It was the day I left the prison’s visitation center and told my mom I was never returning the moment she got in the car. She lost her mind, and I needed a real adult. One who might understand how fucked my life was.
I googled Barry, called his office, and left a voicemail. He returned the call within five minutes, and from then on, he and Brenda introduced me to what a family is supposed to be like. They never could have kids of their own, so I felt like the daughter they never had. They cared for me, provided me with a safe haven when my mother made home anightmare.
Barry admitted he sought me out that day in court because he felt partially responsible for destroying my life. It’s why he held nothing against me when my mom and I publicly discredited him as an investigator back then.
But, in reality, he saved me.
He even saved my mother, though she never knew it.
I rake a trembling hand through my hair, the strands quickly tangling in my damp fingers. I barely feel the sting across my scalp as I fist them tightly. It’s a sad attempt not to panic, but vomit is climbing up my throat, and my vision isn’t just blurred—it’s tripled.
My world teeters, and what sounds like a swarm of bees circles around in my brain, as if sunflowers have sprouted from it. Quickly, I sit on the edge of my bed in my dorm room before I eat the thin, cheap carpet.
“I’ll be okay,” I mumble, but I don’t know who I’m reassuring. Honestly, I’m not convincing anyone. I haven’t been okay since I was four years old.
“Have you sent him any letters?”
I release my hair and swipe my hand across my jeans to remove a few strands tangled around my fingers. “You know I haven’t. The only letter I sent was the…” Blood instantly drains from my face.
“The character statement,” he sighs. Three simple words that undoubtedly earned me my father’s wrath and sealed my fate.
I broke a promise when I wrote it, and he’s going to fucking kill me for it.
Lionel’s parole hearing was last month, the very beginning of December. He knew Dread would show up and make his victim impact statement, which is exactly what he did. So, to combat it, Lionel expected me to send in a fucking character statement praising what a wonderful father he is, to remind them I stood by him once, and that, thirteen years later, my loyalty remains.
He thought I was still that six-year-old girl who discovered something I should’ve never seen, who was terrified of him following through with his promise if I so much as breathed a word of it. It kept me quiet two years later, when he was charged for the murder of Katherine Sharpe, and even still during his trial. He also thought it’d keep me quiet now that I’m almosttwenty-two.
But he can’t keep that promise anymore. And I’m not that little girl, either.
I risked everything by sending in that character statement detailing what I saw that night. I had nothing to lose, other than gaining the wrath of my father, but it was worth it if it meant him staying in prison until I could finish college and move out of the country.
But it didn’t work.
“Why didn’t it work?” I croak, staring sightlessly at the worn gray carpet. “Dread’s impact statement—that meant nothing to them, either?”
Barry hesitates. “Honey, you know they weren’t going to just take Dread’s statement at face value when so many believe he lied and put away an innocent man.”
“Okay, what about mine?” I demand.
Again, he hesitates, and then, with another disappointed sigh, he quietly says, “The warden.”
My head jerks back, bewildered. “The warden?” I echo, shaking my head as I attempt to compute that.
“Your father had the warden so convinced of his character, he sent in a letter to the board, pleading for them to see how deserving Lionel is of being released.” My mouth falls open, and the tears I fought so hard to keep back spill over my lashes in rivulets. Still, I stare down at the carpet, silenced by my devastation.
The judge sentenced him fifteen years to life with the possibility of parole for second-degree murder—not even first degree. Coupled with a fifteen-percent good-time credit on top of his seven months served before sentencing, Lionel became eligible for release after serving only twelve years and four months.
Barry and I were hoping he’d serve the entire fifteen, giving me enough time to graduate college and get the fuck out of the country. Best case scenario: he never makes parole at all. But we knew that was wishful thinking.
Barry warned me it was possible Lionel’s good behavior could sway the board, but I never considered it’d sway the warden, too.
Though I suppose I should’ve. Lionel is the smartest man I know. He spent those years locked up proving he is everything the public believes him to be. A stand-up man—the type who would give you the shirt off his back and take a bullet for you. He led a church group in prison, created a nonprofit that provided prisoners with a job, shelter, and foodwhile they reacclimate into society after release, and, therefore, avoid falling back into old patterns.
“His letter made mine look fucking pitiful, didn’t it?” I ask, though I already know the answer. It’s fucking obvious, considering Lionel will be a free man soon.
Yet again, Barry hesitates.
“Barry,” I grit out through clenched teeth, pushing for an answer.
