Authors: Ranae Rose
So now she was left back at the drawing board – the one she’d never even left. And it was beginning to look like it might be easier to prove that Donovan had been home all night during the night of Trevor’s murder than it would be to discover who else might’ve done it. So when she reached the house, she walked upstairs to the bedroom, where he’d slept in her arms, innocent and dreaming.
He hadn’t even gotten up to sleepwalk – he’d been calm the entire night, ignorant of the events that had been taking place, of the body being dumped in the ditch down the road and how it would affect his life.
If only they’d been out in public that night, where someone else might have seen them. Problem was, there was nothing to do in the middle of the night in Willow Heights.
A better scenario would’ve been if they’d stayed longer in Florida. They’d had such a good time … she’d wanted to stay. Now, knowing that they’d returned in time for Donovan to be implicated in a murder filled her with self-resentment. It had all been for her, all for her new job. There was no way she could’ve known, but still.
With a sigh, she sank down onto the bed. The mattress bowed beneath her and something bumped the back of her heel as she tucked it beneath the edge. The soft
clunk
of her foot against metal resounded throughout the lonely room, the empty house. Sliding off the edge of the bed, she knelt on the floor, allowing a spark of curiosity to provide a little relief from her other emotions.
The metallic object was Donovan’s ammo box. The sight of it made her heart twinge, and before she knew it, she was succumbing to an old weakness. Much like she had with her own shoebox of notes as a college freshman, she opened the box and dumped its contents out on the bed, hands sifting through paper, eager to settle on a letter.
Of course, there was only the one, and he hadn’t even written it. She read it anyway, scanning her grandmother’s neat script, her heart skipping a beat as she read Donovan’s name. She was done with the short letter way too fast, and then she was gathering up the rest of the papers she’d dumped out, doing her best to organize them into some sort of stack as a pang of realization hit her – this was pathetic.
Still, when a piece of lined paper – notebook paper – slid out from between a few formal-looking printed documents, her gaze was immediately drawn to the handwriting. It was Donovan’s, and – God – the first word was a simple “C” that set her heart racing.
How had she missed this before?
Whatever the reason, her heart pounded against her ribs and she was ridiculously grateful to have found it now, to have a tiny piece of Donovan when she couldn’t have
him
. The date at the top of the paper indicated that he’d written the letter before he’d received her grandmother’s disappointing response – maybe he’d written this letter just after he’d written to her grandmother and saved it, waiting for an address to send it to, wanting to be ready to send it out right away.
C,
Got your address from your grandmother. Hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to write you even if you do. Left you a note behind the loose brick years ago, before I left for Parris Island. Now I’m in Afghanistan. I figure I’ve never been farther away from you, so even if you don’t want to be near me, I’m not really hurting anything.
When you left Willow Heights
Fuck it, you know me well enough to know how I felt. Look, truth is it’s been three years and I can’t stop thinking about you. And that’s dangerous, over here. I try to keep my head clear, but you’re always wandering around the edges of my mind, ready to take center stage if I let my guard down. Sometimes I get tempted to let you, think maybe if I let myself get lost in thoughts of you it might all end in a blaze of bullets and smoke and it wouldn’t matter much.
But I don’t want to be a ghost stuck wandering the desert. I at least want to haunt you like you haunt me – I want to see you again. And maybe if I make it back, it’ll happen.
Until then, I think about you. I wonder about you. I can’t help it. So send me some answers.
How are you?
D
He’d never sent the letter – he’d never had a chance. And he’d kept it all these years. Why? The paper shook in her hands, and she re-read it twice before finally placing it back in the box. She was so lucky that he’d come home unharmed, that he’d made it all the way back from the other side of the world and eventually to Willow Heights, to the house she’d loved when she’d been young, just like she’d loved him.
And now this.
Fingers numb and eyes burning, she continued gathering documents. They were official-looking, discharge papers and other things that seemed important. The ammo box must’ve been his version of a filing cabinet, necessary paperwork sprinkled with the detritus of his virtually non-existent personal communications, his attempts to get back in touch with her. As she re-packed the box, she felt a piece chip off her heart and fall among the paperwork, lost there. Like the box was giving something in exchange, something distinctly personal slid out from between a few documents – a photo.
It wasn’t the third grade school portrait her grandmother had sent him. It was more recent than that – seven and a half years old, to be exact. The sight of it gave her a jolt, sent bittersweet agony rushing through the fresh crack in her heart.
It was a rare photo of her and Donovan together, taken by his sister. In it, they stood under a familiar maple. One of the many cars Donovan had repaired under that tree was just barely visible in the background, behind him. He wore a black t-shirt and had an arm around Clementine. She leaned against him, smiling and cradling a scrawny grey kitten against her striped tank top. Nineteen and eighteen, she couldn’t help but be struck by how young they looked … and how happy.
Even the cat looked happy, bright-eyed and pleased with the attention.
That was why Donovan’s sister had taken the photo – she’d wanted a picture of the kitten. A whole litter of them had been roaming the trailer park that summer, sometimes crawling up into the undercarriage of the vehicles Donovan worked on. The grey one had been Clementine’s favorite because its baby-soft fur had been the same color as Donovan’s eyes.
His eyes … they captivated her even from the picture, looking straight at the camera. He was smiling – not as broadly as her, but still. He looked happy – content, even on the outskirts of Shady Side – and why shouldn’t he have? The picture had been taken before the summer had gone to shit, before she’d left for New York and he for Parris Island.
After several long minutes, she forced herself to put the picture away, snapping the ammo box shut and shoving it back under the bed, where she’d found it. Her engagement ring gleamed brightly against the drab green metal, another reminder of what they’d so recently regained – what was at stake.
* * * * *
The Willow County Jail had a 48 hour lockdown policy for all new inmates. After that, visiting was a matter of being named on the inmate’s list of authorized visitors. Donovan had included Clementine on his list – she
was
his list – but she still had to wait another day for a background check to go through. So it was Friday before she was finally allowed to visit him.
It wasn’t like in the movies, where visitors spoke to inmates on a phone. Maybe the small county jail couldn’t afford the technology, but whatever the reason, it was a relief to discover what the visiting facility was really like. After her ID was checked and she completed a security screening, she was escorted into a visiting room where she was separated from him by only a pane of glass. A hole cut in the center allowed for conversation.
Donovan wore yellow, a lurid shade that was at odds with the sleek black of his hair and deep sun-tanned tone of his skin. The sight of him in the jumpsuit sent a fresh wave of fury through her – at her mother and Robert, at Trevor, at the police and Donovan’s attorney. At everyone, including herself, because he’d been wrongfully incarcerated for four days and she hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it.
“How are you?” she asked when he took a seat on the other side of the glass.
His mouth was an impassive line, a little tight, but his eyes locked with hers, intense rain storm grey. Somehow, they seemed brighter than the day-glow jumpsuit. “Fine.”
“Stupid question,” she amended. Nothing about the situation was fine. “I mean…” Her gaze drifted to his sling, to the bandages wrapping his right hand.
“I’m healing just fine – they’re not gonna let my hand rot off. Pretty sure they let the food here rot before they serve it, though.” He flashed her a wry look. “I’d give just about anything for that burnt spaghetti I left sitting on the stove.”
A fresh pang of frustration sailed through her heart at the memory of discovering the dinner he’d made, the food she’d had to throw away.
“I spoke to your attorney. He plans to argue against the evidence – the
one piece
of evidence the police have against you. He says it may be too weak, too circumstantial – someone could’ve stolen the tire iron from your garage and used it. But he hasn’t said a thing about trying to figure out who actually killed Trevor.”
Donovan didn’t look surprised. “He’s a lawyer, not a detective.”
“Yeah, well…” She bit back a sigh of frustration. “Detective Wagner couldn’t care less about finding the actual killer, as far as I can tell. The whole police department seems content to sit back and let you take the blame.”
Donovan didn’t say anything, just looked grim.
God, what was wrong with her? Saying things like that when he was stuck in here... She should try to comfort him, to offer some sort of reassurance. “
I’ve
been trying to get to the bottom of this,” she said. “Whoever did this is still out there, and they have to have left some sort of evidence behind. Real evidence, I mean.”
Donovan raised a brow. “What do you mean, trying to get to the bottom of this – have you been snooping around?”
She straightened in her seat. “I’ve been looking into things – trying to come up with some sort of theory. I’ve spoken to a couple people, done online research, even visited the crime scene. So far I haven’t come up with much, but I spoke with Mike and it seems pretty likely that he forgot to lock up the garage either while on lunch break or overnight. I think that’s when someone took the tire iron.”
Donovan frowned. “Be careful, Clementine. And stay away from the crime scene.”
“What – why?” She was the only one out there trying – however unsuccessfully – to prove his innocence. Stopping was out of the question.
“Because somebody killed your step-brother. I know you didn’t think of him as family, but the killer might not see it that way. We don’t know who murdered him and we don’t know why – don’t put yourself in danger. Don’t attract attention.”
Now it was her turn to frown. “I’ll be careful, but I’m not going to stop looking for information – I’m not going to give up. Not unless the police do their job first and you’re freed.”
“That’d be nice. Hell, bail would’ve been nice. This—” His expression darkened as he clearly paused to rein his temper in.
“It’s insane,” she finished for him, feeling the same dark temper rise up inside of her. “I know. God, I haven’t been able to think of anything else since you’ve been arrested. I’m sure it’s my step-father’s doing.” Her stomach roiled at just the thought, but she set her jaw. “I’m going to see him today.”
Surprise flashed across Donovan’s face, quickly followed by obvious concern. “Why the hell would you do that?”