Fox River. Emilie Richards

      11

      Nine years had passed since Karl Zandoff buried Fidelity Sutherland’s jewelry between fenceposts, between properties, between Christian’s hope of exoneration and the reality of his imprisonment. At ten-thirty on Thursday morning, as autumn leaves began their annual spiral and one of the two digging crews stopped to raid a jug of steaming coffee, Pinky Stewart, shovel-wielding sheriff’s deputy, struck a metal tin that had once held Reducine ointment.

      Six hours later, and only because Peter Claymore had the political influence he did, Christian Carver walked out of Ludwell State Prison.

      Mel Powers’s forehead glistened, but not nearly as brightly as his eyes. He was an emotional man—an asset he played to the hilt in a courtroom—but never so emotional that he couldn’t calculate his way to the next appeal. Since arriving at Ludwell that morning, he had routinely alternated tears of victory with a shit-eating grin.

      Christian hadn’t smiled or cried. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to stand or run, and unable to think quickly enough to make a decision. Years ago he had given up the dream of freedom, then reclaimed it with Zandoff’s confession. Now that the dream had come true, he could think no further ahead.

      He hadn’t even had time to say goodbye to the men he had worked with, or to Landis or Timbo, who had depended on him for instruction and advice. One moment he was wearing his prison work shirt, the next he was in a suit bought for the occasion by Peter Claymore. He’d been handcuffed and transported in a prison van to the same courtroom where he had lost his freedom.

      And he had found it again.

      Standing at the top of the courthouse steps, he was dismayed at the sun beating down on his bare head. He’d been outside almost every day since his imprisonment, but the air and sun felt different here, as if he had entered an entirely new universe. For a moment he was filled with panic, afraid to breathe for fear his lungs would fill with poison, afraid to move for fear the sun, unadulterated by the shadows of prison walls and razor wire, might melt his skin.

      He had refused to give a statement, but news crews were there anyway. The equipment aimed in his direction was an entirely new generation of technology than what he remembered. He felt a stronger stab of panic.

      Peter edged Christian down the steps. “Son, you’re out for good. They aren’t going to find anything that will put you back behind bars. Now, let’s make a run for my car.”

      Christian grimaced and wished he could strip off the tie. “Let’s get it over with.”

      He was safely inside Peter’s Lincoln before anyone spoke again. He was aware of leather seats against his palms, the purr of a perfectly tuned engine. He realized he was exhausted, sick with it, as if some unseen hand had robbed him of everything that kept a man moving and breathing.

      “Where are we going?” he said at last.

      Peter put a hand on his knee. “Where do you want to go?”

      He nearly said home. But there was no such place, and probably never had been.

      “A bar,” Mel said, when Christian didn’t respond. “The first one we see. Chris needs food, and he needs a good stiff drink. So do I.”

      Christian had sworn off liquor before he could have his first drink, the result of being Gabe Carver’s son. Now he wondered if his father had understood something he hadn’t.

      “Christian?” Peter said.

      “Yeah.” Christian leaned back and closed his eyes. “The first bar we see.”

      

      Julia could find her way through the house with only the occasional stumble. Karen had organized her drawers and toiletries so that she could find the things she needed. Maisy had cleared the halls and rooms. Julia had even learned to make her way out to the garden, where Jake had leveled stones to be certain she didn’t catch a toe and trip. Adjusting had taken time and concentration. Now that the basics were, for the most part, finished, she had little to occupy her mind.

      But nothing would have emptied it of Christian Carver, anyway.

      “Julia, I’m making a cake. Why don’t you come stir it for me?”

      Out of habit, Julia looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Karen had gone to Millcreek just before three to pick up more of Julia’s clothes and hadn’t yet returned. Julia knew Maisy’s cake was just an excuse to help her stay busy, but she was more than willing to go along with it. “Can I lick the bowl?”

      “I won’t tell the salmonella police if you don’t.”

      “I don’t know how helpful I’ll be. You might end up with more on the counters than in your pans.”

      “I’ll take that chance.” Maisy hesitated. “See you in the kitchen, honey.”

      Julia was sure her mother wanted to take her by the hand and lead her, and it was a welcome surprise that she hadn’t offered. Julia found her way through the hall with no problems and turned the corner into the kitchen, where her luck ran out. She felt for the edge of the counter to orient herself, and her hand brushed something cool and smooth. The contact was temporary. The item crashed to the floor.

      “Damn!”

      “It’s okay, Julia. Just a bowl. I shouldn’t have left it so close to the edge. It’s my fault.”

      “No, it’s not.” Julia wanted to hit something or somebody. And simply wanting to wasn’t nearly good enough. “It’s my fault for being blind.”

      “I’m cleaning up the pieces. Don’t come in until I’m done.”

      “When is this going to end? If this is all in my mind, don’t you think something would shake loose and I’d see again?”

      “I think if it were that simple you wouldn’t have lost your sight in the first place.”

      “How am I going to be able to take care of Callie if I can’t see where I’m going? If I can’t see who’s coming?”

      Maisy didn’t answer right away. Julia could hear the sound of the broom brushing the floor, the clinking of pottery, the slide of the dustpan.

      “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Maisy said at last. “It’s one thing to be suddenly blind. That’s terrible enough. But to be blind and afraid that Christian will come back—”