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A uniform inspires trust…
He passed home, after home, after home, until slowing at the last house in the neighborhood—Zach and Alyssa Kaing’s home. The home of the woman who I’d been told had turned a blind eye to child abuse. I recognized it as the Kaing home instantly from all the gossip surrounding the newcomers who’d built “a castle” in our small town.
Shepherd pivoted, then began hiking up the short hill to the back yard of the home.
I lost him in the shadows for a moment, then he reappeared climbing the back fence that led to the Kaing’s property. I remember being shocked at how quickly and easily he scaled the tall fence. Adrenaline, I know now.
At that point I took off sprinting down the shoreline. My arms and legs were tingling, my pulse pounding. I think I knew at that point, deep in my gut, what he was doing.
I struggled to pull myself up the fence. Just as I reached the top, I saw Shepherd slip through the back door of the home. The home was unlocked.
There, clinging onto the top of the fence, I froze. Completely seized up. Paralyzed in inaction. Everything I’d been trained to do as a member of law enforcement suddenly vanished from my brain.
This was not a routine home invasion—it was my husband.
Then, a hair-raising scream as ice-cold as the wind cut through the air.
Like being jolted by electric shock, I snapped out of my trance. I went into protect mode—into fix mode. The thought of calling for backup didn’t even enter my mind—not even for a split second. My only thoughts were: protect him; fix it.
I dropped from the fence, spun around, and hid in the trees. There, I waited for him to leave.
Then, I kneeled next to his bootprints in the dirt. As I covered up my husband’s tracks, all I could think about was the time, so long ago, that he saved my life.
It was time to repay that debt.
SIXTY-TWO
KELLAN
My eyes lock on Rowan’s the second I step into the visitation room.
The corrections officer—a new one, I think, a young kid I’ve never seen here before—escorts me to the visitation booth where Rowan sits behind a thick pane of glass.
“Fifteen minutes,” the kid says, gesturing to the phone mounted on a slab of sheetrock that serves as a divider between this booth and the next. There is very little privacy in prison.
I wait to pick up the phone until the officer returns to his post. Rowan picks up hers.
My heart pounds as I take her in. Every visit, I’m terrified of what I might see. Watching Rowan transform over the months has been nothing short of heart breaking. In the beginning, she and I would simply sit together, our palms touching through the glass, not a single word spoken between us. Some days we’d cry the entire time. As the weeks went on, however, Rowan’s emotion subsided and a detached, hardness took its place. She became alarmingly pale, skinny, her once soft curves replaced with muscle and sharp angles. But the hardest thing to see was the change in her eyes. How they went from bursting with emotion to… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rowan became dead behind the eyes, stoic, completely robotic.
Until today. Until this moment. Even through the smudges on the glass that divides us, I can see the excitement, the sense of urgency in those beautiful brown eyes. Her cheeks are even pink.
She’s alive.
I speak first because I, too, feel like I am bursting at the seams.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this months ago? I knew you didn’t do it.” I blurt into the phone. “I’ve been here every week for four months. Why didn’t you tell me, Rowan?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Baby.” I flatten my hand against the glass, a rush of emotions sweeping through my body. “I do understand, I do, and I don’t care. What we need to focus on now is the next steps. Tell me everything. I followed the instructions in your email and found the box. I just need your okay to meet with your lawyer.”
“You have my okay.”
I exhale. “Good. Now. Tell me everything—leave nothing out.”
“Wait, how’s Banjo?”
It’s the only question she repeats with every visit.
