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  “That isn’t the same.” I shake my head.

  “Are you saying this confession wouldn’t be pretty important to my dad, too?”

  “Fair point.” I wince from the sting of truth in his reply.

  “But it really isn’t about that. No matter how mad you are at me, I want to help.” He leans closer and his eyes move from the shadows into the light. “Maybe if you tried to think about it that way, you might be able to relax and let me help you?”

  I consider what he said for a few minutes. My instincts doubt him now, but eventually I realize that he’s right. If I want him to keep Daddy’s secret from Chief Vega, then I’m stuck with him. Does it really matter what his reasons are? If he can help, let him help.

  I shrug. “I think I just need time to figure this out. I’m going to ask my mom and dad’s lawyer first. He’s a family friend. Maybe he has information that could help clarify things for me. Before I do that, though, I need to find the right questions.”

  Jordan closely watches me as I piece together the only plan that has any hope of providing the answers I need right now. “I’m going to do some research. Find out everything I can about the case, refresh my memory. I’ll figure out what I should be asking and who I should be talking to. My dad lied, and I never thought he could be a liar. I have to figure out if he’s the man I thought—or someone else entirely.”

  “Riley…” Jordan waits a few seconds. He seems reluctant to say whatever is on his mind. “You know—you know that whatever you may find, it probably won’t be something that can change the actual case. After all these years of people looking on both sides, it’s hard to imagine you finding anything new to prove his innocence in court.”

  “I know,” I answer, so soft that he leans in closer. Then I look straight into his eyes. “I don’t need to find answers for them. I need to find them for me. I need to know what I think, not what my parents have told me to think. I need that—before he’s gone.”

  Jordan sits back in the swing, his eyes still on me. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Does that even make sense?” I ask finally.

  “Yes.” His response comes with no hesitation. “I think—I think I’d feel the same way.”

  The pictures of the victims from Daddy’s trial play through my head. Mama had tried to cover my eyes during that part, but I’d seen enough to have nightmares for a very long time. I finally got over them after several years, but now, with just the mere thought of digging into his case, my mind immediately fills with the images.

  Jordan’s fingers close over mine as he stands up and pulls me to my feet. “You have to let me help you.”

  I fight the instinctive urge to be suspicious. The warmth of his hands sinks into my cold fingers, branding me. The idea of sifting through details of my father’s case with Jordan sounds like the worst plan ever. It was horrifying just hearing bits and pieces of the case when I completely believed Daddy couldn’t have done it. This time with the doubts that linger now, it will be so much worse. I open my mouth to argue, but before I can, he goes on.

  “I hope you want me there, but even if you don’t, I think you’ll need me, Riley.” Jordan’s face is a confusing mess of confidence and desperation. “This won’t be easy for you, no matter what you find. You have to stop trying to do everything on your own, and I can help. I want to help you.”

  My mouth, which had been open, poised to argue, is left hanging. I close it, realizing how near we’re standing to each other, and how much I want him to stay here, to stay with me.

  But no one ever stays—I know that. Just because he hasn’t left me so far doesn’t mean he won’t.

  “I’m not…,” I begin softly, but he cuts my argument off again by pulling me into a tight hug.

  “Let me help you.” His voice pleads against my ear and I lose all will to argue with him anymore.

  “Okay,” I answer finally. “For now.”

  “Deal.” He releases me with a smile and then leads me toward my car. I walk along in his wake as my mind fights to find firm footing for why this isn’t my best option. When we get to my car, he opens the door for me and says, “You won’t regret it. Occasionally, I can even be helpful.”

  Moving around to the inside of my door, I watch him for a few seconds before finally accepting the fact that I want him to be here with me through this as much as he says he wants to be.

  But he definitely doesn’t need to know that.

  “I hope you’re right.” I eye him warily for a moment and then climb in and start my car.

  17

  I FIND MAMA’S NOTE on the counter when I wake up Saturday morning.

  I have to work today, but I’ll be home tomorrow. Plan on being around. I know you went to Polunsky yesterday even after I asked you not to. We need to talk.

  —Mama

  The metallic taste of blood is on my tongue and I realize I’ve been biting my lip a bit too hard. It isn’t like I expected that Mama wouldn’t find out. I just hoped it might take longer. I pick up my phone and text Jordan.

  Busy today? I think it’s time to do some research.

  It takes less than a minute before my phone dings with his response.

  Jordan: I’m free in an hour. What did you have in mind?

  I think for a minute, then decide that since Mama will be gone all day, we might as well take advantage of it.

  Meet me at my house. Bring a laptop if you have one.

  Jordan: See you then.

  A thick fog of anxiety hangs over me as I hop in the shower and get ready. I keep trying to relax my shoulders, but they’ve tightened again on their own within minutes. I take one deep breath and check my clock. Jordan should be here in about ten minutes. Maybe there is something I can do to calm myself before then. I go to my room out of habit and grab Daddy’s letter that he’s written for today, opening it hastily.

  Riley,

  Happy Saturday, my dear! I’m so sorry about last week and I hope you can forgive me for lying. Sometimes people do the wrong thing for the right reason. I hope you can understand that. I need you to. I can’t imagine finally getting out of here only to have lost you along the way. That would be a harder punishment for me than all these years I’ve spent in Polunsky.

  Now that we have hope again, please keep my mistake with you alone. There’s no need to involve your mother in something that only has the potential to hurt her further.

  All my love,

  Daddy

  I sigh. Too little too late. If only I’d read this or talked to Daddy before I told Mama. This wasn’t the right choice of letter to ease my stress. Usually Daddy’s letters find a way to make me feel better, but apparently not today.

  I walk back to my closet in a daze. How can it have already been eight days since Daddy told me the thing I never wanted to hear? Time seems to be flying faster than small-town gossip, and I’m being dragged along behind it no matter how hard I fight.

  It feels like my universe collided with another one, imploded, and then formed an entirely new solar system. And here I am left standing in the middle of utter chaos. I keep digging for the truth, making a giant mess in the rubble and just trying like hell to figure out this one crucial detail.

  If everything around me changes, am I still the same?

  I search through the shoeboxes, looking for one with letters from several months back. The top portions of the stacks wobble as I dig and I hope to God everything in the whole closet doesn’t fall out and flatten me. Although, wouldn’t that be one fantastic headline?

  Death Row Man Finally Released, Only to Mourn Daughter Crushed Just Weeks Before by Avalanche of Shoeboxes

  I smile to myself as I turn and lean against my wall. The correct shoebox is finally in my hands. I open the top envelopes and start scanning through them.

  By the time the doorbell rings, the dull pain at the base of my skull has eased a bit—all thanks to Daddy and his letters.

  I lead Jordan to the kitchen table, where my laptop sits alongsid
e two notebooks and some pens. His eyebrows lift and he throws a questioning glance in my direction.

  “Before I can try to get the answers I need”—I release a shuddering sigh—“I need to make sure I understand what everyone else thinks happened.”

  He hesitates before speaking. “Are you sure you want to go down this road, Riley?”

  I give him a firm nod. “I’m not saying it’s the truth, but I need to know the details of what the state says happened before I can even attempt to figure out what questions I need to ask.”

  Jordan watches me closely as I take my seat, then he pushes up both sleeves and opens his laptop. After I give him our network password and he’s online, he asks, “Where do you want to start?”

  “I know most of the details of what happened to the victims—how they were killed. I also know they falsely think my father had an affair with one of them,” I say, and he squints so I hurry on before he can get caught up in the wrong details. I’m not ready to consider the idea that this could be just another lie. “I need to know what else I’m missing. I need to understand their arguments better.”

  Jordan shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

  “Good. We’ll each look up several articles that go over the evidence and the details of the case. Let’s take notes, then we’ll compare and see if either of us finds anything new.”

  Jordan gives me a grim nod, then turns to his screen and starts typing.

  “And Jordan?”

  He waits for me to finish.

  “Thank you … for wanting to help.”

  He appears to hesitate before reaching out and grabbing my hand in his. The gesture is so sudden and unexpected I nearly jerk my hand back. He squeezes my fingers lightly twice and I’m amazed at how warm and strong his hand feels around mine.

  “It’s going to be okay, Riley.” Then he rubs his thumb across my knuckles slowly before releasing my fingers without a word and turning back to his screen.

  When I place my hands back on my own keyboard, I can’t help but notice how much warmer the hand he’d held still is. It’s like he left a bit of his life and warmth with me. I smile softly to myself, but it slides slowly away with each key I press as I type the words East End Killer into the search window.

  * * *

  We’ve each been jotting notes on our pads in silence for over an hour when I finally look up again. My finger goes down my list as I read through some of the words I’ve written. Seeing details that condemn my father in my own handwriting feels like treason.

  I stare at the screen still open before me for the fifteenth time, but nothing here is new information. All I can think about is everything I’ve read so far and how awful it is. And how Jordan is reading it, too. The silence between us that was just starting to become comfortable again now feels dreadful and humiliating. He’s still reading and has a look on his face that is half horrified, half fascinated. It’s the same one people wore during Daddy’s trial every time they talked about what he did.

  I remember that look. I hate that look.

  The information in the articles feels so vastly different when looking at it as something that could be true. I’m not ready for these differences. Especially when every description conjures images of my father as a living, breathing nightmare. My hand shakes, and I pull the notebook onto my lap before Jordan can see it.

  I’d been so young during the trial. Some of the details are familiar, mostly the ones that mattered because we’d argued for appeals based on them. Mama and Daddy had told me that the things the prosecutors said were lies and I should forget about them, and I’d believed my parents completely. Reading through these documents of evidence now—now when I’m older and understand each and every detail, and now that I know that my parents are liars, too—it’s an entirely different experience, and my stomach is a turbulent mess.

  I strive to bring my emotions to balance and get a grip. Inhale and exhale. I tune out everything but the air in my lungs and breathe slow and deep. If I can’t even read through the evidence of this case with an open mind, how will I be able to face the other things that could be coming my way? The reopening of his case, his possible release, his probable execution.

  If I want the truth, I must be strong enough to handle it when it comes.

  “Riley?”

  I fight for control, forcing myself not to whip my head up or react suddenly.

  Instead, I stay exactly as I am and softly murmur, “Hmm?”

  Only when his warm fingers slide down my arm do I realize how chilled my skin has become.

  “Are you all right?” His words hold none of the judgment I was afraid he was feeling, only concern.

  When I finally make myself look up with the intention of brushing him off, I find that I can’t. A deep frown creases his brow and makes the shadows around his eyes appear deep, haunting. He seems nervous and worried—and scared. Exactly what I feel. I don’t know how to react to that. Jordan should be my opposite. He is the son of the cop who put my father in prison. His life has always represented justice and the right of the law, while my life represented injustice and the mistakes of humanity.

  How can we possibly ever be on the same page?

  “No,” I say, the emotion in my voice catching both of us off guard. I’m suddenly uncomfortable with his gaze on me, so I gesture to the notebook in front of me, hoping to draw his attention away. “Nothing here is all right.”

  Jordan does as I was hoping and looks back down at his own notebook. He opens his mouth to speak, but then hesitates and meets my eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready to deal with this?” His hands spread out over the mess around us and his shoulders actually droop. It’s like his question is too heavy for them to carry.

  But it isn’t a choice. I have to carry that weight, and I have to do it now, before another nineteen days pass without me knowing what I truly believe, and Daddy gets executed for a crime he didn’t commit or—equally unthinkable—he gets released from prison and exonerated for a crime he is guilty of. How do I live without telling anyone if I decide he is guilty, and I’m the only one who heard his confession?

  “I’m ready.” From the steadiness of my tone, it almost sounds like it could be true.

  18

  AFTER VERIFYING WE BOTH have all the same general information about the case, we start separating the details into groups. Agreeing with Jordan on where specific points should go is harder than I expect.

  “But shouldn’t that be listed under the evidence that speaks to his guilt?” Jordan taps his pen against his lip, and I resist the sudden urge to rip it from his hands.

  “No, it definitely casts doubt. It needs to be listed there.” I clasp my fingers tighter in my lap, trying to hold my anger in check, but the jab still slips through. “Maybe if you weren’t so biased against him, you’d be able to see that.”

  Jordan makes a sound like he’s choking on something, his eyes go wide, and he slumps down low in his chair, mumbling, “You’re impossible.”

  “Well, it’s true,” I mutter, reaching for his notebook to study what he’s written. Instead, Jordan sits straight up, grabs his scribbled notes in one hand, and my wrist in the other.

  I’m stuck now, and I’ve leaned so far forward that my arm is actually over his shoulder. I have no choice but to rest it there to catch my balance or fall forward out of my chair.

  “Riley,” he whispers an inch from my face, his eyes firing sparks at me. “You, my friend, are a hypocrite.”

  His words make me want to jerk my hand away, but I don’t. I stay there, leaning close with my wrist in his fingers and my heart pounding in my throat. My balance is so off-center. With a slight shift of his weight, he could drop me to the floor.

  The frustration in his eyes fades as they search mine, and I say, “I am not.”

  “Not what?” His response is lightning fast and playful, but he helps me regain my balance and releases me. “A hypocrite or my friend?”

  A laugh bursts from my chest and it is as unex
pected as his words. He grins wide, but I force myself to focus. If we’re going to make any progress, we need to stop getting distracted by disagreements … and each other.

  “Fine, then we’re both hypocrites.” I lean back, crossing my legs beneath the table as I try to think of the best solution. The one I come up with doesn’t sound fun, but it’s the only idea I have. “Okay, so maybe we need to flip sides and switch arguments. You are only allowed to think of reasons why something could cast doubt. I’m only allowed to consider ways it could speak to guilt. Deal?”

  Jordan gives me a look that can only be described as grimly impressed. “That isn’t going to be easy. And it requires trust. Are you sure that’s the best approach?”

  “It’s the best way to make sure we’re seeing it clearly.” I pick up his notebook and look at it again, trying it out. “If I convince us both that he’s guilty, no matter how much I don’t want him to be … then it’s obviously true. Right? And vice versa for you.”

  Jordan doesn’t speak until I lower the paper.

  “You need to know, Riley, I do not hope your father is guilty. If we can prove him innocent, I’ll be genuinely happy for you both. It will be anything but disappointing.” His tone is stern, almost as if holding a rebuke toward me for misjudging him.

  “It doesn’t seem like that, though. Every point you make and the things you say…” I’m not sure whether to defend my opinion or apologize.

  “I’ve been arguing for that evidence because I believe my own dad is a good cop.” He lowers his chin and finishes, “I think your father is probably guilty, but with this new murder, I’m really not sure right now. And I definitely don’t hope he is.”

  I force myself not to flinch when Jordan says those words. I’m used to everyone thinking that Daddy killed people, but I’ve learned not to get close to people who believe that, and this is why—no matter how I prepare myself for it, it hurts to hear them say it. I don’t blame Jordan for it, but it still stings.