I’m going to prison.
“Let her put some goddamn clothes on!” Connor shouts. “She’s half naked.”
But the officer doesn’t listen. He turns me and pushes me out the door and down the steps where a herd of reporters are waiting, snapping photos, and yelling questions at me. I lower my head, letting my hair hang over my face as I’m led to the car when I hear someone shouting.
“You killed him!” Mrs. Jenson shrieks. “He gave candy to those kids! He was kind to you, and you killed him!” She’s sobbing as she wipes at her nose with her forearm. The reporters are snapping photos, flashes from their cameras blinding me.
“Grab her!” The officer holding my cuffed wrists shouts as he pushes me forward. The other officer grabs Mrs. Jenson and pulls her away, and I’m pushed forward toward the car. This is humiliating. I’m practically naked, being shoved into the back seat of a cop car.
“Don’t worry, Demi,” Connor is right beside me all of a sudden. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I love you,” he whispers in my ear before the officer leading me shoves him away. His words slice right through me. Here, we just found one another, finally came together, and now I’m probably going to prison.
A vigilante.
That’s what the newspapers were calling me.
Demi Stevens—takes justice into her own hands.
After my arrest, Connor went straight to Wendy and Jeff’s and told them everything. McKenzie reluctantly came forward, confessing her part in Mr. Jenson’s death, and she also shared the horrific details of what he did to her years ago. Mary-Anne also came forward. Just as I had suspected, McKenzie had coached her, made her swear not to tell what happened that day, terrified she’d go to jail.
The prosecutor dropped the murder charge on Connor and for me, but then I was charged with voluntary manslaughter. The coroner’s report showed that ultimately Mr. Jenson died from suffocation. Jim showed me the photos from the crime scene, and I was immediately confused. Nothing looked as I remembered it. Mr. Jenson was positioned differently, and there was blood in places there wasn’t from what I remembered.
I knew immediately what happened. Connor and Dusty had altered the crime scene. They did their best to make it look like there was a struggle between Mr. Jenson and me; and that I killed him out of self-defense.
My mother refused to post bail for me; apparently I’m disowned now. But lucky for me, I have another mother . . . of sorts. Grams came to the rescue and bailed me out. Like I said, God might close the doors, but he always leaves a big beautiful window open somewhere.
As soon as I got out, I came home and hid from the world, refusing to leave the house. Connor has stayed with me, and Lexi comes by to visit every day. Wendy and Jeff have stayed away, but Wendy does call every day. The prosecutor didn’t charge McKenzie as she hit Mr. Jenson in an attempt to defend me. But with Mrs. Jenson living across the street and the horrid things she’s been saying to the newspapers about us, they have no choice, but to avoid my home. Not to mention the reporters circling my house like buzzards about to feast on a dead carcass.
Pulling my curtain aside, I peek out my side window. “They’re only three today. At least they seem to be decreasing.”
“I’m sorry you have to deal with that. I can’t believe you’re national news.”
Plopping back on my sofa with a huff, I ask, “How is McKenzie doing?”
“She’s doing okay,” Wendy tells me over the phone. “I hate myself for not realizing there was something going on with her. I just thought she was a pissed off teenager; that it was hormones.”
“I’m so sorry, Wendy.”
“I met him several times, Demi. I thought he was the sweetest old man alive,” Wendy admits. “I never thanked you, though.”
“Thanked me?” I ask. “For what?”
“For killing him,” she states plainly. “I know that sounds awful, but . . .”
“I know, Wendy. I know,” I assure her. Connor walks in the living room where I’m curled up on the couch, wiping his hands on a shop rag.
“Babe, can you come in the kitchen?” he asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply. “Can I call you later Wendy?”
After hanging up with Wendy, I head into the kitchen and find Jim seated at my table with a small woman about my age. Connor has made four cups of coffee for all of us and pulls the only empty seat left next to him where he sits and pats the seat. “Have a seat, baby. You’ll want to hear this.”
“Demi, this Leslie Jenson.”
My brows furrow in question.
“This is the Jenson’s daughter, babe.”
I tense immediately, wondering if this woman has come to thrash me for killing her father. What am I supposed to say here? Nice to meet you?
“She’s come forward with information that may help us,” Jim adds.
“Information such as . . . ?”
“My father sexually abused me,” Leslie pipes up. Her blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment before dropping again. “Until I ran away when I was sixteen.”
“You haven’t seen them since you were sixteen?” I ask. I never knew the Jenson’s even had children.
“Not once.”
We spend the next two hours together, where Leslie shares details of a horrific childhood; a father sexually assaulting her, a mother who called her a liar, and a family doctor that never reported obvious signs of abuse.
“We’re meeting with the prosecutor this afternoon so Leslie can share her experience,” Jim informs me before sipping his coffee.
“I appreciate her willingness to share such a painful experience, but how will this help me?”
“Because he deserved to die,” Leslie states blatantly.
“Leslie, I appreciate how both of us feel in this situation. But the judge may not agree,” I point out.
Jim stands and straightens his tie. “Maybe not. Or maybe he has a daughter or granddaughter and just maybe the thought of something so terrible happening to them at the hands of a sick man will make him think. But we need to go now. We’re meeting the prosecutor in an hour.”
After they leave, Connor and I finish our cup of coffee in silence. I can’t seem to get my thoughts together, my mind is scrambled with what ifs? What if the prosecutor doesn’t care about her testimony? What if I go to prison? I’m a knot of worry and tension, which Connor must sense because he stands and takes my hand, looking down at me with his dark stare.
Again, no words.
He wants me to follow him.
He leads me upstairs and undresses me slowly, kissing me softly. I don’t want to think about the trial or prison or assholes that hurt innocent children right now. I want my mind to go blank, and Connor knows this. He knows exactly how to suck all of the worries out of me, at least for a little while, and I’m grateful for it.
He undresses and climbs on the bed, seating himself upward, his back against the headboard. “Come here, beautiful,” he orders me.
I crawl on the bed toward him, then straddle his lap, relishing the rush that runs through me when his erection slides against my wetness. Cupping my cheek, he slides his hand down my body, squeezing my breast and grazing my nipple with his thumb. I trace the curves of his muscles, wanting to touch every inch of his exquisite body. Our gazes are locked, the conversation flowing between us.
I want you, I say.
You’re my everything, he tells me.
He’s a master of sex. I’ve decided this. He knows taking his time, torturing me until I’m about to combust with want for him makes it that much more intense. By the time he finally lets me sheathe him inside me, I can think of nothing but him, us, this.
I ride him slowly, but I come quickly when he places his thumb on my clit. We never look away from each other and when I feel his body tense, feel him nearing his release, I do my best to memorize every single detail of this moment. I want to lock it away inside of me because there may come a time, very soon, that we will be forced to part ways; a time where I’m forced to let him go and move on with his life. If I’m convicted and sentenced, I now understand I could go to prison for up to eleven years. I would never ask him to wait that long for me, not after he’s just gotten out of prison himself and has barely had a chance to live again.