“Just be careful. For”—Olivia nods toward the living room—“for her sake. I don’t want Nova exposed to any of that.”
“She won’t be. Her safety’s my number one priority.” I doubt it will get to the point, though, where I have to worry about reporters following me to get a different angle to Jess’s story.
We say goodbye, and I’m driving to Jess’s house when my phone rings.Mom. I click it through to the truck’s speaker. “Hey, Mom.”
“So, I bumped into a friend of mine at the grocery store today,” she tells me without even bothering to say “Hi” first like she usually does. “She…she mentioned your girlfriend isn’t who she seems to be. That she’s not even called Jessica Smithson.” Mom’s tone is one I remember hearing growing up. Her you’ve-got-some-explaining-to-do-young-man tone. Her I’m-about-to-ground-your-butt tone.
Shit.I should’ve given my parents a heads-up after I saw Cora’s article. That would have been better than them being blindsided by the news. I just didn’t think her past would be a problem for them.
Clearly, I was wrong—or Mom’s mad because she thinks I’ve been keeping secrets.
I inwardly groan. “What are you trying to ask, Mom?”
“How long have you known she’s Savannah Townsend?” Her tone hasn’t changed, but I can’t tell if she’s pissed at me or something else.
“Almost two months.”
A yawning silence stretches between us. I can’t be bothered to fill it or ask her what her real concern is.
“Two months?” she repeats, the pitch of her voice scaling two stories. “And how long did you know her before you found out the truth about her identity and past?”
“About three months,” I reply calmly, my eyes on the road ahead of me.
“You were with her all that time, and you had no idea she used to be in a prison?” Mom doesn’t say it, but the serrated edge of “maximum security” cuts through her voice. “When were you planning to tell your father and me?”
“I wasn’t. It isn’t yours or anyone else’s business. Jess has been trying to start her life over after everything she’s been through. She deserves that much.”
“I get it. But I don’t like it when people lie and keep secrets.” The harshness in Mom’s tone has faded, replaced with distrust and the uncertain shake of her head I can’t see but I know is there.
“I know, but sometimes people have a good reason for their secrets. All you can do is respect their decision. I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, Mom.” I end the call before she can say anything else, and I turn onto Jess’s street.
Shit.I hadn’t expected Mom to react that way. The woman I just talked to is not the same one I grew up with. The woman I grew up with believed in giving people a chance to prove the kind of person they were. That woman didn’t judge someone based on gossip.
What happened to her? Where didshego?
The number of protesters outside of Jess’s house hasn’t diminished since I dropped her off after work. If anything, the number has grown.Dammit.
I slowly drive down her street, inching along while I wait for people to move off the road. There aren’t as many protesters as yesterday, but enough sign-carrying individuals swarm the sidewalks and the street to be a pain. Don’t these people have better things to do than harass an innocent person?
I pull into the driveway and park closer to the garage than I normally do—and far enough from the road that I can’t make out the reporters’ questions as I carry Butterscotch to Jess’s back door. The protesters’ chants drown out the questions yelled at me.
I knock on the door and wait and wait and wait. No one answers it and Bailey doesn’t bark. I knock again.
Jess still doesn’t answer. I try the door in case she left it unlocked for me. It doesn’t open. I rap once more, louder this time. Still nothing. Jess didn’t say anything about her leaving the house while I was gone.
I text her.
Me: Jess, I’m at the back door.
No little dots appear indicating she’s typing a reply.
A bad feeling twists in my gut. Something’s wrong. I have a spare key to the house for emergencies. Jess gave it to me a few weeks ago. With everything going on, this—her disappearance—counts as an emergency.
I unlock the door, step into the house, and enter the reactivation code on the alarm. “Jess?” I call out. Butterscotch wanders into the kitchen.
I kick off my sneakers and walk farther into the house. Other than a bunch of books lying haphazardly on the living room floor, nothing seems out of place.
Frowning, I pick the books up and put them on the coffee table. Jess is the kind of person who respects books. She doesn’t mistreat them and she doesn’t bend the pages.
