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Rodney was pensive on the plane. He has managed to stay sober for close to two days now, wanting to make the right impression in court. He warned us that all bets were off as soon as we were back on campus.
We don’t find many options for food this early in the morning. The only place that looks like it isn’t full of reporters is, ironically, directly across the street from the courthouse.
Our table is along the floor-to-ceiling windows facing Main Street. Here, we can watch the media circus without being a participant. There is a section of grass providing a buffer between the building and the sidewalk.
This small town reminds me a lot of Groveton. I would probably find it more enjoyable if we were here for any other reason.
Our waitress has tried to engage us in conversation, her excitement at the trial drama oozing from her. While polite, we don’t talk about the rapidly approaching hearing.
As the waitress tops off our coffees and delivers our meals, a frenzy builds outside. Although muffled, the reporters’ questions and footfalls reach us.
“What the fuck is going on?” Ashton asks, rising slightly from his chair, attempting to get a better view.
“Yeah, you would think Rodney would be the one getting that kind of attention,” Callum says with a mouth full of food.
“Callum, please don’t remind me. I want to try and keep my breakfast down,” Rodney mutters with a slight groan.
My lips part to speak when the reporters shouts reach my ears, shocking me.
“Holy shit, she’s here,” Ashton says, now standing at the glass vying for a glimpse of Hastings Ainsworth’s daughter. His breath is fogging up the glass he is standing so close to.
Craning my neck, left and right, trying to get a glimpse of the girl is useless. I catch a bit of blonde hair fighting against the sea of parasites, but that is it.
Going back to my food, the weight of Callum’s and Ashton’s gaze is heavy. Peering out of the top of my eyes, they give head nods in Rodney’s direction. Rodney is concentrating on his meal, ignoring the goings of outside and us. His curt tone and questions prove it.
“Who is here?”
“Kennedy Ainsworth.”
Rodney’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth for a brief moment. It’s the only acknowledgment that he has heard us. My tone is flat and void of emotion as I watch Rodney with wary eyes. He takes a few more bites before setting down his fork and tossing his napkin on the plate, indicating he is done.
Callum, Ashton, and I have had several conversations about the girl. Dad’s law firm hired a private investigator to dig into the Ainsworth’s backgrounds. When he did surveillance on the house, we were shocked when he gave us the results.
Once we were finally able to question Callum’s dad, we called bullshit on what he had to say. It was hard to believe she lived under such a control freak. When the PI said she hadn’t left the house, we thought he was trying to pull a fast one. That was until the bank statements and financial records were turned in after the search warrant.
Starting with the day Hastings was arrested, the only expenses were for the house and some grocery delivery charges.
As soon as we pay the bill, we start toward the door, gearing up for our turn through the media gauntlet.
* * *
Creating a buffer around Rodney, we start across the street toward the courthouse. Callum is on Rodney’s left. Ashton on the right. I am directly behind Rodney, bringing up the rear. Questions start up, letting us know we’ve been spotted about halfway across Main Street.
“Rodney, how are you handling the death of your father?”
“Rodney, how does it feel to finally face your father’s killer?”
“Ashton, how is your father coping with the loss of his hands?”
“Callum, is your father suffering from any lingering effects from the wreck?”
Pushing our way through all of the media, ignoring their shouts in an attempt to garner a reaction from us, we finally reach the safety of the courthouse. The minefield of questions made my head spin. Fuck waiting until we reach Texas—I am ready for a drink now.
Callum’s dad waits patiently at the top of the stairs looming in front of us. Once we make eye contact, he tosses his head, indicating the direction we need to go.
Taking the stairs two at a time, we spot Mr. Atwater standing outside a closed door. Before stepping inside, I do a quick scan of the hallway, looking for a head of blonde hair.
Moments later, her name is shouted down the hall, drawing our attention. Our heads swivel toward the source.
