I turn back to Sierra. “Statement. When did you make a statement?”
“Before I left.”
Suddenly, something clicks. Adrenaline pops through my veins, and white noise fills my head.
“Sierra, how did you leave Sagebrush when you ran away?” My voice sounds detached, calm, far from the turmoil that’s actually brewing inside me.
“Dawson gave me a ride out of Sagebrush.”
I exhale sharply. My fingers dig into my hair. I stop, try again, and fail to keep my voice steady. “Why did you do that?”
The question is for Dawson, but Sierra answers, seemingly oblivious to the volcanic heat rising within me. “He said he didn’t want to arrest me for…for prostitution,” she whispers. “That if I stayed, he’d have no choice but to prosecute me. The thought of being arrested…I was a kid. I was terrified. It was his word against mine. It’s… He told me he wouldn’t if I left, if I never contacted anyone again.”
Dawson pauses the recording. “Now, Sierra, that’s not—”
I cut him off. I don’t want to hear any more of his lies. “You knewexactlyhow she left last time.” It’s not a question, but I expect a confirmation anyway.
He smiles but doesn’t answer.
I scrub a hand over my face like I can physically push the mess of emotion back down where it belongs. But it keeps spilling through anyway.
And then I look again at his corrupt, unrepentant face, and I snap. The angry words spill from my mouth, growing louder and louder until I’m shouting at Dawson. “You let this whole fucking town think she was dead. We spent a year looking for her while you knew this. Whole. Fucking. Time!”
“Logan, please—” Sierra pleads.
“You fucking asshole,” I roar. “You corrupt, low-life cop. I’m going to fucking ruin you.”
“Logan, stop!”
“That’s enough.” Dawson grabs me and slams me against my truck’s hood.
Pain explodes behind my eyes as my head bounces off the hood. Blood pools in my mouth, and the world tilts.
“You’re under arrest for threatening a public official. You stay back, or I’ll take you too,” he snarls at Sierra.
“You think you can get away with this?” I spit.
He shoves me again. “You may think you’re the big man around here,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “but I’m about to show you who’s really boss.”
Twenty Nine
Logan
Jail smells like unwashed human bodies and piss. And it’s loud. The metal bars groan when doors open and shriek when they slam shut. Every shuffling movement seems to echo against the cement floor; each key jangling from a deputy passing by sets my teeth on edge.
Two other guys share my uncomfortable bench in our little cell. One dude is clearly coming off some drug bender and is curled up on himself. The other is hitting his head slowly but determinedly against the bars.Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
It’s probably the longest and most miserable night of my life. I have never been to jail before. For all my anger issues, I have at least remained on the right side of the bars, despite being a dick.
And I am a dick. I feel like such a deeply flawed man. What kind of man loses his cool so badly that he gets thrown into jail? I can’t even justify it. I can’t protect the ones I lovebecause I’m locked up.
And there is so much to protect my loved ones from: another villain, another injustice popping up without warning.
I never understood how everyone else could remain so calm in the face of injustice and unfairness. How others find peace with how frustrating life is.
Because it is frustrating. And nothing works to alleviate that anger. No counting to ten. No deep breaths. No psychotherapy. Counting my blessings gets me nowhere. Because at the end of the day, injustice remains. The world runs on bullies and abuse. Corrupt politicians and law enforcement. Poverty and unequal distribution of wealth. Men die in the mines or from coal lung after years of breaking their backs to make rich men richer, powerful people more powerful, and evil men thrive.
I feel hopeless and helpless all the time, because there is no hope. I can use all my good luck to help people, and I have, andstillevil lurks and prevails.
