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“It makes sense,” Kellan says. “That way if the drugs were ever found, Lucas could claim that he was set up. Or at least that will be the version of the truth the cops go with.”
Garrett stops pacing. “The real question is, are the cops investigating how the drugs ended up here, or do they think they have enough evidence to prove Lucas is guilty?”
“So, we’re saying we don’t trust the cops to find out the truth?” Troy appears none too surprised by this.
“I never trust cops,” is Kellan’s honest reply.
“So maybe we need to do our own poking around and figure out who it could be,” Garrett says. “Lucas, you’ll be the best person for determining if it was someone at the center. If anyone seems nervous, let us know.”
“Will do.”
Garrett parks his ass in the armchair. “And while you’re doing that, we should look into the other groups who also bid on the Wakefields’ land.”
“It’s too bad you don’t have security cameras on your property.” Troy echoes what we’re all thinking.
All of us except for Kellan, if his solemn expression is any indication. “Whoever did this knows what they’re doing. I reckon they’d find their way past cameras, too. We’re not looking at amateurs.”
And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
4
Lucas
Friday morning, I’m walking to the PT clinic, coffee mug in hand, when my phone rings. I accept the call.
“Hi, Lucas. This is Maya, Chris McCutcheon’s assistant. He’s requested you come to his office now. He wishes to talk to you.” Her tone is uncharacteristically crisp, professional.
Shit. Is it too much to hope that she’s having a crappy morning, and everything’s fine when it comes to me?
Chris, the center’s director, isn’t in his office when I arrive. Maya tells me to take a seat inside it. He’ll be back in a minute. Her tone hasn’t improved since she summoned me.
On the wall is a copy of Lee Teter’s Vietnam Reflections War Memorial painting, framed and in a place of honor. My grandfather served in that war, and I always think about him when I see the print.
I salute the painting as if one of the reflections in the war memorial is him. “I miss you, old man.”
Grandpa was the one who took my brothers and me fishing at least once a month. He taught us how to live off the land, to rock climb, to telemark and cross-country ski, to respect nature. He taught us everything we know about the mountains and how to survive on them.
The outdoor rec program for vets was his vision as much as it was mine. My grandfather willed my brothers and me the money to start the program. To fulfill his dream.
I sit in one of the chairs facing Chris’s desk.
Chris strides into his office, the crisp linen of his Air Force uniform swishing as he swings his arms in a military walk. “Sorry for the wait. I had a meeting that unexpectedly popped up and went slightly over time.”
He sits at his desk, brushes his hand over the graying hair at his temple. His expression is the same one Grandpa always had whenever I got into trouble as a kid. Not exactly pissed. More like disappointed. Yet, at the same time, Grandpa always managed to squeeze a smile onto his face. “How are you doing, Lucas? I can’t imagine the past few days have been easy for you and your family.”
“I’m doing as fine as would be expected, thanks.”
He shuffles some papers on his organized desk. Not a single pen, paper clip, notepad dares be out of place. “I guess I should just get to the point. I’m sorry, Lucas, but in light of your arrest, the board has decided to terminate your employment.”
It takes a nanosecond for his words to sink in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“That’s bullshit.” The words puncture the air like a round of bullets. “You know I’m innocent, right?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is where the board sits on this. The best I can do is temporarily fill your position. If the court finds you not guilty, you can have your job back. But if you’re found guilty…”
If I’m found guilty, I could be facing serious prison time.
“I understand,” I say, hating that it has come down to this. Hating that everything I’ve worked hard for, sacrificed for, fought for, could be lost at the snap of someone’s fingers.
