by Skylar Hill
“Easy, Cam,” James whispered, his big hand covering her own, which had involuntarily fisted at the manipulation.
“But I can’t change it,” Keith said. “I’ve spent the last eight years reflecting and working toward being a better man. Being the man I was when I joined the police force all those years ago. Which is why, as you’ll see in my files, I felt compelled to share the information I uncovered with the FBI.”
“We’re aware of your contribution to that particular case,” said one of the men on the board, a broad-shouldered man whose bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
“I was just trying to do what was right,” Keith said.
Cam bit the inside of her lip, feeling like screaming. They couldn’t be buying this display… right? He’d murdered her mother. He’d shot her in the back in cold blood. He’d nearly killed Evie. He would have, if Cam hadn’t come home in time…
Now she was shaking—there was no preventing it. She held Evie tighter, trying to steel her arm against the shivers best she could. She knew James could feel the fine tremors, because his hand stroked up the inside of her arm gently, trying to soothe her.
Her vision swam as the questions from the board continued, Keith smoothly answering them like he’d been rehearsing this for the entire eight years he’d been in prison. She was sure he had.
“Mr. Fawcett, I understand that your oldest daughter shot you in what was deemed self-defense. Do you harbor any ill-will toward her because of this?”
“No,” Keith said, and for the first time, sycophantic drivel didn’t pour from his lips. Just a straight-up unconvincing denial that seemed to hang in the room, false and bright… and not fooling anyone.
“Very well,” Ms. Chambers said. “You may take a seat back there, Mr. Fawcett. Guard.”
The female guard escorted him to the right row of chairs, sitting him farthest away from them as possible. Cam felt absurdly grateful to her for that.
“I understand that both of the inmate’s daughters are here,” Ms. Chambers said, glancing up from her papers to them two of them.
“Yes, Ms. Chambers,” Wade said, standing up. “Wade Clarke. I’m guiding the Ellisons through this ordeal. They’ve prepared statements they’d like the board to hear.”
“In addition to the written statements?” Ms. Chambers asked, holding up a sheaf of papers.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t Wade who said it. It was Evie.
She stood, looking small and young in the royal purple knit dress she’d chosen, her brown riding boots hitting her at the knee. “I would like my say, ma’am,” Evie said. “And so would my sister.”
“Very well. Come sit, Ms. Ellison.”
Evie shot Cam a reassuring but shaky smile before making her way to the front of the room, carefully keeping her eyes on the board, not once glancing in Keith’s direction.
Cam couldn’t help but be terrified that Keith was so close to Evie again, the two armed prison guards notwithstanding. Everything inside her screamed to grab her sister and run, but she had to ignore it.
She had to let Evie fight her own battles.
“Thank you for letting me speak today,” Evie said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand instead of sitting.”
Ms. Chambers nodded her assent, and Cam wondered if they realized why Evie was standing—so she could keep Keith in her line of sight, just in case. If she sat down in the chair in front of the table, her back would be to him.
The first thing you learned in their house growing up was to never turn your back on Daddy.
“First of all, I need to correct something the gentleman right there said earlier.” Evie gestured to the balding parole board member. “He said that Cam shot our father in self-defense. It wasn’t self-defense. It was in defense of me. Everything that my sister ever did was in defense of me or my mother. He had a gun to my head. And he would’ve killed me if Cam hadn’t come home early. The only reason I’m alive is because of my sister.”
Pride swelled inside Cam as Evie stood there, strong and tall, facing down the dragons at the gates like the queen she was.
“But I didn’t come here to talk about myself,” Evie said. “It’s all there, in your files, what he did to me and my sister. And I am happy to answer any questions you have. But I came here today to talk about somebody else. I came here to talk about my mother.”
Cam let out a quiet breath that she’d been holding, tears in her eyes as Evie continued to talk.
“My mother was Poppy Ellison. She was an artist and a beloved daughter and the most amazing mother a girl could ever have,” Evie said, her voice slowly gaining strength and volume. “And the thing is, she keeps getting lost in this whole situation, even though she’s the center of it. You’ve barely mentioned her, any of you. She has no voice in this. Because he took her voice. Her took her life. He took her away from us. So I am here to give her a voice. I am here to make her real to you. My mother was real. She was loved. And she is still and will always be mourned, every day of our lives, by me and my sister.”
The board was watching Evie raptly, and when Cam chanced a glance out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Keith was too. She wanted to tear his eyes out with her fingernails for even daring to look at her sister.
“My mother loved Joni Mitchell and was a champion bubble-blower and when she laughed, it was like bells ringing out. My mother sparkled.” A bittersweet smile flitted across Evie’s face. “She was one of those people you wanted to be around, so you could bask in her glow. And one day, Keith Fawcett decided that the brutal beatings of her and her children weren’t enough—that the only way to truly snuff out her spark was to kill her. So he shot my mother in the back, like a coward, over an argument about beer.” Evie’s voice was choked now, her legs so wobbly Cam could see them shake from her seat. “There is nothing that makes up for that. There is no deed that can redeem him. He is an abuser and a killer. And he deserves to stay in prison for the rest of his life for what he did and for what he took.”
There was dead silence in the room. Cam’s eyes were glued to the probation board’s, trying to read their every movement and expression. The balding man was frowning, Ms. Chambers was looking thoughtfully at Evie, and the other two were looking down, their eyes glued to their papers.
“Ms. Ellison, would you say that your life would be adversely effected by Mr. Fawcett’s release into society?”
“Yes,” Evie said immediately. “Keith is not just a threat to myself and my sister. He is a threat to any woman he manipulates into a relationship. He isn’t just a murderer. He is an abuser, and he will not change. If he gets free, he will find another woman to abuse—and if she has children, he will abuse them as well.”
“You don’t believe an abuser can change?”
“I stopped believing that when I was eight, around the time Keith split my head open with a beer bottle and lied to the EMTs about me falling off my bike,” Evie said, her voice flat and emotionless, but her expression stormy.
There was an audible shift in the atmosphere when she said that, her words hanging there like a dare.
“Thank you, Ms. Ellison. I believe we’re done with questions,” said Ms. Chambers. “I believe the other Ms. Ellison would like to issue a statement as well?”
Cam nodded, rising to her feet. James handed her the notecards they’d prepared, but her hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped them as she made her way up to the front. Evie shot her a reassuring look as they passed each other.
Cam’s hand closed around the back of the chair, and she moved it, angling it slightly, before sitting down. When she looked up, she could see that Ms. Chambers was frowning at her.
“It’s so my back isn’t to him,” she explained. “You learned very early in my house, you don’t turn your back on him.”
Ms. Chambers’ frown deepened as Cam glanced down at her notecards, her hands sweating. She swallowed, breathing in and out slowly, trying to get ahold of herself. “I appreciate yo
u taking the time today to listen to me,” she said, her voice barely a squeak. She cleared her throat, her hands clenching around the notecards as her vision blurred.
“Ms. Ellison?”
“I’m sorry,” Cam said. “I—” She looked down at the notecards again.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t give some sort of carefully crafted statement.
She had to speak from the heart. Like Evie.
She set the notecards down on the floor and folded her hands together, staring down at them as she tried to find the strength to start.
She thought of James. Of his faith in her. Of his love for her. Of the life he’d chosen to share and build with her. And she knew that no matter what, he would be there for her. By her side, unwavering and unconditionally.
It was enough.
It was everything.
“I’ve never been good with numbers,” she said, finally, her voice rusty. “I’m an artist. Math isn’t my strong suit. But there are numbers that haunt me, every day. Six: The numbers of ribs Keith broke when he pushed me down the stairs when I was a teenager. Two: The number of baby teeth Keith knocked out when he smashed my head against the table for not eating all my carrots when I was in grade school. Eight: The age I was the first time I put myself between Keith’s fists and my sister. Seven: The age I was the first time I put myself between Keith and my mother. Five: The age I was the first time Keith hit me. Three: The age I was the first time I saw Keith hit my mother.”
She raised her eyes to meet the board’s, knowing they were glittering with tears and not caring as she continued in a choked voice: “8 years, 6 months, 18 days, 6 hours and about 20 minutes: The time I’ve spent without my mother, because that man murdered her.”
She sniffed, knowing it was indelicate and not even caring. “I could tell you about how the evidence of his abuse is written on mine and my sister’s very bones. I could talk about how when Evie was in a car accident earlier this year and the doctor saw her x-rays, he gave me this look. It’s the look medical professionals get when they realize you’ve been through that kind of abuse. It’s not a good feeling, getting that look. It’s not a good feeling, knowing that there’s basically a story etched on our skeletons that only a doctor can read.”
All four of them were looking at her now, their eyes pulled from their papers to her as she finally let herself bare her truth.
“My entire childhood was about survival,” Cam said. “We were all alone, my sister, my mom, and I. We had no one. Over and over, because of who my father was, so many people looked the other way from obvious signs of abuse, instead of helping us. I had given up on the judicial system. I had given up on police saving us. I had given up on anyone saving us. I thought I would have to do it myself. But then the court system did what it was supposed to: it finally made him pay for his crimes. It was too little, too late, but it was something, at least. And after he was put in prison, I felt something I had never felt before: the possibility of safety. The system gave that to my sister and me. It gave us the ability to rebuild our lives, free from threats or harassment from our abuser… our mother’s killer. And now, when we’re finally managing to rebuild our lives, that same system that gave us that safety is thinking about taking it away. Because if you let Keith Fawcett go, he will hurt not only us, but others. That’s what he does, and always will do, if he is able. So please, I beg you, do the right thing. Because the world will be less safe with him free.”
There was a long pause, when she stared at the parole board and they stared at her. “Thank you, Ms. Ellison,” Ms. Chambers finally said. “We’ll break for fifteen minutes for deliberations and then deliver the decision to the inmate. Mr. Clarke, your clients can wait in the lobby.”
“Thank you,” Wade said.
“Guard, please take the inmate,” said Ms. Chambers.
Cam stayed glued to the chair, her back turned, until the guards had escorted Keith out, then rose and hurried over to James and Evie. They followed Wade out of the room, back into the ugly lobby with the yellowing water dispenser and stains on the ceiling.
Cam gave Evie a hug when they got back to the lobby, holding her sister for a long time until she finally stopped shaking.
“You were amazing in there,” she told Evie.
“So were you,” Evie said. “I just hope it’s enough.”
“It’ll be enough,” James said determinedly, holding out his arm. Cam went to him gratefully, leaning into his side as he pulled her close. Some of the unbearable tension inside her began to unwind at his touch. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed with him, tangled up in the sheets, and sleep for about a week.
“It did not look good that his in-person witnesses didn’t show,” Wade said. “That’s in our favor. But I’m concerned because there was a full board present.”
“Is that unusual?” James asked.
Wade nodded. “In my experience, if they aren’t planning on letting him go? Yes. Everything’s so underfunded these days, it usually takes a few hearings to get probation now, even on smaller offenses, because usually the whole board isn’t available. They’re so overloaded with cases.”
“It’ll be okay,” James said, catching Cam’s worried expression. “They’re crazy if they let him go. And on the off chance they do, we’ll just have PIs on him every second. He’ll screw up. He’ll get put back in prison.”
“It’s very likely that will happen,” Wade said. “There’s a very high re-offender rate.”
“I hate this so much,” Cam said, putting her arms around James’s waist.
Evie was just about to sit down in one of the spindly chairs when there was a light knock on the door, and it opened.
Cam’s heart began to pound as Ms. Chambers walked inside. Oh, God… this was it.
“Mr. Fawcett’s been informed of the board’s decision,” she said. “The board did not feel the evidence presented warranted probationary action. He will not be granted probation. He is being transported back to the prison now.”
Cam’s knees almost buckled, the relief flooding her like a tsunami.
“He’s… he’s not getting out?” she asked, barely believing it.
“He’s not getting out,” Ms. Chambers said.
“He’s not getting out,” Cam repeated, because she needed to say the words again, to hear them… She needed them to be real.
“Thank you,” Evie said, tears sliding down her cheeks, as she and Cam clutched at each other.
“Thank you so much,” Cam said. “Really. I don’t even know—“
“It’s okay,” Ms. Chambers interrupted, smiling for the first time. “I’m very sorry for your loss. You two are very strong women. Your mother would be proud.”
With a nod, she left them alone.
“This is fantastic,” Wade said with a relieved smile. “Congratulations, everybody!”
“I need to text Jess!’ Evie said, beaming. Her face was transformed: All the paleness had faded, replaced with her normal rosy color and the smile that sent even more relief rushing through Cam.
As Evie dove for her purse to grab her phone, Cam turned to James, her eyes shining with tears, and found that his own were bright.
“Honey,” he croaked out, reaching for her, and then wasn’t quite able to say anything else. He buried his hands in her hair, drawing her close, his cheek brushing against hers as they embraced. “I’m so fucking glad,” he whispered, his lips grazing the soft skin of her neck. “You did so great. You were amazing.”
“I love you so much,” she said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you through all this.”
“You’re never going to have to find out,” he promised. “Ever.”
She closed her eyes, tears of relief trickling down her face, splashing on his shirt, feeling safe and loved.
And finally, finally free.
Chapter Fifteen
James
“I know, I know, we’re almost to go-time. But I’m nearly done,” Cam said when he came
to get her in the entryway. She looked up from the chalkboard where she had been painstakingly writing in intricate calligraphy: Welcome to Exile Ink.
She’d tossed her painting smock over the pink lace wiggle dress she was wearing for Exile Ink’s opening. Her curls were swept up in a waterfall of curls, a pink camellia tucked into them.
“Honey, we’ve got a line outside already. It looks great.”
She shot him a pout. “But the shading…” she started.
“It’s beautiful the way it is, I promise,” he said firmly. “Come on.” He held out his hand. “It’s time.”
She took his hand, beaming excitedly as he pulled her down the hallway toward the main tattooing room.
Lydia had transformed the place while maintaining the feel and highlighting the huge expanse’s special features. Yards and yards of sheer red and gold fabric were looped elegantly along the high ceiling, giving the room a more intimate feel for the opening. Waiters were at the ready, plates of tapas and other delights neatly arranged. The mixologist, a woman with lavender-gray hair topped by a satin-and-tulle fascinator in the shape of a black widow, was already pouring drinks at the temporary bar.
“There you are!” Cam heard Lydia’s heels before she saw her. Her friend was with Aiden, whose hair was messily dipping into his eyes. Lydia pressed a smoking, bubbling cocktail into Cam’s hand, giving another to James. “Try this, it’s The Exile. Martie designed it specially for tonight. It’s a blackberry lemon-drop with lavender syrup.”
Cam took a sip, her senses bursting with a sweet tartness. “Oh wow, that’s delicious,” she said.
She looked up at James, who was looking at the smoking drink dubiously before taking a sip. He winced. “A little too sweet for me,” he said.
“Have you guys tried the drink?” Tasha came over, followed by Grant, who had a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“I think I’ll stick with whiskey,” James said. “The sweet drinks are the ones that give you a hangover.”