“Are you all right?” His words hold none of the judgment I was afraid he was feeling, only concern.
When I finally make myself look up with the intention of brushing him off, I find that I can’t. A deep frown creases his brow and makes the shadows around his eyes appear deep, haunting. He seems nervous and worried—and scared. Exactly what I feel. I don’t know how to react to that. Jordan should be my opposite. He is the son of the cop who put my father in prison. His life has always represented justice and the right of the law, while my life represented injustice and the mistakes of humanity.
How can we possibly ever be on the same page?
“No,” I say, the emotion in my voice catching both of us off guard. I’m suddenly uncomfortable with his gaze on me, so I gesture to the notebook in front of me, hoping to draw his attention away. “Nothing here is all right.”
Jordan does as I was hoping and looks back down at his own notebook. He opens his mouth to speak, but then hesitates and meets my eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready to deal with this?” His hands spread out over the mess around us and his shoulders actually droop. It’s like his question is too heavy for them to carry.
But it isn’t a choice. I have to carry that weight, and I have to do it now, before another nineteen days pass without me knowing what I truly believe, and Daddy gets executed for a crime he didn’t commit or—equally unthinkable—he gets released from prison and exonerated for a crime he is guilty of. How do I live without telling anyone if I decide he is guilty, and I’m the only one who heard his confession?
“I’m ready.” From the steadiness of my tone, it almost sounds like it could be true.
18
AFTER VERIFYING WE BOTH have all the same general information about the case, we start separating the details into groups. Agreeing with Jordan on where specific points should go is harder than I expect.
“But shouldn’t that be listed under the evidence that speaks to his guilt?” Jordan taps his pen against his lip, and I resist the sudden urge to rip it from his hands.
“No, it definitely casts doubt. It needs to be listed there.” I clasp my fingers tighter in my lap, trying to hold my anger in check, but the jab still slips through. “Maybe if you weren’t so biased against him, you’d be able to see that.”
Jordan makes a sound like he’s choking on something, his eyes go wide, and he slumps down low in his chair, mumbling, “You’re impossible.”
“Well, it’s true,” I mutter, reaching for his notebook to study what he’s written. Instead, Jordan sits straight up, grabs his scribbled notes in one hand, and my wrist in the other.
I’m stuck now, and I’ve leaned so far forward that my arm is actually over his shoulder. I have no choice but to rest it there to catch my balance or fall forward out of my chair.
“Riley,” he whispers an inch from my face, his eyes firing sparks at me. “You, my friend, are a hypocrite.”
His words make me want to jerk my hand away, but I don’t. I stay there, leaning close with my wrist in his fingers and my heart pounding in my throat. My balance is so off-center. With a slight shift of his weight, he could drop me to the floor.
The frustration in his eyes fades as they search mine, and I say, “I am not.”
“Not what?” His response is lightning fast and playful, but he helps me regain my balance and releases me. “A hypocrite or my friend?”
A laugh bursts from my chest and it is as unexpected as his words. He grins wide, but I force myself to focus. If we’re going to make any progress, we need to stop getting distracted by disagreements … and each other.
“Fine, then we’re both hypocrites.” I lean back, crossing my legs beneath the table as I try to think of the best solution. The one I come up with doesn’t sound fun, but it’s the only idea I have. “Okay, so maybe we need to flip sides and switch arguments. You are only allowed to think of reasons why something could cast doubt. I’m only allowed to consider ways it could speak to guilt. Deal?”
Jordan gives me a look that can only be described as grimly impressed. “That isn’t going to be easy. And it requires trust. Are you sure that’s the best approach?”
“It’s the best way to make sure we’re seeing it clearly.” I pick up his notebook and look at it again, trying it out. “If I convince us both that he’s guilty, no matter how much I don’t want him to be … then it’s obviously true. Right? And vice versa for you.”
Jordan doesn’t speak until I lower the paper.
“You need to know, Riley, I do not hope your father is guilty. If we can prove him innocent, I’ll be genuinely happy for you both. It will be anything but disappointing.” His tone is stern, almost as if holding a rebuke toward me for misjudging him.