To: Jessica Smithson
From: Philip Tang
Subject: re The Forgotten Heroes
Dear Ms. Savannah Townsend,
Thank you for your press release. I would love to talk to you about your own personal experiences with PTSD and the sequence of events that led to you having it.
I groan. Couldn’t he have tried to do a better job veiling that he’s salivating for an exclusive interview with me? The community newspaper isn’t interested in my personal experiences with PTSD. It’s only interested in hearing about my late husband and my time while incarcerated. This isn’t the first reply like this I’ve received.
I don’t bother responding.
“How are things going with getting media coverage for the festival?” Susan Hodges’s gaze shifts between Evie and me. The head of the committee’s smile is bright, faint worry lines creasing the corners of her eyes. Her short blond hair is free of gray, but I can’t tell if the color’s natural.
“I’ve had a few smaller community newspapers offer to publish the articles I’ve been writing,” I tell them. “That will help spread awareness of the festival’s goals.”
But let’s be honest. Pushing Limits headlining the festival will be the thing that draws in the ticket sales.
My articles are just the checkmark in the PTSD-awareness box.
“And that will hopefully result in additional donations,” Amy says. “The tickets are going on sale this weekend, but the finance committee is hoping to drum up additional funding through other means, such as donations and merchandise sales.”
“Have you seen the T-shirts that Taylor designed?” Simone asks the group.
We all shake our heads, and she nods at Evie.
Evie pulls up a drawing on her iPad of a birdcage with the door open and four birds flying out. It’s a simple silhouette, but the message is clear.
I examine the drawing. “Those are gorgeous. I didn’t know Taylor’s an artist.” Evie’s girlfriend is incredibly talented if this is a sample of her work.
“She used to be a tattoo artist in Eugene before moving to Maple Ridge.”
Wow. I didn’t know that. “How come she’s not doing that anymore?”
“Lack of time since running a bar is a full-time job as it is. But she still occasionally does tattoos for family and friends.” Evie pulls the neckline of her top to the side, exposing the skin below her clavicle and the three pink and purple dual-toned flowers tattooed there. Three single petals float around them. “She inked these for me a few months ago when we visited her friend in Eugene who has the tattoo studio. A nod to my South Korean roots.”
The door opens, and a man enters. Jason Barnes. I don’t know him all that well. He’s part of the equipment committee.
But the cold glare he skewers me with warns me he sides with the protesters’ demands that I move away from Maple Ridge. “Shoulda realized you’re here,” he drawls. “What with all the reporters out front.”
My body turns icier than his glare.Fuckers.Please tell me he isn’t planning to tell the protesters where to find me.
35
TROY
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I glance at my phone.Jess’s committee meeting is almost over, and I’m still waiting for the emergency street crew to finish work on the busted water main.
I make the most of the time and order a pair of noise-canceling headphones for Jess. At least with those she can work on her novel outside, and the protesters’ racket won’t bother her.
A red truck pulls up on the opposite side of the street as I finalize the online order. Lance climbs out and crosses to where I’m standing.
“Hey, Boss.” His expression is the opposite to the happy one he had when he left work an hour ago, and his shoulder muscles are bunched up tight.
