27. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Baileyand I step out the back door of my house, a floppy straw hat on my head. The early Monday morning sunlight greets us, painting long shadows across the garden.
At some point during the evening, the reporters and protesters called it a night. But a bunch of them have reappeared since daybreak. They’re quiet now, but as soon as they see me that will no doubt end.
I lock the door and head for the gate with Troy, Butterscotch, and Bailey walking alongside me. Troy opens the gate. The hinges squeak, alerting the reporters and protesters to our escape.
I hurry to the passenger side of the truck with Troy as my shadow, and open the rear door to let Butterscotch in.
“Protect our children! Convicts not welcome!”
And here we go again.
I shut the door, and Bailey and I climb into the front passenger seat. She settles between my legs.
I place the straw hat on my lap and fasten my seat belt.
“Protect our children! Convicts not welcome!”
“I take it they didn’t lose their voices last night. Well, that’s disappointing,” I grumble. “Don’t any of them work?” I yawn, unable to chase away the exhaustion due to last night’s nightmares.
Troy turns over the engine. “I recognize a few stay-at-home moms. They probably dumped the kids at the grandparents’ bright and early so they could be a menace on your street.”
I snort a half laugh, but I don’t dare to glance out the window to see how many young mothers we’re talking about.
“You wanna come to the beach again with me and Nova today?” he asks.
My heart aches with longing, but I scoff. “Not the best idea. Reporters might follow me.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang, but maybe I could join them. Would it be so bad if I saw her? After all, the reporters aren’t following us. And if I felt she was in danger, I’d leave.
Maybe some time spent building sandcastles with a kid again is just what I need. I had so much fun hanging out with the two of them last week.
The more I think about the idea, excitement whooshes inside me on a rush of adrenaline.
“Actually, yes,” I tell him, a wide smile tugging on my mouth. “I’d love to join you two.”
I open the photo app on my phone and go to the folder with various pictures I’ve recently edited. My feel-good photos. Flowers shimmering with raindrops. Butterflies sunning on blossoms. A magical forest. A shirtless Troy smiling at me like I’m something special. His warm smile even now sends my heart fluttering.
I flip to the photo Grace sent me three days ago of Amelia playing with her dog. I touch her grinning face, my heart soaring. She’s so beautiful. So happy.
A thud next to my head startles me, and I make a noise that’s part gasp, part shriek. The dogs bark.
The truck jerks to a stop. “What the fuck!” Troy says, his tight tone filling the cab.
Yolk and egg white and bits of smashed shell slip down the passenger window like debris caught in a mudslide.
Several women are standing near the truck with what could be smug expressions. It’s hard to tell for sure through the slimy mess covering the window.
Troy is out the truck and storming to my side before I realize what’s happening.
The small group of men and women standing on the driveway take a collective step back, their smirks dropping away.
I lift my phone and record the scene in front of me and the potential suspects for the egging. Maybe it was the same person who wrote COP KILLER on my front door.
Troy painted over the words last night, completely obscuring them with several layers of white paint that he had at his house. But the damage has been done. Everyone on the street now knows my true identity. It doesn’t matter how many coats of paint cover the door—he can’t erase the lie from everyone’s mind. He can’t erase the prejudices the lie will cause.
“Who threw the egg?” Troy demands.
“What the hell are you doing hangin’ out with that dangerous ex-con?” an older men yells at Troy. His arms are heavily tattooed and his hair is shaved short. “I expected better from you.”
“And I expected better from you, Mr. Whitman. We both fought in wars to protect civilians who were being stripped of their rights. And yet here you are, not extending the same courtesy to a woman who was wrongfully accused of a crime and stripped of her rights.”
“Doesn’t make a difference if she were innocent or not. She wasn’t stayin’ in a day spa. She wasn’t makin’ macramé hangers in some fancy-ass rehab center. She was hangin’ out with the worst of the worst.”
“She’s lived on this street for the past five months. Has she given anyone a reason to believe she’s a dangerous offender? No, she hasn’t. Just the opposite.”
Troy’s words mean the world to me, but it’s clear from everyone’s frowns I was the only one moved by them. These people are like the jury who found me guilty of a crime I didn’t do—unable to see beyond what they and the prosecutor believe to be the facts.
“Give her time. Her true colors will shine through, and you’ll realize how wrong you were, Troy.” The man doesn’t walk away. He stands his ground like I imagine he did when he fought in whatever war he’d served in.
I want to scream like I longed to do so many times while I was married and while I was in prison, but that won’t make a difference. Other than Troy, no one will hear my voice. No one will listen to what I have to say.
No one moves, and there’s nothing Troy can do to make them go away. If he uses force to get them to leave me alone, he’ll be the one facing assault charges.
As long as they toe the right side of the law, there’s nothing he and I can do.
He can report the egging, but that won’t do anything since we don’t know who threw the eggs. And the police will hardly give a damn about it. It’s not exactly their top priority.
* * *
After the roughstart to my day—and the delay with getting to work—the rest of the morning passes without incident. Troy is scheduled to spend the entire day at a job site on the outskirts of town, so it’s quiet in the office.
A text pings on my phone from him.
Troy: How are things going?
He’s been texting me every thirty minutes. It’s amazing he’s getting any work done.
Me: Quiet.
Troy: Good. Let me know if you need anything.
Me: Will do.
I send him another text.
Me: Looking forward to spending time with you and Nova later.
I scroll through the previous messages. I could send him a dirty text to spice things up a little, but do I want to risk Lance or someone else seeing it? Definitely not. I’ve got enough going on without adding mortified every time I see Lance to the list.
I pull up the photo on my phone again that Grace sent me on Saturday of Amelia. My little girl turns eight on Sunday. I haven’t heard from Craig or Grace since I called Grace—other than when she texted the picture—but maybe they’ll be okay if I send Amelia a birthday present.
Or I can give it to her when I see her.
An image slips into my thoughts of Amelia smiling at the gift like she’s smiling in the photo Grace sent me. The pure delight on her face lightens my heart, brings a grin to my face.
I get back to work, but the image in my head sticks around for the next hour. I’m not sure what to get her—but I want to get her something to celebrate her birthday. It will be the first time in over five years I’ve been able to buy her a present.
I grab my lunch and purse from the bottom desk drawer. “There’s somewhere I need to go,” I tell Bailey, “before we go to the park for lunch.” I pull on the floppy straw hat to conceal my identity as much as possible and lock the door to the reception area on our way out.
The weather is warm with only a few clouds speckling the sky overhead. Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon, but since Troy is driving us home, I won’t have to worry about getting soaked.
Praying no one realizes who I am—my hands trembling at the possibility—I walk to Main Street with Bailey by my side. No one seems to give me a second glance. Or at the very least they don’t say anything that I overhear.
We stop outside Little Wonders, the children’s store where I applied for a job shortly after moving to Maple Ridge. I haven’t been inside it since. There hasn’t been a need to until now.
I don’t know if they’re okay with Bailey entering the store with only a Service Dog in Training vest, so I tie her leash to the nearby empty bike rack. “I won’t be long.”
The woman who interviewed me is busy with a customer at the till. They don’t look my way. I’m good with that.
I walk up and down the aisles, checking the different gift possibilities, and end up in the craft section. I have no idea what eight-year-old Amelia would like for her birthday, but the craft kits feel like a safe bet. I loved doing crafts with Granny at that age.
Female voices approach on the other side of the shelves where I’m standing.
“If Savannah was really abused like she claimed during the trial,” the slightly high, nasally voice says, “then why didn’t she leave her husband? I can tell you if Frank laid a hand on me, I would walk out and not give him another chance.”
“No kidding,” the other woman responds, her voice smooth like whipped cream—minus the sugar. “Who doesn’t have a husband who gets angry from time to time. But if it gets bad, you just leave. You don’t stick around ’cause he said he’s sorry.”
“Do you think she killed her husband?”
“It’s hard to know for sure. Stewart believes she had an accomplice. I don’t think she was that smart. It was dumb luck if you ask me.”
Nasally Voice scoffs. “She probably got some nice insurance money from it.”
“I read California paid her a million dollars.” A bitter tone curdles the second woman’s voice.
A million?I frown. Is that what the article said or what she remembers the amount to be, her memory inflating the real value fourfold?
Nasally Voice responds, but I don’t catch what she says, the words too soft to be heard from where I’m standing.
“Guess that’s how she could afford to buy that old house and renovate it.” The other woman doesn’t even bother to keep the volume of her voice low. “I can’t believe Anne Carstairs didn’t know Savannah or Jessica or whatever she goes by had just been released from prison. What kind of person rents out their house without doing a criminal check on the applicant?”
“She was probably just happy to have someone rent the run-down old place.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from responding. If not for Anne’s kindness and generosity, I wouldn’t have had a place to stay after I was released from prison. I wouldn’t have had a safe haven while I figured out the next part of my life.
And in trying to repay Anne for her kindness, I’ve become indebted to her and her great-aunt again. Transcribing the journals for Anne has given me hope.
Be strong.
The Jessica who first moved to Maple Ridge would have slunk out the store door and never returned. But I’m not that woman anymore. If Angelique could survive against the SOE agent who became a Nazi collaborator, I can survive the ill-informed Maple Ridge residents.
I select a craft kit from the shelf. It’s for growing a small fairy garden and is perfect for Amelia’s age. I bet if Johann’s sister, Anja, had been a kid today, she would have loved it.
The women’s voices move away, and it sounds like they’re returning to the till.
I head that way, carrying the kit, and remove my hat. I’m not looking to hide my identity for what I’m about to do.
“Hi.” I put the box on the counter so they know I’m a paying customer. “I heard what you were saying about abused women.” My voice comes out annoyingly cracked, the volume barely louder than a whisper. I try to clear my throat, but my rapidly thumping heart is wedged in there. “How you think they can easily walk away from their abusive husbands or boyfriends like I can walk out of this store.”
Be brave.
My palms grow clammy, and I release a quick breath. “With some men, it might be possible to leave them. But with many others, the abuse starts out slow, hardly recognizable at first as abuse. It’s not until later, when all the pieces of the puzzle slot together, that the woman understands she’s been in an abusive relationship all this time but didn’t realize it.”
The two women stare at me, their cheeks pinking. I make the most of their mute state and power on, determined to get in my say before they come to their senses. Before they argue their misguided beliefs about abused women that society commonly clings to.
“Some men might realize they have an issue and are willing to get counseling. They love their wife and don’t want to lose their family,” I continue. “But many are more like my late husband. The man doesn’t love his wife. His wife is a possession, and he’ll do anything to keep from losing her. Even if it means killing her. He’ll stalk her and track her down if she does try to go.”
A memory creeps in of flashing red-and-blue lights from a cruiser parked behind my car. Amelia was asleep in her car seat, unaware of my attempt to escape her father. “There is no one-size-fits-all with abusive partners. Nor is there a one-size-fits-all with leaving them. And even if the woman escapes him, she’s left with a shitload of emotional scars the world doesn’t see.”
Be a voice.
I try to swallow the pain that scalds my throat with each word. “The woman has to start her life over and figure out who she is because the abuser stole her self-esteem, her self-worth, her identity. He left her always questioning herself. Blaming herself. Doubting herself. And if she has children, she has to do all of that while facing the challenges of being a single mother.”
I push the kit closer to the woman behind the counter, the fire in me burning brighter, hotter. “Survivors of abuse don’t deserve to be misjudged. They don’t deserve the common belief they can just walk away if they are being abused. They don’t deserve being condemned for falling for the wrong man, a man who is skilled at manipulation. Survivors of abuse want compassion and understanding. They don’t deserve the blame society puts on them for the situation they found themselves in.”
Damn, it felt good to get all of that off my chest. To spew out the lava of words I’ve held back for too long.
The women stare at me, their faces flushed. But their stunned silence only lasts a fraction of a heartbeat. The woman behind the counter narrows her eyes, her gaze falling to the scar by my mouth. “That might be so…” She snatches up the garden kit and puts it under the counter. “But I don’t sell to dangerous offenders.”
My stomach tightens, and a winter freeze smothers my fire and fight. “I’m not a dangerous offender.” The strength behind my voice stumbles and falters. “I’ve never physically hurt anyone, and I have no intention of starting.”
The redness of the woman’s face deepens, and her jaw muscle jumps. “That’s what you say, but it doesn’t mean anything. Now, leave unless you want me to call the police.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong. I just want to buy a birthday present for my…” I shove down the rest of the words before I reveal too much.
“I don’t care who you want to buy a present for. You’ll have to get it somewhere else.” The woman glares at me with such cold intensity, I shudder.
The other woman’s eyes are no warmer.
The fire and voice I found a moment ago, that spoke of the injustices abused women deal with, fail to reignite. I nod and walk out the door, my body shaking.
I untie Bailey’s leash and head for the park. After what happened in the store, my appetite has bailed, so I just walk around the park, keeping a distance from everyone.
My phone pings with a text.
Troy: How are things?
Me: They’re good.
I ignore his follow-up texts, defeat and frustration crushing me.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles, like someone is watching me. I glance at my surroundings, my muscles taut. No one seems to be paying attention to me, and the media hasn’t tracked me here.
But even so, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being stalked.
I’ve suddenly become the prey.