I shrink back against the far wall. The hallway is lined with picture frames comprising every major milestone of Logan and his family’s lives: vacations, anniversaries, birthdays, and graduations. Things I have never experienced. A mosaic of a full, happy life.
Dawson sees where I’m looking. “The LaSalles are good people,” he says. “They’ve done a lot for Sagebrush.” His silence finishes the thought:Unlike you.
“They have.” That much we can agree on.
He steps closer to me, crowding me. My head hits the edge of a picture frame, and it knocks it off the wall with a clatter. “Do you know anything about the Sierra Trust? Yes, Logan LaSalle named it for you, the sap. It’s the moneythey designated for Sagebrush. Funny thing about that, they intentionally left out the town marshal’s office from receiving any portion of it. It’s a shame. They could do more for Sagebrush if they changed the conditions of the trust.” He smiles. “For all your whoring around, I think you see where this is going, don’t you?”
“Change the conditions of the trust, and you’ll delete the recording?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Oh, that’s cute. No, I will never delete it. I’ll just keep it to myself. At least for now. But yes, that’s the gist.” He lowered his head closer to me and murmured, “If you tell anyone, there will be consequences. And you’re a little too easy on the eyes to thrive in prison. Enjoy the party, girl.”
I stumble outside as fast as I can. I make a beeline for the chicken coop. It doesn’t smell great, but I know it’ll give me some privacy. The chickens peck at the ground and cluck softly, and something is mesmerizing about them as I finally force myself to think.
To remember theAfter.Dawson had been a deputy at the time. He picked me up from school to take my statement. Logan’s mom offered to come with me, but I turned her down. In my humiliation of her finding out what I had done, I said some nasty things to Jules, horrible things.
Once we left school, Dawson told me that instead of going to the station, we’d go to his house, where I could be “more comfortable.”
It wasn’t comfortable. He sat me down at a dusty card table in his garage, the lights dim except for one bright overhead bulb. The smell of gasoline made me nauseated and dizzy.
The interrogation lasted for hours. He kept pausing the recording, saying with gentle pity in his eyes that I needed toprovide all the lurid details—for the investigation, of course. Where John touched me. How he touched me. How he fucked me. Hours upon hours, drawing out the humiliating details little by little.
And when all the details were finally recorded, he paused the recording again.
“He usually bought you dinner after he fucked you, didn’t he?” he asked. “And it seems he gave you some money too?” That same gentle pity filled his voice. “Do you know the legal definition of prostitution, Sierra?”
I couldn’t stop crying. A prostitute. Like mother, like daughter.
“Prostitution is a felony. Prison. And when you get out, it’ll be on your record, following you for the rest of your life. It never goes away, Sierra. What you did. And I’ll have to submit this recording for evidence. It’ll be reported on by local newspapers, and everyone will know all the shameful things you did. It’s a small town.”
I let out a sob.
“But…” That one small word was a lifeline—and he knew it. “We can keep this between us. John has generously offered you some money to start your new life.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “I’ll give you a ride to the bus station. Think of it as a fresh start. But you have to leave everyone behind. Now hand over your phone.”
“I can’t keep my phone?”
“You have text messages, pictures on here, don’t you? I have to confiscate this for evidence. Tell me your passcode.”
“It’s my birthday,” I whisper. All my photos of Logan and me, the phone numbers I never bothered to memorize, because I always had it saved. Gone. “But…”
“If you contact anyone in Sagebrush, I’ll have no choice but to prosecute you.”
“I don’t want to contact anyone here ever again,” I blubbered. I handed him my phone, and I let him turn it off.
“Perfect,” he said, pocketing my phone. “Let’s go catch that bus in Payson.”
If I hadn’t been so young and frightened. If I hadn’t given that invasive, painful, humiliating statement. If I had somehow known I’d spend the next couple of months homeless—on the streets, hungry and scared and alone, missing Sagebrush and the people there and the little stability they gave me so much I could scarcely breathe at times—until a charity helped me into transitional housing so I could start again…would I have gotten on that bus?
I don’t know.
And now that recording is back. I was so foolish to think that it wouldn’t resurface. But it was a nice fantasy, to be here with Logan, at least for a while.
I could convince Logan to leave Sagebrush with me. It sounds so perfect, tears come to my eyes. I can see it now—hitting the road in a refurbished Clunker, climbing by day, making love by night. He is always so serious; it’d be good for him.
I spot Logan from my hiding place, and of course, he’s breaking my heart right away. I see him completely in his element, laughing with his brother Cole, then turning to discuss something with Mayor Ortiz, his face intent on what seems to be a lengthy story. This is his home, his sanctuary. He’s become who he was meant to be and shaped Sagebrush to fit him perfectly. I can’t ask him to leave the place that gives him so much belonging and purpose.
If I want to be with Logan, I have to stay. I have to find a way to convince him to change the designations of the trust. Maybe Dawson will take it and leave me be. Maybe that will be enough.
“What are you doing, Sierra?” a female voice asks.
