“I said no bitching.” James sipped his rum and Coke.
I slid the second set of cards out of the folder. My heart clenched painfully and my eyes filled. I blinked hard, looking at Evan’s handsome face. James had done an excellent job fading the background of the North Center Corrections Facility to the pale blue of a DMV shot.
“Justin Hollister,” I murmured.
“That name ain’t funny neither,” Dellison said. “I was hoping for a Herbert or an Adolf.”
I elbowed him in the side, and looked to James. “Thank you. These are perfect.”
“I know,” James sniffed. “One hundred percent legit. Clean social security numbers, laser perforation, functional bar codes and ultraviolet seals.”
I nodded, marveling at the holographic image on my new driver’s license. “And when we apply for jobs, the SSN’s will work? No glitches?”
Jameson snorted. “My work doesn’t glitch. This is your life now. Take it or leave it.”
I took it. Took all four life-giving documents and tucked them into my bag, then clutched my bag as if some stranger were going to run up and snatch it away.
A week later I said goodbye to Del. She was dressed for work—glittering sequins and puffy hair—and she dabbed her eyes as I loaded up my pick-up truck.
I bought the truck with some of the money I’d won from the Midwest Poetry Journal’s annual contest. The poem I submitted two weeks ago took first place: three thousand bucks. I’d burst into tears when the check arrived. An MPJ prize was a legit literary accomplishment, definitely something to crow about. But I cried more from relief. The money meant I could afford some transportation to make the trek west and still have some left over to find a place at Lake Powell.
“Go home,” Evan said.
I shut the passenger side door. My entire life fit on the front seat: two bags’ worth of clothes, a few books and my poetry journals. Taped to the dash was a photo of Del and I working behind the bar at The Rio.
I turned and looked at my best friend, my heart cracking. She’d not only given me a job, but let me live with her rent-free since my hearing a month ago.
The district attorney had tried to build a case, but the judge—over the loud, screeching protestations of Patty Stevenson—found insufficient evidence to charge me with the death of Lee Stevenson. The fire from Lee’s home meth lab had destroyed anything that could incriminate me. The only solid piece of evidence in the whole case worked in my favor: Evan Salinger’s confession to the murder, made via a burner cell phone to the Rapid City police department.
My attorney (appointed by the court) played the recording of the confession before the grand jury and I shivered to hear Evan’s cold, lifeless voice, laced with the tiniest bit of mania. An edge of psychotic motive. It fit right with his record: the history of violence and mental problems, the assault conviction and incarceration at North Correctional. He escaped prison, stole a truck and drove to Dolores where he murdered my fiancé. Then dragged me across half the country before trying to drown me in the Redwater River. Only he wound up dead himself, sucked into the undertow and violent rapids at the curve of the river closed to the public.
It was a horrible, ugly twist on the truth, and it broke my heart to hear them talk about him like that. But he’d known they would. He’d lived his whole life in their ugly perception. And then he used it to break free. I was so proud of him, and that was how I kept my mouth shut and played along. To keep him safe.
“You sure about this, girl?” Del said now. “You know I love you. And I only keep asking because I love you.”
“I know. I love you too. And I love him. I made him a promise and I’m going to keep it. I love him more than anything else, Del, so I’m following the plan. I’m going home and I’m waiting for him.”
From the look on Del’s face, I could’ve been a teenager claiming to have seen Santa Claus on the neighbor’s roof. I’d told her about the road trip, leaving out the intimate details, and she’d reacted as I expected: concern laced with skepticism and a concern for my sanity. I began to understand how Evan must’ve felt all of his life.
Del studied me a moment more with her sharp, dark eyes. She sighed. “You do love him, honey. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Can’t give up on love. Not never.”
“Never,” I agreed. “And a wise woman once told me that it was best to keep something in front of you. Something to hope for.”
“I know it, baby, but what you’re hoping for…”
She trailed off, but I could still hear her unspoken words. What I was hoping for was a miracle.
“I have to go,” I told Del, hugging her tight. “I’ll miss you. So much.”
“I’ll miss you too, honey,” she said against my neck. “You call me every time you stop on the road. And you call me when you get to Lake Woebegone.”