Crystal told me you had a daughter who died.”
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then when he opened them again, there was a raw look in their blue depths that turned them the color of the lake right before a storm. “I lost both my wife and daughter a few years back.”
“I’m so sorry. My husband died last spring, so I understand what you must have gone through.”
An expression full of doubt flickered across his face for a few seconds before he managed to mask it. He walked to the back door and thrust it open, then disappeared quickly. Tanya heard him say something to her daughter. She observed the exchange, saw Crystal’s features coming alive while she spoke to Chance. She even laughed, which thrilled Tanya. Her daughter hadn’t laughed much lately—ever since the start of high school six weeks before.
Chance sensed Tanya’s gaze on him and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. In prison he’d gotten used to being watched all the time, but that didn’t mean he liked the feeling. It made him think of a bug under a microscope, every movement noted and analyzed.
“May I pet your dog?” he asked Crystal, the hairs on his nape prickling.
“Sure. Charlie loves people.”
“He’s a beauty.” Chance stroked the length of the black Lab’s back. “So what are you writing about?”
“About the prejudice in the book To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“How far have you gotten?”
“I’m almost finished with the rough draft. We’re supposed to compare and contrast it to the prejudice in our society today.”
“How’s that coming?” Chance asked, having experienced his own kind of prejudice when he had been released from prison three weeks ago. Although his conviction had been overturned, people still looked at him strangely, and he could see the question of his innocence lurking in their gazes.
“The comparing and contrasting has been the easiest part. You know, not all prejudice is racial.”
“True. People can be prejudiced against anyone, an overweight person or someone who stutters. There’s all kinds.”
“I know.”
Chance studied Crystal’s solemn expression, illuminated in the light by the door. “Is something going on at school?”
Her gaze slid away from his, her head dropping until her chin nearly touched her chest.
“Crystal? What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled.
He knelt and leaned close because he’d barely heard her reply. “Is someone bothering you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Crystal?” Something was wrong. Tension oscillated in waves from the teenager.
“It’s really nothing. I can handle it.”
He bent down farther until he caught her gaze and held it. “You’ll tell someone if you can’t?”
She lifted her head, visibly swallowed and nodded. She shivered. “It’s getting cold. I’d better go in. Night.” She guided her wheelchair toward the back door and waited for Charlie to open it for her.
Chance didn’t leave the deck until the teenager had disappeared inside. Through the open blinds he saw Tanya say something to her daughter, following Crystal out of the room. He’d speak to Tanya tomorrow about what her daughter had implied. If someone was harassing Crystal, it needed to stop, especially with her earlier comment about the guy she was attempting to draw. Was he the one bothering her?
Chance hurried up the stairs two at a time and entered his apartment. Tom had been there for him in prison. He would be there for Tom’s daughter. He owed the man his life.
Having no books, radio or television, he decided to go to bed early. He intended to start the basketball hoop for Crystal early the next morning if he could find a store open on Sunday that sold lumber and the other supplies he would need. He wanted to give the teenager something to smile about.
In the dark he stretched out on the double bed with his arms folded behind his head. Staring up at the ceiling, he reviewed the day’s activities. He had a job. Only time would tell whether it was the best one for him. He’d assisted Tanya with her budget and he knew now how to help Crystal. Not too bad.
“I’ll protect them, Tom,” he whispered into the blackness, his eyelids growing heavy with sleep….
Three men with exaggerated grins and taunting voices surrounded him. Chance glanced from one to the other. When his gaze finally settled on the ringleader, tall and thin but with arms like steel clubs, Chance’s heart thudded against his chest. The instigator of this little impromptu meeting clenched his fist around a homemade knife, the blade long—three, exaggerated feet—and sharp. His cackles chilled the air in the cell as though a blizzard had swept through the prison, freezing everything but them.
Trapped, with his back against the bars, Chance didn’t have to look around to know he wouldn’t be able to walk away from them without a fight. He prepared himself, bracing his feet apart, balling his hands.
The ringleader charged, letting out a blood-curdling scream that plunged the temperature in the cell even colder. Suddenly from out of nowhere, Tom flew between him and the tall, thin man, planting himself in front of the long, long knife. The inmate brought the weapon back and shoved it toward Tom and him. The blade went through Tom’s chest to skewer Chance.
Chance bolted up in bed, rivers of sweat running off him as he tried to draw in a decent breath. His lungs hurt as though he really had been pierced by a knife. He couldn’t seem to inhale enough air. The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears, the nightmare relived yet again. When would it ever go away? Would Tom’s death haunt him forever? He dug his fingers into the bedding, trying to focus on the pain emanating from them rather than his heart.
He knew one thing. He had to tell Tanya where he’d been for the past few years. He didn’t want her to find out from someone else. He owed her that much.
Tanya pulled into her driveway after church, stopped at the side of her house and stared at the scene before her. Shock trembled through her. Chance was painting a basketball backboard bright yellow. The color glittered in the bright sunlight.
“I didn’t think he would do it today,” Tanya murmured, amazed at how fast Chance had managed to put the hoop up. She and Crystal had only been gone three hours.
“Do what, Mom?” Crystal asked from the back of the van where her wheelchair was locked into place.
“Chance has already put up that basketball hoop for you.”
“He has?” Her daughter’s own astonishment sounded in her voice. “I want to see.”
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