Fair skin. Angular jaw. Almond eyes. The features are basic enough, but it goes beyond that.
And I’m not sure who’s paler as we soak each other in.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, taking in the face I haven’t seen in person since that day in the courtroom.
“Winter?” Janel asks in concern, a hand falling to my arm. “Are you all right?”
I stand, feeling dizzy and nauseous all at once. “I need to go. I’m sorry. I’m—” I shake my head and bolt past the man who looks like an older version of the one I’d last seen getting put into handcuffs after being charged with vehicular manslaughter in the second degree.
I will never forget the face of Adam Burgess or the way he tried to apologize to Kourtney and me for killing our parents.
Saying sorry wasn’t going to bring them back. Neither were his alligator tears. He wasn’t sorry for killing people. He was sad that he threw his life away and had to face the consequences.
My name is being called by two different people, but I don’t stop. I continue to my cubicle, grab my jacket and purse, and make a quick exit out the side door, so I don’t have to see that haunting face again.
All while my chest feels like it’s caving in.
*
The tears don’tcome until Kourtney ushers me into her classroom, where she’s been working on setting up her bulletin boards with punny kid-appropriate science jokes that would make me roll my eyes if I weren’t in the middle of a breakdown. As soon as she sees my face and asks what’s wrong, the floodgates I’d managed to keep closed open with a vengeance.
“H-he’s back,” I blubber through hearty sobs that produce a heinous amount of snotty tears.
Kourtney guides me to the chair behind her desk and sits me down, passing me a few tissues with both rage and worry on her face. “Who is back? Is it that asshole you work with? Did he do something to you? Do I need to go over to your office and kick his balls in?”
I try my hardest to collect myself before she commits a crime on my behalf, but I can’t seem to breathe. The oxygen won’t make it to my lungs, where I desperately need it, and I find myself gasping between words.
“Not…him.” I wipe my face and keep the tissue pressed against my damp cheeks to absorb as much as I can. When Ifinally suck in a long breath, I clench my eyelids closed and repeat, “Not him.”
I blink rapidly, hoping it’ll dry my eyes and let me see her properly. Or at least look at the stupid, nerdy posters she’s taping on the wall. I bought her some of them, knowing she and the kids would find them funny more than lame.
Like the one that says,Did you know oxygen and magnesium got together?Beneath it are the two elements that spell out OMG. Or the one with beakers full of liquid that says, “Chemists have all the solutions.” Will fifth graders get it? Maybe. I guess that will be up to her to teach them enough to understand them by the end of the year.
But staring at cringey posters can’t distract me from the overarching problem lingering. “It’s Adam. Adam Burgess. Isawhim, Kourt. He stood in front of me, looking likehejust saw a ghost.”
My sister gapes at me. Then she blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. “Winnie, there is no way you saw Adam. He’s still in prison. He went back after getting into that bar fight, remember? I showed you the article.”
I vaguely remember her sending me the link to the arrest blotter. The bastard literally got blackout drunk on day two of being free from his sentence and then severely injured the bartender with a broken stool leg when they cut him off.
I’m shaking my head. “I know what I saw, Kourt. He was standing inches away from me, and heknewwho I was. It had to have been him. He must have gotten out. Maybe there was another overcapacity situation, and they released people.”
She’s still trying to grasp this as she pulls a little footstool over to sit on in front of me. “I really don’t know about this, Win. When jails and prisons get overcrowded, they tend to release the nonviolent offenders first. He’s not one of them. Especially not after the bar incident. I still talk to our lawyer sometimes. Thelast time we spoke, a couple of weeks ago, he mentioned that Adam was locked away and would be for a very long time on attempted murder charges. The damage he did to that bartender was bad. Like,reallybad. With his record, they aren’t going to let him free anytime soon.”
It wouldn’t be the first time the justice system made a mistake. How many times had he gotten his wrist slapped for drinking and driving before finally getting caught? He’d been involved intwodifferent car accidents that injured other people and never got charged with a DWI because he hid for a week after each one. The coward knew if the cops couldn’t prove he was drunk at the time of both accidents, they couldn’t officially charge him. All he had to pay was a fine for the damage, and his insurance company paid out to the victims.
If he’d faced bigger consequences then, maybe it could have avoided what happened to our parents. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have hit them going twice the speed limit while his blood alcohol level was almost triple the legal limit.Maybethe Satan incarnate wouldn’t have gotten out of his truck at the scene, walked over to the crumpled metal of our parents’ vehicle, and then run back to his truck before speeding away until his truck stopped working in the middle of the road. He hit my parents, went over to them, andleft them to die.
I sniff into the tissue, feeling that sour feeling swirl in my chest. How could going to the bar and getting trashed again be one of the first things he did? What did that bartender ever do to him? I bet they’d only wanted to make sure they both got home safe. Adam Burgess is a cancer to society.
“It’s got to be him,” I say, jaw quivering. “He looked so much like…” I stop myself, wetting my dry lips and closing my eyes.
He’d aged in the years since, but my gut knew who he was. It screamed for me to go. My fight-or-flight mode kicked in and begged me to get out of there.
Kourtney takes my free hand with hers. “Did he introduce himself as Adam?”
“I—” I frown. He hadn’t introduced himself at all. “No. My boss said his name was Ashton when she told me about the meeting. But he could have easily changed his name because he didn’t want to be associated with what he did. People do that all the time to save themselves from the problems they created.”
My big sister nods, even though it’s obvious, she’s still not sold on this. “I’ll do some digging. Did he approach you at work? Is he a client? Give me something to work with so I have better context. Can you do that for me?”
