With watered eyes, she glances down at my feet again. Her mouth pulls into a bittersweet smile as she looks up at me. Her mouth parts, like she’s about to say something, and then she stops.
My sister walks away like the fucking coward she is.
Chapter Forty-Five
Demi
{one week later}
“Brooks was transferred to a rehabilitation facility.” Mom pours two cups of coffee Friday morning, one for her and one for Dad. She turns to face me, her face strained. “I know. I know you don’t care, but I thought you might want to know.”
I shrug it off. “Whatever. I’m sure Afton’s right by his side, tending to his every whim and discussing which color to paint the nursery.”
She shoots me a look that’s meant to scold, but her amused smirk gives away her true opinion.
I follow her to the family room, where Dad’s reading the paper with cable news turned up to an ear-piercing volume in the background. Mom grabs the remote and turns it down about thirty notches.
“You’re going to go deaf, Robert.” She swats his knee, and he peers over the edge of his glasses.
Placing her cup on a coaster, she sinks into her favorite chair and crosses her legs.
I take a seat on the sofa, halfway between each of them.
It’s been a week since Royal told me everything, and in the last week, I’ve struggled to find the right time to ask my parents to hear him out. To consider that he might have been set up. That the cards were stacked against him, and he never had a chance.
But echoes of the last time Royal was brought up run circles in my head. Just the mere mention of his name a couple of weeks ago sent my father straight to a bottle of vintage red wine and put Mom in tears.
“What have you been up to lately, Demetria?” Dad takes a sip of his coffee and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Haven’t seen much of you lately. How’s the job hunt going?”
“I’m working on lining up a sub contract for spring. There’s a teacher in Glidden about to have a baby any day now, so they’ll need me to fill in for a few months next semester.” I drum my fingers along the end table. I hate being so nervous around my parents.
I have to tell them.
Like, now.
Because Royal insisted on coming over this morning to talk to them, and I can’t just spring it on them.
“I’ve . . .” I swallow my words and regroup. “I’ve been spending more time lately with Royal.”
Dad drops the paper in his lap. Mom clears her throat softly and uncrosses her legs as their eyes meet from across the room.
“He told me what happened,” I say. “He told me everything.”
My father folds his paper, and an unsettling expression consumes his face.
“Dad, how could you?” The words quiver in my throat. “He needed you. You were his only lifeline. His one phone call. And you left him for the wolves.”
“The evidence against him was compelling. I had no choice.” His words boom and bark in our quiet family room.
Mom stares into her cup of coffee, and I’m sure she’s debating whether or not to leave the room. Talking about Royal will upset her all over again, but she needs to hear this.
“Mom, do you know what happened that night?” I ask. “Did Dad tell you?”
“Oh, um.” She looks to him then back to me. “He told me some things, yes.”
“You knew Royal just as well as any of us. Can you even believe for one moment that he did that horrible thing?” I ask.
“None of us want to believe it, Demi,” Dad interjects. “But the evidence spoke for itself.”
“So in all your years of prosecuting, you never once had a case where someone was falsely accused and deliberately set up?” I ask.
“It happens, but it’s extremely rare. The legal system has its flaws, no doubt about that, but a case like his would’ve been considered open and shut.” His thick brows rise, and his lips narrow. “I analyzed his case the way I analyze all my cases, objectively and without emotion. Emotion clouds judgment. It distorts our thinking. I treated him like a prospective client, not a family member, and I gave him my best legal opinion and did what I thought was right for us as a family at the time.”
“Yeah, well, he was like a son to you. You could’ve at least treated him with a little bit of compassion,” I say.
“Demi,” Mom scolds.
“He was nineteen, and he was terrified,” I say.
The doorbell rings, and we all glance down the hall at the same time.
“And now he’s here.” I rise to get the door, rendering my parents speechless.
Imagining how they’re going to react when they finally see him again, after all this time, makes it hard for me to breathe, but this is happening. He wanted to come here. He wanted to speak with them in person.
“Hey.” I open the door and pull him in, greeting him with a conservative kiss. A tickle of butterflies flutter in my belly when I look at him. He’s dressed up. No greasy, gray auto body uniform. No jeans and t-shirt. He’s dressed like a respectable gentleman, in gray slacks and a gingham button-down with a navy sweater over top.
He’s incredibly attractive regardless, but still, I smirk because it looks like Derek dressed him. I wish Derek were here and not manning my father’s office. These two need to reunite. Derek’s never admitted it, but losing Royal as a friend affected him deeply. I saw it in the way he befriended Brooks but always kept a bit of distance.
“Come on back. They’re waiting,” I say.
Royal slips his hand in mine, and I catch the tip of a white piece of paper poking out of his back pocket. On second glance, it appears to be an envelope.
Dad rises when Royal walks in. The air is thick, the mood tense, but within seconds, Royal extends his hand.
“Sir,” he says. “Good to see you.”
Dad nods, gripping his hand tight. “Have a seat.”
“Bliss,” Royal smiles at Mom, and she smiles back, her eyes glassy and her hand on her heart. I’m sure seeing him like this, all grown up after so much time has passed, brings up a lot of emotions for the woman who once loved him like he was one of her very own.
Royal tugs the white envelope from his pants pocket before he sits, unfolding it and pulling out a sheet of paper.
I have no idea what it is, and I sure as hell didn’t know he was bringing anything with him today. All he told me was that he wanted to talk to my parents.
“This is for you.” He hands the papers to my father, who adjusts his glasses and squints as he reads.
Dad’s chin juts out with each passing second, and then he tilts his head. When he’s finished, he folds it up and nods, giving Royal a softer glance.
“What? What is it?” Mom asks. “What does it say?”
“It’s a copy of a police statement,” Dad says. “Royal’s accuser, Misty Lockhart, has retracted her statement and accusation.”
Mom’s face lights, her hands clasping over her chest. Her eyes move from Dad’s to Royal’s and back.
“When did that happen?” I throw my arms around Royal. “I had no idea. You didn’t tell me . . .”
“It came today, along with a letter from the district attorney in Saint Charmaine.” He fights a smile that threatens to take over his entire face. “They’re working on clearing my name.”
“Oh, my God.” I squeeze him tighter. “Royal.”
“I know,” he says, burying his face in my neck.
Dad clears his throat, and I release Royal from my embrace. My father stands, and Royal follows suit.
“I need to get to the office,” Dad says.
“Robert.” Mom gives him a sideways look.
My father is rarely wrong about anything; he’ll be the first to point that out. Which means he rarely apologizes.
“Royal.” Dad extends his hand once more, and Royal meets it. “We’ve missed you around here, and I’m extremely pleased to find that your accuser is retracting her statement. Please ac
cept my apologies for doubting you. I hope you understand that it was nothing personal.”
It’s a formal apology, and my father is completely stoic and almost red-faced, but the fact that he’s admitting he’s wrong makes this a moment for the Rosewood history books.
“Sir, you were just doing what you felt you had to do to protect your daughter,” Royal says. “I respect that, and I would have done the same had I been in your shoes.”
God, I bet it kills him to say that, but his words hold a genuine quality that can’t be faked.
Their hands release, and Dad gives him a nod. They linger, eyes locked in a mutual show of respect until Mom intervenes with a bear hug for Royal.
“My goodness,” she says when she finishes. Her hands rest on his face, and she peers into his eyes like she’s attempting to peek into his soul. “You’re so grown. You’re not a little boy anymore.”
“No, ma’am,” he says.
She wraps her arms around him harder, breathing him in, and her lips arch into a warm smile. This moment is just as healing for her as it is for him.
“I’ve missed your cooking,” Royal says with a tease in his voice.
Mom laughs, peeling herself from him but holding on to his muscled arms. “Stay for lunch? I’ll make whatever you want.”
Royal places his hand across his heart. “I’d love to, Bliss, but I have to work today.”
“Why don’t you come for Sunday supper?” she asks. “I’ll invite Derek. You can meet our granddaughter, Haven.”
Royal looks at me, and I nod.
“I’d love that,” he says. “I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Royal
“Hey, asshole.” Pandora’s the first to greet me when I arrive to work Friday morning. Yesterday I was “douche lord.” The day before that I was “asshat.” Monday I was a “fucking prick.”
I ignore her like I’ve done all week, punching in and heading outside to pull in a rear-ended Audi on today’s schedule.
For the next several hours, Pandora shoots death looks my way from behind the glass window that separates the front desk from the shop, and I avoid going near the lobby at all costs.
I have to get out of here.
I have to get away from that crazy bitch.
When lunch rolls around, I exit a rear door and walk clear around the building just so I don’t have to walk past her, only as soon as I come around the corner, I find her sitting on my hood.
“You just going to ignore me all day, Royal?” She crosses her legs, leans back, and smears handprints along my racing stripes. There’s red lipstick on her teeth, and her hair is pulled back so tightly that the corners of her eyes are pulled back.
“Get off my car.”
Pandora laughs and slides down. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say.”
She drags a finger down the buttons of my work shirt and circles behind me as I slip the key into the driver’s door.
“This thing looks good, by the way,” she says. “Never had a chance to tell you that.”
I climb in and start her up, but I’m met with resistance when I attempt to pull the door closed.
“Let go, Pandora,” I growl.
“Are you still mad about last week?” Her lips wiggle into a closed-mouth smirk. “God, get over it.”
“You’re asking if I’m mad that you told my girlfriend that I was a sex offender?” My view of her narrows as my eyes squint into the noonday sun. “Are you that fucking mental, Pandora?”
“I assumed she knew.” The innocence in her tone mocks my question. “I mean, don’t you have to tell people that before you fuck ‘em?”
Legally. Yeah. Which is how Pandora knew. But it was different with Demi. I needed her to hear me out. To not completely hate me before I dropped the bomb.
“Yeah, well, I’m not an offender anymore.” I have to clear my name, regardless of the fact that I could give two shits what Pandora thinks of me.
“Oh, you’re off paper now?”
“The record is being expunged. My accuser finally admitted that she lied about the entire thing.”
“Let me guess—your rich bitch girlfriend paid her off?”
“Stop calling her a goddamn bitch, Pandora. You don’t know her.”
“I know enough about her to know she’s too good for you.”
“You’re pathetic.” I shake my head and rev my engine, popping it into reverse. She takes a step back, which his probably smart because I’m feeling like I could very easily run her over and probably feel very little remorse for it.
“What does she have that I don’t?” Pandora yells over the growl of the motor.
“Everything,” I huff. “Class. Grace. Dignity. A beautiful heart.”
Pandora rolls her eyes and pretends to stick a finger down her throat.
“You’ll get tired of her white bread, vanilla, boring ass eventually, and then you’ll come crawling back.” Pandora folds her arms across her chest.
“Ha. Never.” I offer a haughty laugh. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time I tell my father about all the freaky things you did to me in the back of the shop. You know, bending me over bumpers and fucking me with all these dirty, phallic tools lying around the shop . . .”
My stomach churns.
Sex with Pandora tops the list of stupid things I’ve done in the last few years. She had very particular tastes and a very abundant appetite. Pandora’s motto was the dirtier the sex, the better. And I always aimed to please.
Can’t take it back now.
“So you’re blackmailing me?” I slip a pair of aviator sunglasses over my nose and stare straight ahead, because looking at her does nothing but turn my blood into molten lava.
I think it’s time.
“Yeah, well, the joke’s on you,” I say. “Because I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back.”
“Where the hell are you gonna go, huh?”
“Anywhere I want.”
I’ve been saving money and living on the cheap for years now. And to tell the truth, I don’t even know what I’ve been saving for all this time. I just never needed a whole lot, and I never had anything worth wasting it on.
“You’re just staying that,” she says. “You’ll be back. You wouldn’t leave Daddy hanging like that. You know the shop’s three weeks behind.”
“Tell Rod I’m sorry. I’ll call him and explain later.” I take my foot off the brake and roll backward, glancing over my shoulder.
The soft crunching and pinging of gravel beneath my tires feels like freedom.
“Where are you going?” she calls out, like it’s any of her damn business.
I ignore Pandora for the last time, stopping for a second to unbutton my personalized shop shirt and toss it out the window, and then I drive away from South Fork for the last time.
With no destination in mind, I drive for an hour or two. Mostly down country roads and mostly so I can do some deep thinking. After a while, I call Demi and tell her I’m on my way to see her. She sounds surprised, but she doesn’t ask questions.
For now, I’m going to go take the woman I love on a lunch date. And after that, I’m going to look into getting that pre-law degree, and maybe someday I’ll get into law school and become an attorney like I’d always wanted.
Only I won’t follow the Rosewood prosecutor path.
I’ll be a defense attorney.
Because the good ones are few and far between, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to save an innocent man from the seven-year hell I experienced.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Demi
{two months later}
The handles of the grocery basket hanging from my arm leave indentations. I should’ve gotten a cart, but I’d only come here to grab a few staples and some items for dinner tonight. Royal requested lasagna. And not the frozen kind. Bliss’s recipe.
So that’s what he’s getting tonight. Lasagna. Salad.
Breadsticks.
But of course, as I was getting lost on my way to grab a quart of ricotta, I happened by his favorite cookies and yogurt and those little candied raisins he loves.
God, he’s like a child.
That’s why I rarely take him to the store with me. He loads our cart with everything we don’t need, and he thinks it’s hilarious.
And sometimes it is.
Two weeks ago, he put a jar of pickled pig feet in the cart, and I didn’t see it until we were checking out.
I’m fourth in line now, and the lady three spots ahead has an overflowing cart. Pretty sure she could feed a small country with all of that.
The two spots ahead of me are occupied with two little old ladies in knit shawls and matching white perms cut short. One lady wears coordinating turquoise earrings and rings, and the other’s lips are slicked in a blinding shade of raspberry.
They’re mostly laughing, whispering here and there. After a minute, their expressions sober. I’m guessing their conversation took a more serious turn.
“It’s so sad, Betty,” Raspberry Lips says, placing her hand on her friend’s arm. “All those people, their retirements . . . poof. Gone.”
“My goodness, I just can’t even imagine,” Betty says, her voice rife with condolences. “I’m living off Virgil’s pension, but boy, half the town handed their money to that man to manage.”
“And everyone thought they were getting filthy stinking rich. I just knew it was too good to be true.” Raspberry Lips clucks her tongue. “I don’t know what they’re going to do now. They’re too old to start over.”
Betty makes the sign of the cross. “They’re in God’s hands now.”
“I heard a bunch of them are looking for a good attorney to take him on. They’re going to sue the ever-loving daylights out of that young man,” Lips says, staring down her pointed nose. Her penciled-on eyebrows lift, and she looks like a scolding schoolteacher.
I would know.
“Excuse me.” I interrupt because I can’t stand it a moment longer, and the twinge in my gut gives me a feeling I need to have confirmed. “Do you mind if I ask who you’re discussing?”
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