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You have done nothing wrong, you have done nothing wrong, you have done nothing wrongI repeat over and over in my head. This does nothing to calm me, however, because I remember that I did nothing wrong twenty years ago, either. And look where that got me.
Once I am sure no one is following me, I pull into a gas station, and park around back. I dip into the small convenience store, turning my face away from the old man sitting behind the counter. He’s engrossed in the paper, paying me no attention.
Soon my face will be on the front page, next to Sylvia’s, the missing daughter of the woman I was convicted of murdering.
I can already see the headline:Has he done it again?Or maybe:Killer Part Deux?
I duck into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face until the icy tingle begins to calm my pulse.
I grip onto the sides of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. Bloodshot, puffy eyes, tangled hair, greasy forehead. Ihaveto shower soon.
A knot catches in my throat, followed by a surprising rush of emotion.
I thought all this was over. I thought, once released, I would never have to go through this again. I thought I could live a quiet life.
This is not who I want to be.
“Dammit,”I shove away from the sink, my hands balled into fists. It takes every deep breath I have to not slam them into the mirror.
“Okay, Rhett. Stop. Think.” I mumble. “Think. Think. Think.”
One word materializes in my head—
Act.
Do something. Anything. Take the next step.
So I wash my face, my armpits, brush my teeth with my finger, and flatten my hair with a sprinkle of water. After buying a cup of coffee and loaf of expired bread, I climb back into the truck and assess my current situation.
I come up with nothing. Not a single plan, only two things that I know to be true: I need to work because I need money. And I need to find Sylvia so that she can tell the world I am innocent.
Both of these truths demand that I don’t skip town. Also, I wouldn’t do that to Juan. I wouldn’t steal his truck like that.
After the buzz from the coffee kicks in and the bread fills the empty hole in my stomach, I begin to feel human again. Stronger.
I’ve dealt with this shit before. Ignorant, half-baked asshats who believe everything and will say anything. I dealt with it during the trial, and I dealt with it in prison.
I can deal with it again.
After a manly thump on the chest, I retrace my path to the construction site. I have a job to do and that’s that.
Do the job, find the crazy girl, then, get the hell out of this godforsaken town.
Luckily, the crowd is gone.
I pick up my shovel, position myself to be face to face with the rising sun, take a deep breath, and begin work.
* * *
By noon, I am fired. Well, formally asked to leave, I should say. Even Juan couldn’t save me.
The morning had been an absolute circus.
Cars, trucks, and even a few four-wheelers had gathered around the construction site, spilling into the liquor store parking lot.
Hordes of people came and went, marching in drunken circles, chanting, holding signs that readWhere Is She, andLet Her Go.Some filmed me—actuallyfilmedme—with their cell phones. A group of teens took pictures of me, taunting me to take my shirt off, because naked pictures of me would sell for a higher price.
The workers became increasingly annoyed, casting me sidelong glances of disapproval as if this were all my fault.
