Chapter One
MAKAI DROVEnorth, trying to stay awake. He’d taken breaks on the way, but only two of them within the eight-hour drive. He needed to take a leak and get something to eat, but he also had his appointment up at the Sheriff’s Station in thirty minutes. He couldn’t remember many details from his childhood visits to the little town, just the grocery store and maybe a post office, and of course, his grandpa’s house.
Makai’s old-school Nokia phone didn’t have a GPS, but the route was pretty simple, and he’d figured out how long it would take to get to his final destination, even with possible roadwork and other surprises. He also knew he’d just about make it to Acker, Wisconsin, in time. If he didn’t, the reason wouldn’t probably matter to the sheriff who hadn’t sounded keen on having Makai in his town to begin with during the one phone call he’d made to the man.
It had been Makai’s contact at the Innocence Project who had told him he might want to check in with the sheriff and give the man the option to ask for regular meetings if he wanted to.
Logically, Makai knew it was a good idea. He had been wrongfully convicted, now exonerated, but to some people, that didn’t matter. A convict was a convict. Makai was pretty sure Sheriff Newman was conservative in his beliefs and it would only help to be on the man’s good side, but it still sucked.
He was supposed to be free now. Freedom itself had enough challenges for him. He didn’t need law enforcement to make it more difficult. They’d done that enough in Makai’s opinion.
He glanced at the clock on the dash when a sign said he was arriving in Acker, population 394. He had five minutes to find the Sheriff’s Station. At least he’d looked that up, too, and knew to drive through until he saw a large red brick building. He turned left to get to the station’s parking lot and tried not to freak out.
Makai shut the engine off and rubbed his eyes. Then he pulled the rubber band from his hair and redid his ponytail. When he glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, he wondered what this particular sheriff and his deputies would see when they looked at him.
Whatever the reception in Acker, it would probably be better than being called a “fucking wetback scum.” That was one of the many slurs the detective who had been the lead investigator in his case a decade ago had spat at him on several occasions. He’d experienced racism before the detective, but nothing like the vitriol the man had had for a brown kid. It had been better in prison, but not by much. A lot of the white guards had been racist as hell. It wasn’t something Makai liked to think about and hoped to leave behind when he moved to Acker.
He knew there were Native American people around these parts, so maybe it would be easier here. Then again, life wasn’t fair, so he wouldn’t expect that to change suddenly, just because he was out and relocated.
Sighing, Makai grabbed his wallet and cell phone from the passenger’s seat and gave himself one more look through the mirror. He could do this. He could go in there, keep his cool no matter what, and make a good first impression.
Makai got out of the truck he’d bought a few days ago, and locked it out of habit. Instinctively, he checked on the couple of boxes of old stuff. You learn to keep count of your belongings in prison. There wasn’t much in there—he’d gotten them from his mom’s place. Some books, a couple of pieces of clothing that he’d bought and those he’d walked out of prison in, some CDs and even about a dozen VHS tapes and few DVDs.
When his mom had moved from his childhood home, he’d packed some of his stuff and given away the rest, along with what his brother had left there when he’d moved out. Maybe she’d thrown it all away, he didn’t know or care. There hadn’t been many things, and for one, none of his old clothing fit him anymore. He’d been a kid going in and a man coming out. His family, what was left of it… they weren’t close. Hadn’t been since his dad died when he was fifteen.
Sighing, he forced himself to move away from the truck and the sad boxes. An old man who walked past looked at him as if he were insane. It was clearly not something people here bothered to do, or maybe it wasn’t expected in front of the Sheriff’s Station? Either way, the old guy scoffed loudly and toddled away. Makai wondered if the man had known his grandpa. Probably, the town was small enough. The echo of a dozen summer days spent here as a little kid was enough to pull him to this town. Now he just needed to get settled. Carve his place here. If the town, and the sheriff, was willing.
Makai walked up the few steps and went inside the surprisingly large station. A front desk sat at the back of the waiting room. Beyond seemed to be a regular old bull pen with desks and whatnot. There were enclosed spaces on both sides in the back, one of which had glass windows like in every cop show he’d ever seen.
“Hi,” he told the uniformed young woman in the front. “I’m Makai Stone, here to see the sheriff.” He kept his tone even, tried not to look too big or too brown or, hell, too anything.
The clock on a pillar next to the desk made an audible click in the quiet, empty station. It was exactly the time he had the appointment.
“Of course,” she said and gave him a small but friendly smile. “I’m Deputy Peters, welcome to town.” She looked behind her, and as if called, the door to the sheriff’s office opened. “You can go through,” she said and smiled at him again.
“Thanks.” Makai went through the small gate and walked to the sheriff who had stopped by his open door.
The sheriff was in his fifties, Makai guessed. He looked like a tough guy; he carried himself exactly like every other law enforcement or military person Makai had ever seen, but he didn’t seem too intimidating. Yet.
“Hi,” he said again, when he got to the man. He surreptitiously wiped his hands on his jeans, not wanting them sweaty for the shake he knew was coming. He felt uneasy, nervous even, but not that badly.
“Mr. Stone. I’m Sheriff Newman.” They shook hands, the sheriff’s grip firm and strong, but he wasn’t trying to squish Makai’s fingers.
Makai nodded, then followed him into his office, swallowing hard and doing his best to radiate calmness for both of their sakes.
“Close the door, please.”
He did, then took a seat in the visitor’s chair. Making himself relax wasn’t easy, but he somehow managed.
“So, you’re moving into the old Berg cottage? On Maple Hill Road?” The sheriff flipped open a folder he had. A folder on Makai.Shit.Already? Part of him understood, but another part felt oddly betrayed by the world.
“Uh, yeah. I bought it two weeks ago from the Berg family’s agent. I’m meeting him there once I’m done here.” The settlement money was fine and dandy, allowed him to start over and even give some of it to his mom—he refused to think whether she deserved it or not. She was family, blood, and his father had taught him better—but it didn’t erase the years spent inside and everything that came with it.
“Right. I have reviewed your case, what I’ve been able to get my hands on, anyway, and I’ve decided to suggest that we have biweekly meetings to start with.” The man peered at Makai, his blue eyes almost cold.
Makai tried not to take it too personally. It seemed, so far, like Sheriff Newman was sticking with what he’d said on the phone.
“Sure, that works for me.”
