I lead Jordan to the kitchen table, where my laptop sits alongside two notebooks and some pens. His eyebrows lift and he throws a questioning glance in my direction.
“Before I can try to get the answers I need”—I release a shuddering sigh—“I need to make sure I understand what everyone else thinks happened.”
He hesitates before speaking. “Are you sure you want to go down this road, Riley?”
I give him a firm nod. “I’m not saying it’s the truth, but I need to know the details of what the state says happened before I can even attempt to figure out what questions I need to ask.”
Jordan watches me closely as I take my seat, then he pushes up both sleeves and opens his laptop. After I give him our network password and he’s online, he asks, “Where do you want to start?”
“I know most of the details of what happened to the victims—how they were killed. I also know they falsely think my father had an affair with one of them,” I say, and he squints so I hurry on before he can get caught up in the wrong details. I’m not ready to consider the idea that this could be just another lie. “I need to know what else I’m missing. I need to understand their arguments better.”
Jordan shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”
“Good. We’ll each look up several articles that go over the evidence and the details of the case. Let’s take notes, then we’ll compare and see if either of us finds anything new.”
Jordan gives me a grim nod, then turns to his screen and starts typing.
“And Jordan?”
He waits for me to finish.
“Thank you … for wanting to help.”
He appears to hesitate before reaching out and grabbing my hand in his. The gesture is so sudden and unexpected I nearly jerk my hand back. He squeezes my fingers lightly twice and I’m amazed at how warm and strong his hand feels around mine.
“It’s going to be okay, Riley.” Then he rubs his thumb across my knuckles slowly before releasing my fingers without a word and turning back to his screen.
When I place my hands back on my own keyboard, I can’t help but notice how much warmer the hand he’d held still is. It’s like he left a bit of his life and warmth with me. I smile softly to myself, but it slides slowly away with each key I press as I type the words East End Killer into the search window.
*
We’ve each been jotting notes on our pads in silence for over an hour when I finally look up again. My finger goes down my list as I read through some of the words I’ve written. Seeing details that condemn my father in my own handwriting feels like treason.
I stare at the screen still open before me for the fifteenth time, but nothing here is new information. All I can think about is everything I’ve read so far and how awful it is. And how Jordan is reading it, too. The silence between us that was just starting to become comfortable again now feels dreadful and humiliating. He’s still reading and has a look on his face that is half horrified, half fascinated. It’s the same one people wore during Daddy’s trial every time they talked about what he did.
I remember that look. I hate that look.
The information in the articles feels so vastly different when looking at it as something that could be true. I’m not ready for these differences. Especially when every description conjures images of my father as a living, breathing nightmare. My hand shakes, and I pull the notebook onto my lap before Jordan can see it.
I’d been so young during the trial. Some of the details are familiar, mostly the ones that mattered because we’d argued for appeals based on them. Mama and Daddy had told me that the things the prosecutors said were lies and I should forget about them, and I’d believed my parents completely. Reading through these documents of evidence now—now when I’m older and understand each and every detail, and now that I know that my parents are liars, too—it’s an entirely different experience, and my stomach is a turbulent mess.
I strive to bring my emotions to balance and get a grip. Inhale and exhale. I tune out everything but the air in my lungs and breathe slow and deep. If I can’t even read through the evidence of this case with an open mind, how will I be able to face the other things that could be coming my way? The reopening of his case, his possible release, his probable execution.
If I want the truth, I must be strong enough to handle it when it comes.
“Riley?”
I fight for control, forcing myself not to whip my head up or react suddenly.
Instead, I stay exactly as I am and softly murmur, “Hmm?”
Only when his warm fingers slide down my arm do I realize how chilled my skin has become.