“What’s up?” Garrett asks.
“Everyone has figured out who Jess is,” I say, the volume of my voice still low, keeping the conversation between us. “Protesters and reporters are outside her house.”
“Fuuuuuck,” Garrett mutters under his breath. “Don’t worry about sticking around once we get to the cabins. Lucas, Kellan, and I will deal with everything.”
“Thanks.” A small growl of frustration vibrates in my chest, too quiet to be heard by the passengers behind us. They’re currently talking loudly among themselves. “We knew Savannah’s whereabouts would eventually come out. But protesters?”
“How many are we talking about?”
“No idea. But even if it starts with only a few people, it won’t take long before the numbers grow.” Protests tend to draw supporters of the cause as well as counter-protesters. The more vocal the protest, the more media coverage it gets, and the larger the numbers grow.
The cycle is broken when something new and shiny grabs the media’s attention away. But how long can Jess’s mental health survive if that doesn’t happen quickly? She’s seeing Robyn again, but the protesters and reporters could send her recovery into a spiral.
“I’m surprised it took this long before her old identity became known,” Garrett says, his eyes on the road. “The article came out almost two weeks ago. And I can’t imagine Cora kept the info from Olivia.”
“Olivia wouldn’t have said anything to anyone. She has no reason to. If anything, she would have told me what was going on.”
“But she knew about the article.”
“I don’t think she did,” I tell him. “Like I said, she would have told me. Olivia and I don’t keep secrets from each other.”
Garrett snort-laughs. “I’m sure you’ve kept plenty of secrets from each other. I’m your brother, and I didn’t know any of that shit Jess has gone through until recently.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell you or anyone.”
An eerie silence, like that during the eye of a hurricane, fills the van. A moment ago, the retired Navy SEALs behind us were chatting away. Now, it’s as if all eyes and ears are turned in Garrett’s and my direction.
I inwardly groan. Just hearing the word “secret” is enough to grab anyone’s attention. Human curiosity trumps all.
I don’t want to explain to the men what’s going on with Jess, so I turn up the volume of Garrett’s playlist.
We arrive at the Warriors property, and Garrett parks in front of the building where we store the equipment. “I’ll get Kellan and Lucas up to speed,” he says as I reach for the passenger door.
“Thanks.” I bail from the van and sprint to my truck. I click the fob to unlock the door and haul ass into the driver’s seat. Then I’m racing out of here, my tires stirring up dust on the gravel driveway.
After what feels like far too long, I turn onto Jess’s street. The sidewalk outside of her house is crowded with two groups of people. One group holds up signs and is yelling at the house. Reporters make up the other group, their vans littering the street.
These are the same reporters I saw in town over a week ago reporting on the mass arrests linked to the trafficking of assault weapons. At the time, the reporters hadn’t realized the person they’d been reporting on for the past few months, ever since Savannah Townsend had been released from prison, was living here.
But now they know, and like rats after a piece of cheese, they’re scrambling to be the first ones to scoop the big story.
“Fuck!” The word is muttered out loud, but it screams in my head in repeat.
I recognize several of the protesters. One is a mother who, from what I remember hearing, is the president of the high school PTA. Skye Backlund. She’s vocal about causes she believes in, which would be great if rallying against my girlfriend living in Maple Ridge wasn’t one of her new causes. Skye’s talking to a reporter but is making sure her sign,Protect Our Children, is visible in front of her.
Jess has done nothing to make anyone believe she’s a threat to their children. If places were reversed, would they have done what she did—give away the rights to the daughter she loved to ensure the little girl was safe and happy?
I can’t park on Jess’s driveway. The crowd is blocking it, either as part of their strategy to terrorize her or by accident. I drive past her house and steer past the people spilling onto the road from the sidewalk. This protest isn’t just about the people who live in the neighborhood. It has clearly gained support from those who live in other areas of town.
I finally find an empty spot around the corner from Jess’s street and swerve my truck into it. I slam the door shut and run to her house. The sheer number of protesters on the road makes it more difficult to get there. I’m forced to waste time ducking and darting past them.
Damn the fucking protesters.
Damn their fucking ignorance.
A reporter steps in my way and shoves a microphone in my face. I don’t hear what he asks me. I clench my hands, fighting the urge to grab him and hurl him to the side. It won’t help Jess if I’m convicted for assaulting a reporter. It will only make things worse for her.
And the last thing I need is for the reporters to latch on to who I am and my role in organizing the With Hope festival. It could destroy all the hard work the festival committee members and I have been doing to make it a success.
