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. Myfeel-goodphotos. 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.
Athudnext 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 ofherrights.”
“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.”
