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Istare at the former inmate for a solid ten seconds, unsure what to say or do next.
“I am going to find the man who framed me and I am going to kill him…”
There was no hesitation in his voice, no waver in the intensity as he’d said it. In fact, the words were fueled with the certainty and confidence of an indisputable fact, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. After spending twenty years in prison and finally being released, finally being free, Rhett Cohen’s only desire is to kill. Not to drink himself into oblivion, not to find a beach to waste away on, or hike a mountain, or even to meet up with one of the many women who’d become obsessed with him over the years. Prison Brides, they were called. Nope. Rhett Cohen only wants one thing: Revenge.
Officer Marino’s words trickle into my head:“If anything odd happens, call us immediately.”
Rhett Cohen showing up at my house definitely classifies as odd, right? His declaration of premeditated murder is also odd, yes?
Call the cops? … Or do I ask one of the hundred questions I currently have? Two ends of the spectrum, one governed by my head, the other by my heart.
I know this sounds ridiculous, but I truly do not fear him. Although the man standing before me has been incarcerated and painted by the media as a stone-cold killer, I am not scared. Rhett, in all his imposing presence, triggers nothing inside me other than curiosity.
He continues to stare at me, and I realize he is not going to go away on his own accord.
I glance over his shoulder at the sliver of driveway I can see through the trees. There is no vehicle.
“How did you get here?” I ask.
“I hitchhiked.”
My jaw drops. “You hitchhiked from jail?”
He tilts his head to the side. Not a man who responds to idiotic, obvious questions, I note.
I take a deep breath. “Come in. We’ll talk.”
I step past him, knowing he will follow. I have information he wants, after all.
I’ve become acutely aware of how terrible I look. How streaks of dirt cover my clothing, my arms, my neck. I can feel a few dots of dried mud on my face, too. I am aware of how these baggy jeans sag, making me look like I am wearing an adult diaper. How I am not wearing a bra and how it must be painfully obvious that underneath this thin tank top, my right boob is significantly smaller than my left. And lastly, how I am not wearing deodorant.
Chin up, shoulders back, Sylvia.
We step through the back door, into the house. Rhett lingers on the dust mat just past the threshold. I feel mildly embarrassed by the ancient, two-story monstrosity I call home. I haven’t done a thing to fix the cracked walls, leaky ceiling, or remove that musty old house smell.
I beeline it to the coffee pot, feeling his eyes hot on my back.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I want to see the letters.”
I turn, sigh, put my hands on my hips. “You got to give me a second here, Mr. Cohen. You show up at my house, unannounced—hell, I didn’t even know you’d been released from jail—and the last time I saw you you were being escorted out of the courtroom after being convicted for killing my mother.Ineed a cup of coffee, to busy my hands if nothing else. So I’m going to repeat the question: Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No.”
Fine.
My mind races as I go through the motions of making coffee. I pause, unsure if I have added two or three scoops. I add another—what the hell, feels like I’ll need it.
Rhett remains silent, watching my every move.
I fill dead air while the coffee brews by retrieving two mugs from the cabinet and washing them, regardless that I removed them from the dishwasher only two hours earlier.
After what feels like an eternity, the coffee pot dings. I fill two mugs, add cream and sugar to one, and leave the other black. I will not drink this coffee alone.
Rhett is still standing by the door. I carry the mugs to the breakfast nook, a small, round table in the corner of the kitchen, set his down, then take my seat on the opposite end of the table. I gesture to the empty chair across from me.
He seems hesitant as he takes the seat, but does anyway, his movements tight and stiff. He sits rigidly in the chair. The demeanor of a prisoner, I realize. Someone who is always on point. Always vigilant. Always looking over their shoulder.
