did?”
“Yes, Zara Thompson called it in.” He takes in the red letters on the door. “Do you have any idea who wrote that?”
“No. I was sleeping when it happened.”
“I don’t suppose you have any surveillance cameras for the door?” He looks up at the wall under the roof overhang.
“No, only an alarm to let me know if someone tries to break in.”
“That’s too bad.” His voice lacks any hint of disappointment. It’s neutral at best. His gaze falls to the door again. “Did you attempt to paint over the words or did someone else do that?”
“I did it.” I hold the doorknob tighter, hiding the tremor in my hand. I don’t want to give away that he scares me and give him an advantage.
He blows a hard breath over pursed lips. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about it. If there was evidence that could lead to an arrest, it was destroyed when you painted the door. Next time, don’t touch the crime scene until after an officer tells you it’s okay to disturb the area.”
Next time? God, please tell me there won’t be a next time.
“What about those people?” I point to the protesters.
“What about them?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Does he need me to spell things out? “Aren’t they disrupting the peace? Or at the very least, harassing me?” I already know his answer, but maybe he’ll surprise me.
“As long as they stay off your property and don’t break any laws, there’s not much I can do about them.”
“So what? I have to put up with them yelling at me and making me feel unsafe?” Now that the officer is at my front door, the yelled threats have ceased. People are still chanting but at a more respectful volume.
I’m not deluding myself into believing it will stay that way after he leaves the street.
“I’m sure they’ll grow bored soon, and things will go back to normal in no time.” He nods at me and heads to his cruiser. He doesn’t bother to stop and reprimand the crowd.
And I’m left wishing Troy was coming home soon instead of later tonight.