The lawyer continued droning on, and a dark part of me wondered what had compelled this man to take on such a case, trying to help pedophiles walk free.
Was it just a matter of money, or was he also a member of the bell ringers and it was a matter of personal interest?
The latter option wouldn’t surprise me. The bell ringers had gone unnoticed for so long, and been so successful, because they had a lot of powerful people among their ranks.
As more of these dark thoughts raced through my mind, something in the background of the video caught my attention.
The front steps of the courthouse were filled with people. The mass of reporters around the lawyer took up one side of the staircase, but on the other side of the staircase, a different group of reporters surrounded another man.
At first, I thought it must be the prosecution’s lawyer, but the man at the center of the chaos was wearing a much more casual suit, paired with blue jeans rather than proper slacks.
This was no lawyer.
The man turned to the side just enough for me to get a better look at his face, and I gasped when I realized I recognized him.
Logan Hollingsworth.
It was the detective that had shown up in San Francisco looking for Clay. I’d helped him in his search, and in return, he’d been the one to get me a place in the recovery center.
Why was Logan at the trial?
He wasn’t testifying, and he wasn’t one of the private investigators that found the hidden facility in the swamp. He’d been hired to find Clay, but last I’d heard, that was where his connection to the case ended.
Had he joined the investigation into the bell ringers since I’d last spoken to him?
Although my question went unspoken, it was still answered when Logan took a step back and I could see Clay standing next to him. The young man looked better than I’d ever seen him. His blond hair hung down to his shoulders in thick glossy waves, and his blue eyes shone with life despite the stressful environment. At least a dozen microphones were being shoved into his face, but he barely seemed to notice them.
How?
Where had such a drastic change come from?
A couple years ago, the two of us had been in exactly the same situation, practically living in a gutter while selling ourselves to survive. Living in a nightmare that was only marginally better than the hell that we’d escaped.
Since then, I’d gotten help just like he had. I was on the road to recovery, but it felt like every step down that road took a lifetime to achieve. Yet, Clay was practically glowing.
We may have started in the same place, but there was now a drastic difference between the two of us, and I had no idea how he managed it.
Apparently, all of my unspoken questions were going to go answered today, because just as I was thinking about the miracle of Clay’s recovery, I noticed Logan’s arm settled around the other man’s waist.
Oh. That explained it. Of course he was in such good spirits when he had a man like that at his side. Plus, I heard that he’d also been reunited with his family. It seemed like everyone was in his corner, helping him along his healing journey.
Lucky bastard.
Ugly jealousy bit at my heart, sinking its teeth so deep into me that I tasted bile at the back of my throat. I could practically hear my therapist’s voice in my ear, telling me that I was being unfair to both Clay and myself. The two of us had both come a long way, but everyone was different, and I shouldn’t compare our progress. It wasn’t a race and there was no prize for getting there faster.
Still, I couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in my eyes.
It wasn’t fair.
Why did everything have to be so hard?
Before the tears could fall, I was startled by the sudden sound of an alarm beeping. The timer on my phone was going off, telling me that it was time to rinse the dye out of my hair.
Shutting off the video, which was mostly over anyway, I hopped off the counter and turned my attention to the bathroom sink. Rinsing out the dye would have been easier in a shower, where I could get my hair wet all at once, but I’d only gotten permission to use the sink for this. The recovery center’s communal showers were new, and the staff didn’t want to risk ruining them. However, the sinks were old, and no one cared if they were accidentally stained.
It took a while, and a lot of grumbling and cussing, but eventually, I managed to get my hair washed and dried.
Looking in the mirror, I studied the final result.
