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“I have no idea if the police are close to figuring out who killed him.” I pull the throw tighter around my shoulders. “But ever since my husband’s death and my trial, the media has been unable to let go of the story. I just wanted to collect the pieces of my broken life and start over. I couldn’t do that with them hounding me with questions, demanding answers I don’t have.” Panic leaks into my words like a faucet set on dribble.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you before. I can’t risk my true identity being discovered. I’m scared of what people will think of me if they find out I was locked up in maximum security for five years.” I’m scared they’ll drag out the metaphorical pitchforks and attempt to chase me out of town.
Troy’s brow wrinkles into a slight frown, but other than that, he seems to be taking things in stride. Or he’s doing a stellar job at hiding his real emotions. Something he’s good at. “True identity? Your name isn’t really Jessica?”
“It’s Savannah Townsend.”
Recognition ghosts his face at the name, as if he’s not one-hundred-percent certain it’s a name he’s heard before. “Which name do you want me to call you—Jess or Savannah?”
“Jess. I don’t want people to know who I really am. And I haven’t felt like Savannah in a long time. She’s not who I am anymore.”
“Alright. Jess. So what made you decide to come to Maple Ridge?”
“A mutual friend of Anne Carstairs contacted her about me staying at Iris’s house.” That’s close to the truth. I hadn’t known Florence prior to her picking me up at the prison following my release. But if it hadn’t been for Florence, Anne, and my brother-in-law, Craig, I don’t know what I would have done. “Anne knew I was dealing with a traumatic event and needed a place to recover for a few months while I pieced my life together. She doesn’t know the full story of what happened.”
“And Kellan knows all of this?”
I shake my head. “He figured out I was an ex-con.”
“You’re not an ex-con, Jess,” Troy says, his tone gentle, the words forceful. “You’re an exoneree. Big difference.”
I lift my shoulders in a whatever shrug. I’m not sure if other people would view it the same way. “A few weeks ago, I was walking from the library after working at Picnic and Treats. It was the day I had the flashback when the power went out. I saw a cop car coming toward me and my body shut down. Kellan witnessed it and confronted me about it. He’d already suspected I was an ex-con.”
Troy raises an eyebrow. I ignore the reminder because it’s the truth. Kellan hadn’t known then that I’d been exonerated.
“I told him I had been wrongly accused of a crime, and the cops recently realized they’d made a mistake and I was released. I didn’t tell him I’d been accused of murder. And I didn’t tell him about my husband, or that I had been married. Only you know the full truth.” Minus the part about Amelia.
Troy’s lips kick into a faint smile. “Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
I mirror his smile because he’s right. At least he realizes it. “Some people still believe I’m a cop killer, that I got off on a technicality. There are tons of conspiracy theories circulating about that. There are some who believe that while I might not have directly killed my husband, I was the mastermind behind his death. And others claim my story about being an abused wife is a lie. If my husband had abused me, I could have just left him.” As if it’s as easy as that.
“Fuck,” Troy mutters. “You tend to avoid Noah whenever possible. Is that because of what happened to you?”
Of course Troy noticed that about Noah. Kellan had too. Who else has wondered the same?
“Yes. He’s a nice guy.” As far as I can tell. “But he’s still a cop. And I have trouble trusting cops. They haven’t given me a reason to.”
“Has anyone in town recognized you?”
“No. No one yet. I dyed my hair blond, and the media keeps showing old photos of me from when I was married. My face wasn’t scarred back then.” My finger goes to the scar stretching from the corner of my mouth to my jaw. “I used to look a lot prettier and…and different.”
I used to wear more makeup. A pretty wife meant fewer beatings.
“You’re still gorgeous.” Troy traces his thumb along my cheekbone, and the way his eyes drink me in tells me he believes it.
My face is bruised and cut from last night, but even so, he thinks I’m pretty. Heat blossoms in my chest, spreads throughout my body. Gorgeous. The word patches up old wounds. Eases a decade worth of pain.
It’s the rest of it I’m worried about. What happens when the rest of the town finds out about my past? Will he still want me then? It’s a lot to expect him to be able to look past that. A lot to not expect doubt and uncertainty to plague his thoughts.
In the end, will he decide that’s too much to deal with?
14
Troy
June, Present Day
Maple Ridge
