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“Will I ever meet him?”
Stormy’s arm dropped like a leaden weight. “I don’t know. I doubt he’ll ever come back to St. Augustine. His daddy died soon after you were born, and he and his mother moved up north to live with a widowed sister. I haven’t heard from him in years.”
In truth, Mrs. Witney had accused her of being fast and loose and of trying to trap her son. But no seven-year-old needed that much truth.
“But if I wanted to meet my daddy, I could?”
“Perhaps when you’re older,” Stormy said, knowing the answer was lame and an excuse. “If the opportunity presents itself.”
“But he might not want to meet me?”
Nina poked her head around the door. “Stormy, Liane is going to be late for school.”
“We’ll be down in ten minutes.”
Stormy was glad of the interruption, but she knew from the look on Liane’s face that the child meant to get a lot more mileage out of the topic. Truman had been a jerk. She didn’t want Liane in the path of that. Truman had crushed her, and she didn’t want Liane to suffer the same hurt. She rushed Liane through washing up and getting dressed.
In the car, Liane sat primly in the back seat, hugging her book bag all the way to school. Digesting their earlier conversation, Stormy surmised.
“I’ll pick you up at two-thirty, okay?”
“I can ride the bus home.”
“I want to pick you up, sweetheart. I love doing it.”
More than anything, Stormy needed to immerse herself in motherhood. It somehow anchored her, gave her a pivot point from which to make all other decisions. BeingMomgave her an identity other than an inmate number.
Liane hesitated before she closed the car door. “He’s been following us,” she said, nodding toward the street.
Stormy looked over her shoulder, registering that Tyler Mangus was, indeed, in the BMW behind her and that school buses and other parents’ cars were lined up waiting to discharge students.
“Go on inside,” she told her daughter.
“But, Mom! Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, and I’ll be here at two-thirty. Scoot. There’s the first bell.”
Once Liane was safely through the schoolhouse doors, Stormy drove to the nearest convenience store. Tyler Mangus pulled up next to her. Temper rising, she exited her car, skirted his hood, and stood at his window.
“What kind of game do you think you’re playing?” she said, her voice lofty and indignant.
He gazed up at her. “No game. Just doing my job.”
“If you follow me anywhere near school property again, I’ll report you to the principal and have you arrested—as a pervert!”
“Oh, now, would that be nice?” he taunted, clearly enjoying the fact she was upset.
“Slug!” she spat, shaking with inner turmoil. She returned to her car and sat behind the steering wheel, her heart racing. Then, collecting her composure, she started the car and drove off.
All the way to her first appointment with her parole officer, she watched the rearview mirror. Tyler Mangus didn’t try to follow. Or if he did, he had made himself invisible.
As she made her way up to the third floor of the courthouse, where the probation offices were, Stormy didn’t meet anyone she knew, for which she was everlastingly grateful.
Ironically, one of her best friends had been the court reporter assigned to record her trial. That event had precluded continuing their friendship. Job integrity, Suzanne had insisted. Stormy felt the friendship had died of embarrassment.
She signed in at the probation office and waited in the tiny cubicle of a reception area for her name to be called. She felt jittery and cautioned herself that she need not be demeaned anymore. Though her record said otherwise, she had always been a law-abiding citizen. If she kept that uppermost in her mind, she could manage the meeting.
Still, recalling fellow inmates’ tales about parole officers made her shudder. One woman had said,The men are the worst. Always wantin’ sumthin’—if you know what I mean.
