style="font-size:15px;"> But he would try again.
And next time it would be in person.
“You seem quiet today, Jess. Everything okay?”
Jess looked at her father, then transferred her gaze to her mother. Though the question had been asked calmly and conversationally, she felt their undertone of worry. They’d seen her through some rough times over the past few years, had stood by her through her deepest despair, almost forcibly taking her to counseling sessions when all she’d wanted to do was huddle in bed under the covers in a dark room. As a result, they had come to learn every nuance of her moods.
While she was deeply grateful for their steadfast caring, it was a bit disconcerting to know that there was little she could hide from them. Certainly nothing as traumatic as Scott’s phone call. She realized now that she should have told them about Scott’s upcoming release two weeks ago, when her attorney had called to alert her. But she had hoped there would be no need to worry them. Had hoped Scott would stay away and not disrupt the delicate balance of her fragile existence. But that hope had been in vain, and now she was faced with the difficult task of telling her parents about Scott’s release—and his call.
Carefully Jess set her fork down and reached for her glass of water, willing her hand not to shake as she took a sip. “I’m fine,” she replied, struggling with limited success to keep her voice steady, “but I was a little upset yesterday. S-Scott called.”
Her mother’s fork clattered to her plate, and her eyes grew wide. Her father looked equally shaken, though his shock quickly gave way to anger as his face grew hard and his mouth settled into a thin, unforgiving line.
“What do you mean, Scott called?” he said, his voice taut with tension.
Jess drew a shaky breath and met his disturbed gaze. “He’s out, Dad. John Kane called a few days ago to tell me that he was being released early for good behavior.”
Jess couldn’t quite make out her father’s muttered comment, but she knew from his tone that it wasn’t pretty. He threw his napkin onto the table and rose to pace agitatedly.
“Good behavior? From a murderer? That’s ridiculous. He deserved every second of his five-year sentence—if not more.”
“Frank, please try not to get upset,” Jess’s mother pleaded, her own face pinched and drawn. “You know this isn’t good for your blood pressure.”
He paused and glared at his wife. “How can you be so calm about this, Clare? This is the man who killed your granddaughter and almost ruined your daughter’s life.”
Clare’s eyes filled with tears and she groped in the pocket of her skirt for a tissue. “I know, Frank. I’m not happy about it, either. But what can we do?”
He began to pace again, and Jess could feel his seething frustration. “We can stop him from calling Jess, for one thing. If he’s bothering her, that’s harassment. We can get a restraining order.”
“Please Dad…Mom…it’s okay. That’s not necessary,” Jess assured them with more calm than she felt. “He only called once. And I didn’t even talk to him. I just hung up.”
That seemed to placate Frank, and after a moment he took his seat again. “Well, that’s good. You did the right thing, sweetie. He ought to get the message. And if he doesn’t, I’ll call John and he’ll take care of it. Okay?”
“Okay, Dad.”
Clare reached over and took Jess’s hand, twin lines of worry furrowing her brow. “Are you sure, honey? Because if you’re scared, we can call John right now.”
Jess stared at her mother. Scared? Of Scott? That thought had never even entered her mind. In fact, it was almost ludicrous. She might hate her husband for what he had done to her daughter and for ruining her life, but he wasn’t a violent man.
“Why would I be scared, Mom?”
Clare’s frown deepened. “Well, it’s been three years, Jess,” she said carefully. “And prison is a hard place, from what I’ve read. It can…do things to a person. Change them. Did he sound angry, or threatening?”
Jess thought back to the few words Scott had spoken on the phone. There had been absolutely no hint of anger or threat in his voice. On the contrary. He’d sounded anxious. And shaky. And…hungry.
Now it was Jess’s turn to frown. Hungry. What an odd word to pop into her mind. And yet it was accurate, she realized. There had been a raw need in his voice when he’d spoken her name. As if he had to hear her voice, to connect with her in some tangible way. It was an oddly disconcerting realization.
“Jess?”
Her mother’s anxious voice brought her back to the present, and she summoned up a reassuring smile. “No, Mom. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded…the same.”
“I can’t believe he called you,” Frank said, a thread of anger still running through his voice. “Why would he do that, when you made it clear you never wanted to see him again?”
“I don’t know, Dad.” Her own voice was suddenly weary.
“Well, let’s forget about it as best we can and enjoy our dinner,” Clare suggested, forcibly lightening her tone as she sent a “let-it-drop-for-now” look to her husband. “Your dad’s right, honey. Hanging up on him was the best thing you could have done. He’s a smart man. He’ll get the message. You’ll probably never hear from him again. Now, how about another biscuit?”
As Jess took the proffered breadbasket, she hoped her mother was right about Scott. But she wasn’t optimistic. She’d heard his voice. And she didn’t think he was going to give up until she talked with him. Which was something she did not want to do.
Maybe a restraining order was in her future after all.
A gust of frigid air whipped past, and Scott turned up the collar of his denim jacket before jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He was chilled to the bone after waiting at the bus stop for thirty minutes, and the inadequate heater on the public conveyance had done little to dispel the numbing cold. The greenhouse looming in front of him promised a haven from the freezing temperatures, and he quickened his pace, breathing a sigh of relief as he stepped into the balmy oasis.
For a moment Scott just stood there, letting the welcome warmth seep through his pores as he scanned the interior. The facility was well maintained, with half of the space devoted to row after row of tagged trays containing tiny seedlings, while larger pots of healthy-looking perennials occupied the other half. Large rubber hoses lay neatly coiled at periodic intervals, and hanging pots were spaced methodically above the seedlings. The operation appeared to be orderly and well run, Scott noted with approval.
“You must be Scott.”
At the sound of the gravelly voice, Scott turned. An older man had entered the greenhouse by a side door and now stood observing him from several yards away. Make that “assessing him,” Scott thought wryly, as the man’s shrewd, slightly narrowed eyes studied him. Scott took the opportunity to look him over, as well. An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth, and his fists were planted on his hips. His white hair was closely cropped in a no-nonsense style, and his attire—worn jeans that molded comfortably to his lean frame, and an open
