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The guys thought they got a lead on Wednesday, so Linc snuck over to Waverly yesterday to see if he could find the girl who introduced Iris and Hollowell.
But if it wasn’t her, that means we’re back to square one. Another week has gone by with nothing, and Mom’s trial date marches steadily closer. I visited her again yesterday, and even though she tried to hide it, I can tell she’s scared out of her mind. In some ways, the trial will only be the beginning, but for some reason, it feels like it will be the end. Like even just walking into that courtroom will seal her fate.
She told me Scott Parsons was enthusiastic about her suggestion of basing her defense on her character, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The man is an idiot.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing around at the crowded cafeteria. Savannah is sitting on Trent’s lap several tables away, but her baleful glare keeps flicking in our direction for no reason that I can figure out besides the fact that she’s a sullen little bitch.
Ignoring her stare, I turn back to look at the guys. “Are we making a huge mistake? Should we just take what we know to Detective Dunagan and let him take it from there? He’s the one who’s got the training and resources to investigate, not us.”
“Yeah, but he’s also the one who arrested your mom based on planted evidence,” Chase mutters, his gaze darkening. “And even if we trust him, we don’t know what cops Hollowell has in his pocket.”
“Going to him without solid evidence is risky.” River chews his lip as he thinks, speaking softly. “He might not even investigate if it’s just your word, especially if he has any idea Hollowell plans to run for office. It’d be a risky move politically to start poking around in his life without a very good reason.”
Fuck. I know he’s probably right, but I hate it.
We can’t just wait this out though. We need to do something, find some piece of evidence strong enough to convince Dunagan that this is worth looking into.
We need to find that fucking Waverly girl.
But the weekend turns up nothing.
On Monday, I shuffle through classes like a zombie, relying heavily on the guys to make sure I don’t fall too behind. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, part of me is with my mom in her little cell in the Fox Hill Correctional Center.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Worrying.
I ditch class on Tuesday, and Dax and Chase drop me off at the courthouse so I can watch Mom’s pre-trial hearing. I want the guys with me, but I know if they all came in, she’d pick up on the thing going on between us in a heartbeat, and I don’t want her wondering or worrying about that right now. I want to tell her in my own way, when I’m ready.
The Fox Hill Courthouse is classic looking and well-maintained. It’s a beautiful building, actually, but my skin still crawls as I step through the entry doors. I can feel my heart rate picking up, and I clench my hands into fists and then release them, trying to banish some of the nervous tension flowing through my body.
I wander the halls on shaky legs for a few moments before I find the courtroom mom will be in. When I pull the door open and step inside, the room is mostly empty. I take a seat behind the defendant’s table and wait, shrugging off my coat and twisting my hands together nervously. My phone buzzes several times in quick succession. Text messages from each of the guys wait on the screen, and I try to let them comfort me.
> Finally, Mom is led in through a door at the side of the room, and I practically leap to my feet.
She looks different—again. When she first went to prison, the sight of her in orange was so jarring, so unsettling, she almost didn’t look like my mother. For better or worse, I’ve gotten somewhat used to it by now, but seeing her in her orange jumpsuit in this austere room, with a guard holding her lightly by the elbow, makes my stomach drop.
She looks like a convict.
And it occurs to me with a slow burn of acid up my throat that this is how a jury will see her when the time comes. Not wearing her comfy old jeans and a t-shirt like she used to at home. Not even wearing the stupid maid uniform she wore as the Black family’s Executive Housekeeper.
But wearing prison orange as if she belongs in it.
I shove that thought away as she catches sight of me, and when a smile breaks out across her face, she looks like my mom again, no matter what the fuck she’s wearing.
She settles into the seat in front of me, and I lean over the divider a little to speak to her.
“Hey. You look good.”
Mom shoots me a deadpan look in response that makes my heart ache. “You’re a bad liar, Low. But you’re the sweetest girl.”
Before I can say anything else, Scott Parsons bustles up and sits in the seat next to her. He’s in his early forties, round at the middle and thin everywhere else. He’s got an earnest, wide-eyed face that makes him constantly look a bit surprised by everything around him—which I can’t imagine is a quality that makes for a good lawyer.
“Hi, Penelope. Harlow.” He nods in my direction as he pulls things out of his leather briefcase, dropping several papers on the ground.
Mom looks almost embarrassed, like she doesn’t want the world to know this mess of a human being is her lawyer. But I keep a smile plastered on my face. I don’t want to throw him off his game, and I don’t want to put my mom in her head. I’m here to offer as much emotional support as I can, and that means keeping my own emotions under control.
