Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “No confirmed number yet.” The young officer tipped his head, listening to his radio for a moment. “Arson squad thinks it was an explosion involving about a half-dozen rooms. Maybe long-term renters. We haven’t confirmed that yet either. The manager’s not saying much; the motel owner doesn’t live in the city—big surprise.”

  Sex workers. Maybe trafficked? This neighborhood was known for that. Micah thought of Jane Doe. He glanced around the room. A dozen or more survivors, several wrapped in bedspreads, clustered around a table topped by a large coffee dispenser and bottles of water. One woman, with gray hair and a portable oxygen tank, sat apart from the rest, holding a box of tissues.

  The officer stepped aside to speak with another, then returned to Micah.

  “Three bodies,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Young women. Unidentified.”

  Micah grimaced. “Were there injured sent to the hospitals?”

  “A few, I think. Smoke inhalation. Some burns. Panic issues, I guess. Medics took them to LA Hope.”

  Sloane wasn’t working today.

  “Thanks,” he told the officer. “I’ll go see what I can do for these folks. There should be a second crisis volunteer here soon.”

  “Appreciate it,” the man said, his expression confirming that. “Don’t know what we’d do without you guys.”

  “Glad to help,” Micah said, gripping the officer’s offered hand.

  He said good-bye and made a beeline for the woman with the oxygen tank.

  Sloane sat in her car, wishing she’d read the State Prison visiting rules a little more carefully. She’d followed the extensive dos and don’ts on attire: no wearing denim or chambray like the prisoners, no dressing in colors that looked like the guards’ uniforms, no wigs or hair extensions, no gang-style clothing, no sheer clothing or bare midriffs. Sloane had definitely gotten all that right. She hadn’t brought any weapons or other contraband. But she’d misread the visiting hours and arrived half an hour early. And was parked outside the closed gates. Thank goodness she had her phone. For now. She doubted she could take it in.

  Sloane closed the Instagram app—her few social media accounts were fabricated identities—and tapped the search icon. Giving in to curiosity, she searched By Grace musical group. Links filled the screen, tumbled onto the next page and the next and the next. She went to the group’s website and tapped the photo tab. There were countless images of performances, recording sessions, church appearances, and family gatherings.

  Sloane scrolled through them, feeling like a voyeur as she gazed at photos that were clearly scanned in from family snapshots. Grace and Clay Prescott—the uncle’s features somewhat similar to Micah’s—and their only child, Stephen. A beautiful boy from chubby blond infancy to preschool to baptism and . . . Oh. Sloane’s heart squeezed. Micah and Stephen. Dozens of images of the cousins together. Toy cars in their hands, fishing poles, bike handlebars. Holding serving ladles at a soup kitchen, wearing Scout uniforms, and playing guitars, faces similar enough to be brothers. Stephen had been amazingly handsome even as a young teen. Micah was equally blond and wholesome, but . . . Sloane smiled at the photos. Nerdy. With that gangly build, braces, and glasses—always trying too hard to look cool. Micah had obviously taken time to grow into his good looks. It couldn’t have been easy to be compared with Stephen all those years.

  Sloane tapped on an embedded video, watched for a moment, then laughed aloud. It was an amateur clip of a cousins’ jam session—complete with Micah’s vocal attempts. So serious. And seriously off-key. He hadn’t been kidding with the bullfrog comparison.

  More photos showed them clowning, competing at sports, proudly showing off a new car, and in more reflective moments, with their hands raised heavenward at a church service. Image after image of Stephen surrounded by raptly attentive fans, Micah standing behind him literally in his shadow. And . . .

  Sloane’s breath snagged. Memorial service photos. The Prescott family, brothers and wives and adult son, at Stephen Prescott’s funeral. So many flowers, so many people. But all Sloane saw was Micah. The pain on his face, the sag of his broad shoulders, and that distant look in his eyes.

  She clicked on a newspaper link, skimmed the article about the young singer’s auto accident. A collision with a freeway abutment at high speed. The sedan carrying Stephen Prescott, driven by a college classmate, had been demolished, Prescott pronounced dead at the scene.

  Sloane’s stomach twisted as the following information registered:

  The cause of the accident that killed Christian music star Stephen Prescott was found to be alcohol related. A sample of blood taken from the driver showed a blood alcohol level far exceeding the legal limit . . . driver has pleaded guilty to vehicular manslaughter . . .

  A car horn beeped beside her.

  “Have a great visit, girl!” The driver smiled from her lowered window and pointed to indicate the prison gates sliding open.

  Sloane put the Volvo into gear, trying to swallow a queasy wave of truth. Micah’s cousin had been killed by a drunk. An irresponsible, thoughtless, selfish drunk.

  Someone like me.

  “Those girls,” the elderly woman said, a paper cup of coffee trembling in her hands. “Did they get out?”

  “I don’t have details,” Micah told her despite what he’d heard from the officer; a crisis volunteer’s job was to support survivors, offer resources, and listen. Above all, listen. Essie Malone needed all of that. “You’re a guest at the motel?”

  “Guest?” A phlegmy chuckle escaped Essie’s lips. “That almost makes it sound like I’d see chocolates on my pillow. Or at least a clean pillowcase once in a while.” She touched the plastic oxygen tubing in her nose, then drew in a wheezy breath. “Yes. I stay at the Value Inn. Been there for coming on a year. It’s all I can afford if I want to eat too. And it’s close to my medical.”

  Micah made a mental note to be sure she was hooked up to senior resources. And he’d better check that she’d been looked over by the medics.

  “It’s not Leisure World by a long shot, but I get by,” Essie continued. “Folks come and go, but I get to know a few. At least their faces. Like the girls. And those brutes who pick up the tab for their rooms.” Her lips pinched, making them go grayish. “Those girls are just children. Scrub their faces and you’d see schoolkids—except they’re at the Value Inn, not school. And what are they learning? That they’re only worth what somebody will pay.” She drew in another raspy breath as tears filled her eyes. “I . . . heard them screaming in the fire. Those poor girls.”

  Help me help her, Lord.

  “Here . . .” Micah scooted his chair closer and offered a tissue. He’d have to let the police officers know that this woman might have valuable information. But for right now . . .

  “Thank you,” she said, resting a tremulous hand on his sleeve. “I don’t have anybody. It’s good to talk a little. It helps. But I won’t keep you any longer.” She glanced across the room. “So many people. I’m sure you need to be somewhere else.”

  “Right now I’m exactly where I need to be. With you.” Micah put his hand over hers. “Let’s see what we can do to help you get through this, Essie.”

  Waiting seemed to be the key word here. Sloane frowned at her thought, considering that guards held the keys and most of the men in this prison had been waiting for years. For some reason, she thought of Jocelyn. Even six months behind bars would be awful.

  “Mr. Bullard is on his way down,” a prison staffer said, passing by where Sloane sat at a corner visitors’ table. Maybe four or five other inmates sat at scattered tables with wives, girlfriends, a few children, their visits strictly supervised. “Should be any minute,” the woman assured.

  “Any minute.”

  Sloane’s stomach tensed. It was easy to imagine him walking past rows of cells, tall, muscular, with that ramrod-straight posture, square jaw, thick hair cropped into the old military cut. Eyes narrowed, always looking for an error, a punishable infraction. He exce
lled at that. But now he was being punished, Bulldog Bullard being read the rules, expected to unquestioningly comply—“no back talk, no excuses, no sassy smirk.” How would he have reacted to that reversal of roles, all these years? By becoming dominant in the prison yard? Using his confidence and well-honed strategies to influence the staff?

  Or had there been times when Sergeant Bullard lost his commanding self-composure, gave in to his tightly controlled anger, and lashed out? Like that moment in the garage when he slapped Sloane’s face. Or that night . . . when he killed my mother. How angry had he been that night? What kind of monster—?

  “Sloane. . . . Long time.”

  24

  SLOANE STARED, oblivious to the guard’s last-minute directives. They’d made a mistake. This wasn’t—

  “Have a seat, Bullard,” the guard instructed, then glanced at Sloane. “Unless you want to stand up, ma’am, for a quick hug?”

  “No,” Sloane blurted, hearing her stepfather echo the same. She clasped her hands together on the tabletop, struggling to get her mind around it. Trying to control sudden shivers, catch her breath.

  “Thank you for coming,” her stepfather began, taking a chair opposite her. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  His voice was different. He sounded and looked small. As if over the years he’d shrunk or aged until he was an artist’s conception of who he’d be at eighty or ninety. Bob Bullard would be only around fifty-five. Still, he looked frail, his shoulders stooping beneath the blue prison shirt, neck thin, hair sparse and gray. His complexion was sallow, and his eyes . . .

  “You look fine,” he said, connecting with her gaze. “Grown-up. A lot like . . .”

  Sloane stiffened. If he dared utter her mother’s name, she swore she’d—

  “Like I thought you might look,” he finished. He swallowed, the action making his thin neck resemble a snake gulping a mouse. “I know I look different. Hardly recognize myself anymore after the chemo. For prostate,” he added, likely reading the question in Sloane’s eyes. “Being a nurse, you probably know all about that.”

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  “Direct. Always.” His fleeting smile wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “I liked that about you.”

  Prison had taught him to lie. Obviously.

  “You stood up to me,” her stepfather said, running his fingers through his remnants of hair. “Tough little girl dressed in black head to toe, like you were on some Special Forces mission.” A rueful expression flickered across his gaunt face. “You were, I guess. From the first day I moved in.”

  “Look,” Sloane said after glancing toward the supervising staff. “Your letter said it was important to talk to me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, tapping his forehead. “I get scattered sometimes from the meds. Yes, I wanted to talk with you, Sloane. I have a reason.”

  She struggled against a sudden wave of dizziness, the scent of motor oil, of car parts soaking in naphtha solvent, cold concrete under her bare feet. That night in the garage when she’d finally found the nerve to confront this awful man with everything that had been festering in her heart for so many years. Finally tell her mother’s husband exactly what she thought. And now she’d do it again. . . .

  “Let me spare you the spiel,” she said, refusing to tremble. “I’m not going to help you get an early release. In fact, I plan to stand up at the hearing and give a list of reasons you should be spending another ten years behind bars.” Her voice broke, betraying her. How could her eyes burn from a memory? Every breath smelled like solvent. Her feet were cold. “If you thought that seeing you looking sick would make me take pity—”

  “I didn’t.” He spread his hands, a motion that almost made him look like he was receiving Communion. “I don’t expect that of you. I don’t expect anything, Sloane.”

  “Then why?” A thought occurred to her, more sickening than the intrusive scent. “You’re seriously asking me to forgive you? For killing my mother?”

  He closed his eyes. Swallowed again.

  “Is that it?” Sloane asked, lowering her voice after she saw the supervisor watching them. “Is that what you want?”

  “I’m not expecting forgiveness.” There was the unmistakable sheen of tears in his eyes. “And I’m not going to try to argue my innocence. I wasn’t innocent, Sloane. I didn’t hold your mother under the water. I didn’t do that. But . . .”

  Sloane’s throat closed.

  “I left her alone when it wasn’t safe. I let my frustration and my angry, stubborn need to control . . . I let it destroy everything.” Bob Bullard’s voice cracked. “You don’t love that way. You don’t raise a child like that. Your mother deserved so much more. She was fragile, troubled by things in her past I knew nothing about.”

  Sloane stared. Her mother never told him? About her father? About Sloane’s abuse?

  “. . . only as sick as your secrets.”

  “I should have made her feel safe enough to share those troubles with me,” Bullard continued. “I should have listened more, gotten her help instead of trying to make her ‘shape up.’ I should have taken her to church. I should have done all that for her daughter, too.” He folded his hands, glanced down at them for a moment. “That night, in the garage—I’ve gone over it a thousand times. I shouldn’t have hit you, Sloane. I should never have reacted that way to the things you said. I should have asked myself why. Why you felt that way. You were still a child, and I should have been a much better man.”

  What?

  Sloane didn’t know how to handle this. Her plan had been to make him listen. Cut this awful man off at the knees, rail at his self-righteous and all-controlling attitude, tell Bulldog Bullard exactly what she thought about the evil thing he’d—

  “You don’t know how many times I wished I’d died instead of her,” her stepfather said. “I’d give anything if she’d lived long enough to get healthy and happy. So she could be there for you. Back then and now that you’re a grown woman yourself. A woman needs her mother all her life.”

  Sloane’s heart lugged.

  “It’s funny,” he said, “this time behind bars has made me slow down long enough to do some thinking, some reading . . . and praying.” Something in his voice had changed. “Lots of praying. I know now that we were all forgiven a long time ago. By grace. It’s like I’ve been carrying a hundred-pound rucksack all my life, getting more and more crippled by the weight of it. And then I finally find I can put it down.” There was a look in his eyes Sloane had never seen. Like a light blinked on. “I can’t really say it the way I want to. But I keep trying, every chance I get. So many people need that help, Sloane. They need to know they have value, that there’s hope no matter their pasts and current situation. There’s no better proof than the kind of company Jesus kept. Liars, thieves, outcasts . . .” He turned his head to gaze around the visitors’ room. “Sometimes I even think my being here is part of a bigger plan. That it was meant to be.”

  “Meant to be”?

  Sloane had no idea where he was going. She was talking with a stranger. Maybe this was an effect of the chemo?

  “I guess that sounds nuts,” her stepfather said, that light still in his eyes, “but I think I was supposed to be here, learning what I have. Helping folks as best I can. Like you having that time with your godparents. And your mother’s insurance making it possible for you to go to college and become a nurse.”

  “Wait . . .” Sloane bristled, finally finding some traction. “Are you saying that it was a good thing my mother died?”

  “No, no.” He hunched forward. “Never. I’d give anything if she hadn’t, Sloane.” Her stepfather groaned. “I’m sorry. That’s why I wanted you to come. To tell you I’m so very sorry.”

  “Don’t.” She closed her eyes, sickened. She’d heard him say the same words at the trial and didn’t let it faze her. Despite all he’d said today, nothing had changed. Even if he’d tried to snatch at her heart, she recognized a con man when she saw one. Paul Stry
ker knew how to say all the right words too.

  “I won’t forgive you,” Sloane said, rising to her feet. “I can’t.”

  “I understand. But I needed to—”

  “Don’t bother,” Sloane said, loudly enough to catch a staff person’s attention. “I don’t care what you need. I only care about what I need—for you to stay in prison where you belong.”

  “Problem here, ma’am?” the staffer asked, glancing between them.

  “No,” Sloane said. “Not anymore. I’m leaving. Get me out of here.”

  She left the visitors’ room with an escort, endured the checkout process, and finally passed through the last of the doors, all of it in a blur. Coming here had been a huge mistake; she’d accomplished nothing. She’d never recited the long list of reasons her stepfather didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as decent people, let alone be released two years early. All she’d accomplished was following Bulldog Bullard’s orders once again, to sit there and listen to him. It had always been all about him. It didn’t matter that he was sick and looked different, that he claimed to have found God, or even that he admitted he’d handled everything wrong during the years he’d lived with them. It was a new tactic but the same man.

  Sloane stopped beside her Volvo, losing a battle to tamp down the anger and confusion. It was there again, the unnerving scent of motor oil and naphtha. Her words that night, his surreal acceptance of them now. Why had she believed seeing Bob Bullard one-on-one would help in any way? Maybe it had been a stupid idea, but she wasn’t going to let today derail her. She’d regather her thoughts, make solid notes, and then stand up at that parole board meeting and in a firm voice—

  “Sloane?”

  She glanced up, saw a man standing beside an old car parked a few spaces away. Young, curly blond hair, scruff of beard growth. He looked faintly familiar.

  “Sloane Ferrell, right?” he asked, taking a step in her direction. “From LA Hope?”