Then
Walking out of school that day, I shivered as a blast of wind knifed right through me. It felt bitterly cold, especially for the middle of March. But one of those late-winter storms came barreling down from Canada and made it all the way to Nashville. Ice and snow and freezing rain. Mom couldn’t even drive to work that morning because she couldn’t get her car out of the parking lot. She’d had to take the bus.
Our little apartment was only three blocks from my school, so I walked it, regardless. But I didn’t exactly have the kind of heavy coat today called for. Even in the dead of winter we rarely have weather as brutal as this.
So I put my head down, jammed my gloved hands deep into my pockets, and started walking.
I was a senior, and I would be graduating at the end of this school year. I already had two college credits, thanks to dual-enrollment classes, and I’d earned myself an academic scholarship to Vanderbilt.
The letter Casey wrote for me helped, I’m sure, but I’m far more certain that the other letters she had people write on my behalf—judges, attorneys, and even a famous country music producer I’d never met—put me over the top.
Mom worked at a hotel nearby. Better pay than what she used to make, and she was even taking English classes now so she could try to become a shift supervisor. But she needed to be able to read English. I was tutoring her in my spare time, which wasn’t much. When I wasn’t studying, I worked part-time on the weekends for Casey.
Don’t make it creepy. I was doing stuff around the house for her, like chores and home-repair projects. Yardwork, in the summer and when the weather was better.
When she didn’t have me doing that, she was paying me to read.
No shit, she was.
Well, legal stuff—briefs, rulings, case law. Things she said I’d have to know if I was serious about being a lawyer. Stuff she assured me would give me a leg up on my fellow law school applicants.
When I wasn’t reading up on that, she had me researching Tennessee election laws. And she quizzed me on everything, had me write reports—an education I’d have to pay dear money for in a few years, unless I landed me a scholarship to law school.
In fact, I had a book in my backpack I’d taken with me to school today, to read another chapter of it at lunch.
I carefully trudged my way along a sidewalk that was slippery in places. I tried to avoid the shaded areas, but there were a few times I nearly busted my ass. It was too slushy to try to walk in what was usually grass, though.
Even saw an accident happen a half a block from me. Car tried to stop for a light and skidded right through the intersection in slow-motion as it fishtailed. Got caught in the passenger door by another car that couldn’t stop, either.
Fortunately, I managed to cross intersections between me and home without getting run over or falling down. I couldn’t take my usual shortcut across the apartment complex’s parking lot, though, because of a pile of slush and snow that had been plowed out of the way.
So I took the long way. Instead of coming up from the rear of our building, I walked the salted sidewalk, finally able to have secure footing. Our complex was four two-story buildings, the front doors of every unit opening toward the center courtyard area, with open breezeways instead of enclosed halls.
Our unit was on the second floor. Before taking the stairs, I thought I saw someone standing in the breezeway near our apartment, but I couldn’t tell for sure.
Until I exited the stairwell and realized it was two uniformed deputies, a man and a woman. As I got my keys out and approached, hoping they weren’t by our apartment, they took note of me.
“We’re looking for Declan Howard,” the woman said.
I nervously swallowed. I’d never been in trouble with the law, but I couldn’t help my fear. “Th-that’s me.”
“Can we come inside and talk for a minute?”
I fought the urge to spit out one of Casey’s favorite lines,“Do you have a warrant?”
Even though, yeah, that’s what I should’ve asked.
Instead, what I asked was, “Why?”
She smiled, and…Iknew. It was the same smile I saw social workers and shelter workers wear. The same smile the woman at the funeral home wore.
A sad, knowing smile, trying to look concerned—and maybe she really was—but also trying to mask a bitter pill.
“Wereallyneed to talk to you, hon,” she said. “And it’s cold out here. This is a conversation we should have inside.”
“You’re not in any trouble, son,” the male deputy added.
I think I was already crying as I tried to get the key into the lock. His tone told me too much.
