Page 77 of Don't Say a Word

As I walked out of the office five minutes later, my phone buzzed. I hoped it was Harry; it wasn’t. Angie had responded to my text.

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Such was communication with teenagers.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Margo Angelhart

My dad was one of the best people I knew.

And he was in prison for murder.

I knew he was innocent, but it was an off-limit subject. He had confessed. He’d told me he was willing to serve “his time.”

Yes, he confessed. But he never once told me why he confessed to a crime he didn’t commit, or even given me areasonwhy he’d killed Dr. Devin Klein.

It had been nearly impossible to put it all aside. Okay, I hadn’t really put it aside. I had looked for information, clues, evidence of my dad’s innocence. But every time I thought I was close—like when I talked to Klein’s research assistant earlier this year, a woman who took more than a year to track down—I had more questions than answers.

And Dad wouldn’t answer my questions.

So the choice was to never visit and turn my back on the man who loved and raised me—which would have hurt both of us—or see him and not talk about Klein. I opted for the latter.

There would be a time I would come here with some of theanswers I sought, and I would ask him for the truth. But until then, I had tabled the subject.

Eyman was a medium-security prison and had regular visiting hours, so there were other people meeting friends and family in the visitor’s center, but being Wednesday morning, there weren’t many. I generally avoided crowded weekend visits.

We hugged—touching wasn’t allowed, but the guards generally didn’t comment if the moment was brief—then sat across from each other at one of the many stainless steel tables. There was a small outdoor play area through barred windows for families with young kids. A man sat with a woman, side by side on a bench, watching a little boy play. They weren’t talking, but I could see the bittersweet happiness in their expressions.

Dad saw where I was looking. “That’s Tim. He’s a good man, in here for attempted murder. Pled it down to aggravated assault to get five years. His son is four and he’s halfway through his time. I often see him in the chapel. He’ll make it, I think. He talks about his wife a lot, and she’s stuck by him.”

Too often felons who were incarcerated for years couldn’t function on the outside. Many were repeat offenders who didn’t care to even try. Prison became a revolving door. And some tried, but got dragged back into the bad decisions that landed them behind bars in the first place.

But some did their time and moved on—and having a supportive family was the number one factor in them turning a new leaf.

“That’s good,” I said, though I wasn’t really paying attention.

“What’s on your mind, Margo?” he asked.

“What, I can’t just spontaneously come to visit?”

“You can, but you don’t. It’s a long drive.”

I could lie to everyone except my parents.

Dad waited for me to talk. He didn’t ask questions to try and get information, and he didn’t push or act irritated or annoyed. He looked content. Neither happy nor sad. He’d been inside for three years and promised all of us he would stay healthy—he worked out as much as he could, walked around the yard daily, and readto keep his mind sharp. A few months ago when I visited, he told me he was tutoring some of the younger men who wanted to get their GED. He said it was fulfilling to help them.

“I was told you were on the list next week.”

I smiled. “Caught me. I asked to come today because there’s another prisoner I want to talk to and I didn’t want to come here without seeing you too.”

“I don’t think I would have known either way.”

“Iwould have known.”

I looked at him—really looked. Dad was tall, over six one. He gave his height to Jack and Tess. He had dark blond hair that had gone mostly gray, but it looked good on him, mostly white instead of silver, distinguished. He hadn’t lost much, if any, a fact that seemed to relieve my brothers. He had never had a beard or mustache, and remained clean-shaven while in prison as well. His blue eyes were clear and bright. He seemed as well as anyone could be while behind bars.

But I missed him. I missed stopping by the house and talking to him about whatever was on my mind. Laughing over dinner, rewatching our favorite movies, relaxing on the porch in the evening.