by Lyn Cote
The steering wheel was sticky and repulsive with her brother’s blood. She reached under her seat and brought out a pack of antibacterial wipes. She used one on the wheel as she steered through the mist.
About four miles northwest of Ashford, she glimpsed Grey. His head down and nearly invisible in the mist, he looked just the same as when she’d picked him up on Cross-cut Road about three hours before. Trish slowed and pulled onto the shoulder, her blue lights rotating for safety. This time she didn’t get out. She waited for Grey to realize it was her and come to the Jeep.
He opened the passenger door and paused. “I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight.”
“Did you think I’d make you walk all the way to Elsie’s?”
“I thought you’d be detained at the hospital. How’s Andy?”
The casual way Grey Lawson referred to her brother brought home to her that this man—though a stranger to her—was part of the fabric of Winfield, a stray thread that would now be reknit into the town. But with what repercussions and consequences? How would this all play out? “Andy’s fine. Thanks to you. Get in.”
Grey eyed her and then swung up onto the seat and slammed the door.
“Should I call Elsie?” Trish pointed to the cell phone charging on the dash.
“I called her at the pay phone at the hospital and told her I was running late.”
“Okay.”
Again, this man’s presence filled the silent Jeep. She tried to keep her attention on the road. It was foggy and another deer could sprint across her path at any time. But her eyes kept sliding sideways, catching glimpses of the dour man so near, yet so removed. His jaw was firm. In spite of the seat belt, he sat shoulders forward, his hands folded over his knees. An invisible wall of history separated them.
THE MILES SPED PAST. Trish was aware of the whizzing of her tires against the damp pavement and the clicking of crickets. Whenever they passed a small lake or stream, the song of frogs flickered through her open window. Finally, she turned down Cross-cut Road again. She slowed to the place where Andy’s truck had been hit by the deer. The truck was still there, nose down into the ditch. But the buck was gone.
“The deer must have revived,” Grey muttered.
He was right.
“That happens all the time,” she commented flatly. “How they can get up after colliding with a pickup and take off is...amazing.” Her emotions seemed to have gone into neutral. What she’d been dreading tonight and what had happened were so at odds that she didn’t know how she felt right now. She turned down Slater’s Road and then Ryerson’s Road. She sensed Grey stiffening beside her.
Ahead, a log cabin, an old one, built of huge weathered logs, had many lights gleaming from its small windows. The battered roadside mailbox read Ryerson. Fog rolled over her windshield as Trish bumped the Jeep up the rutted dirt road.
The front door was thrown open. Elsie Ryerson stepped outside into the mist. “Grey! Grey!”
Grey opened his door; he turned back to Trish, but didn’t meet her eyes. “Thanks.” He shut the door and then he was hurrying up the few steps to Elsie, who clasped him to her. An old black-and-white-speckled hunting dog barked and jumped up and down around Grey and Elsie.
Trish watched, thinking of the welcome her father had given her when she’d moved back this spring. Two prodigals had returned. But Grey Lawson, the convict on parole, had received the warmest welcome.
SHE SAT BESIDE THE wall phone in her kitchen, staring at the floor. Finally, she realized that she hadn’t moved since she’d hung up after Florence’s phone call. She glanced at the clock. She’d been sitting here, brooding for almost an hour. She bent her head into her hands. In spite of what he’d done for Andy Franklin tonight, how could they just let Grey Lawson out of prison? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
And she wasn’t going to stand for it.
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