Page 31

Rowan

Why am I doing this?

I ask myself that several times on the short drive to the county jail. And I ask it again as I coast slowly through the crowded parking lot, looking for the last spot.

When I finally get out of the car, I see entire families trooping together to the doors.

How depressing.

Trudging toward the entrance, I size up the jail. It’s a low, two-story building that sprawls like a high school. Same institutional bulk. Same half-assed brick facade, with some clunky stone cladding that needs a good wash.

There must be architects who focus exclusively on jail design. Now there’s a weird specialty.

Following the signs for the visitors’ area, I have my first shiver of déjà vu. Fifteen years ago, I walked through this same corridor and passed through these same metal detectors, only to be told that Harrison wouldn’t see me.

Distraught, I’d questioned the man at the desk. His response was brisk but kind. It happens, ma’am. Sometimes they don’t want you to see ’em like this .

Harrison never did let me visit. He only saw my parents. And only to sign away his rights to his child.

Now I’m back in the same spot, showing my driver’s license and answering security questions. Submitting my wallet for inspection.

I’m glad Natalie isn’t here to see this. The gray walls. The scuffed doors. The hornets’ buzz of locked doors open electronically as I’m led deeper into the building.

The visitors’ room reminds me of high school—it’s like a cafeteria with long tables and plastic chairs. But these tables have a wooden divider in the center, separating the inmates from the visitors.

There are rules posted everywhere. NO CONTRABAND. brIEF TOUCHING ONLY. STAY ON YOUR OWN SIDE OF THE TABLE.

“Have a seat, ma’am,” I’m told. I pick a deserted table and sink into a chair.

Before Harrison’s first arrest, I thought our little team was just going through a rough patch, and that our love would go the distance.

Now I’m sitting here in this grungy room, waiting to speak to the potentially violent stranger I once loved more than anyone.

A door on the back wall buzzes open, and every head turns. Two guards enter first, and the one with a gray buzz cut speaks. “Good afternoon. Remember the rules—brief contact only. Stay on your side of the table. Passing contraband to a prisoner is a punishable crime.”

He steps aside and the prisoners begin to file in. My stomach lurches.

“Daddy!” shouts a little voice from somewhere behind me. My throat closes up.

If Harrison hadn’t cut me off after his arrest, that might have been us—visiting Daddy on the weekends in prison.

A dozen men—and they’re all men—file into the room, but Harrison isn’t among them. Then the door swings shut again. For the love of God . Again?

I’m shoving my chair away from the table when the door suddenly opens to admit one more man. And there he is. He’s unshaven, and he’s wearing orange prison garb, but it’s Harrison, looking not all that different from the young man I used to know.

My stomach gives an unwelcome little flutter.

Harrison glances immediately in my direction, drawn to me like a magnet. I take a gulp of air as he heads my way, unsmiling.

All around me, families lean across tables and embrace, voices rising as everyone begins talking at once.

My face is stony, though, as he arrives across the table. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I manage. “Take a seat.”

He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits down. He folds his hands on the table, his long fingers so familiar that it makes me ache.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Natalie wanted me to.”

He nods jerkily. “You know...” He looks me dead in the eyes. “I’ve always pictured how it would be when I finally got to talk to you again. I figured we’d run into each other at a café. You’re sketching something for work at a table. I’m having a good hair day...”

A stunned laugh bursts from my chest.

His lips twitch. “You look great, Rowan. Although I know you’re not here for the compliments.” He sighs. “They only give us thirty minutes, so I have to talk fast. Unless you have anything you want to say first?”

I’m too startled to do anything but shake my head.

“Fine. The reason I came back to Portland was to ask if I could be in Natalie’s life. I started with you. Got nowhere. Then she commented on one of the band’s Instagram photos, so I messaged her. Had no idea that she was going behind your back.”

“I got that,” I manage.

He nods. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m very unclear on why I got arrested on a bullshit violation, but we’ll get to that in a second. I’ve got something to tell you about Natalie that can’t wait. You have to keep her from smoking weed.”

I play that back in my head. “Um, what?”

“Weed. Marijuana. Grass...”

“I know what weed is,” I say icily. “But what has that got to do with Natalie?” Please God don’t let him tell me my daughter does drugs .

He leans forward in his chair and studies me with a level gaze. “When she was born, I started lighting up. I had a lot of anxiety. New baby with a woman too good for me. Terrible job prospects. I smoked because it kept me level. After you and I moved back to Maine, I never did any other drugs.”

“Okay...” I try to take that in. “Really? Never?”

He shakes his head. “Just weed, but I made it a habit. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d begun to have bad reactions to it. Hallucinations. That night in the bar, when I ruined our lives? I was hallucinating. Thought that guy was some kind of demon.”

My head jerks back. “What?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get it, either. Went to prison. Started feeling more like myself. There wasn’t a lot of weed in prison back then. The smoke is too easy to smell. They tend to go for the hard stuff in there. Never wanted anything to do with the hard stuff, so I steered clear.”

“I’m confused as to where this is going.”

He gives me a sad smile. “Bear with me a second. A few years in, weed becomes legal in Maine, and edibles start making the rounds. I trade a guy for some. To break up the monotony. And—bam—I’m right back to major paranoia and seeing things. I hurt another guy. My sentence is extended.”

My chest hurts. “Because of weed ?”

“Well, weed and stupidity. The only good thing that came out of it is that I went to a court-mandated substance abuse class—they teach one inside. I told the substance abuse counselor my strange story, and he listened. Then the next week he brings me an article about a syndrome called cannabis psychosis. It’s a real thing that happens to a tiny percent of the population.”

Cannabis psychosis. I have chills.

“But hey—some guys are just lucky.” He spreads his hands like it’s a joke.

“God, I had no idea.”

“I know. Me neither. And I’m okay now.” He shrugs. “I’m sure you probably think I’m some kind of major druggie, but getting off weed wasn’t even very tricky for me, once I understood what it was doing to my brain. Weed isn’t as chemically addictive as some other drugs. The guys who get hooked on opioids have a harder time. But Rowan—my reaction might be hereditary. And marijuana is legal in Maine. Natalie can’t ever try it.”

“Oh.” Oh .

“I was going to explain it all. To both of you. But I only sat down with her once. I brought it up. Said I had some health things she needed to hear. Especially about drugs, and she cuts me off. She’s all, like, ‘I’d never do drugs.’ ”

In those four words, he captures her flippant teenage tone so perfectly that my throat tightens again.

His gaze dips. “Rowan, she’s so beautiful.” His eyes are suddenly red. “God, I thought I’d die when she walked into that coffee shop. Couldn’t believe it. She looks just like you. I thought I’d get more time to tell her exactly what happened to me.” He inhales sharply. “ Promise me you’ll make her understand. No cannabis. No CBD oil or anything. We just don’t know.”

“Okay, okay.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and blows out a breath. And my eyes are hot, too.

“Thought I could get to know her,” he says. “I chose the coffee shop, because it was a nice, public place. And Docksiders. I tried to guess what you might be okay with.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, my throat closing up. “She thought I’d say no. And I might have. Guess we’ll never find out.”

He flashes me a sad smile. “Don’t know when I’m getting out of here. Could be Monday—but only if the judge throws out the violation.”

“What did you, uh, allegedly do?”

He looks down at his hands. “Housing is difficult for me. I don’t have much cash, and nobody wants to rent to a felon. I answered a Craigslist ad for a room in a house with a few other guys. One of them is also a felon.”

I blink. “And... ?”

“And one of the conditions of my probation is that I don’t live with felons. That’s standard. But of course, I didn’t ask these guys, because I was better off not knowing.”

“Oh. Shit.”

He swallows. “It’s an obvious ruse to get me into custody, though. They keep asking me questions about the night your boyfriend got shot. I didn’t ever get near the guy, okay? In case you need to hear me say it. It wasn’t me. They also asked me to write out a violent statement with a marker.”

My pulse accelerates. “Four words? Like—he had to die?”

Harrison stares. “That’s right. How’d you know?”

“That note was addressed to me.”

“Jesus Christ.” He puts his hands on his head. He glances up at me, expression panicked. “Are you all right? Did Natalie see it?”

I give my head a slow shake. “It came to the mansion.”

He takes a deep breath. “Shit. Well, that explains why they handed me a sheet of paper and a marker. And that went about like you’d expect—you’ve seen my handwriting.”

Harrison is severely dyslexic and never got any support for it at school. He avoids writing at all costs and used to illustrate our grocery list instead of using words. Cute little apples. A perfect stick of butter. A pig for bacon. I don’t know who killed Tim Kovak, but I’m damn sure that Harrison didn’t write that note.

“I heard about the murder on the news,” he says. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sounds like he was a stand-up guy. I sent you those peonies because I didn’t know what else to say.”

“Um, thank you...” I gulp. “Yeah, it’s... We don’t know why he died. But you should know that the police have a video of you knocking on our front door. I never knew you came to the house.”

“Course I did. I tried.” He runs a hand through the scruff on his chin, and my hand actually twitches with the memory of doing that same thing myself. Touching him used to be second nature to me.

“I wrote you a couple emails, but you didn’t answer. And I went to that mansion where you work...”

“You did?”

He nods, frowning. “Knocked on the door a few weeks ago. Blond chick told me you were out. I left a message, but I don’t think she wrote it down.”

My mouth goes dry. “But how did you know where to find me?”

He tilts his head, and the gesture is so familiar I feel it behind my breastbone. “When I googled you, I found a news article about you working on that place. And your name is in the front yard, hon. On a sign.”

“Oh right.” I let out a short, hysterical laugh. “I forgot.” ROWAN GAL LAGHER, ARCHITECT . I put it right next to the contractor’s sign. Hoped people would remember my name for jobs down the road.

“So, yeah, I picked a hell of a night to knock on your front door.”

“It was that night? The night Tim died?”

He nods. “I was on a break between sets.”

“Wait. At Mick’s Rock Café?” My heart starts thudding even harder.

“The police are all over that. Plus, they keep asking me why I turned off my phone that night. But I always turn it off on gig nights. You don’t need it vibrating or whatever in the middle of a set. They still think it’s suspicious. They keep asking who else I saw on my break. When exactly did I leave, and when did I come back? We took an hour between sets. They also find that suspicious.”

“An hour ,” I whisper. “Shit.”

He sighs.

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“Sure. You know—a public defender. He says if they charge me, the police will have to share whatever they’ve got. Then we can try to find proof that I couldn’t be the one responsible. I’m just hoping they figure it out themselves first.”

My hand finds its way into my bag, and my fingers close around the card Beatrice gave me. “This is a good lawyer. Maybe you need more help.” I offer it across the barrier, and Harrison reaches for it.

“Ma’am,” a nearby guard says abruptly, “you can’t give him anything.”

Harrison drops his hand. “Honey, the truth is I can’t afford it anyway. Thank you for the thought.”

Honey.

I tuck the card back into my bag. “What if I called her for you? Just to ask how much it is. Natalie would want me to.”

He props his chin on a hand and gives me a gentle look. “Can we just talk about Natalie instead? I’ve probably only got a few minutes left. What does she like? What does she do for fun?”

“Um...” My mind whirls at the sudden change in topic. “She’s smart, but not too smart to spend a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, working on makeup techniques and chatting with her friends on the phone. Ice cream is her favorite treat. She gets straight As, but if you ask her about her college plans, she runs out of the room. She uses a lot of words that I don’t understand. Last week she told me my outfit was ‘drip,’ and she meant it as a compliment.”

His sudden smile breaks my heart.

“She is shockingly competent. She can find anything on Google. She went through a poetry phase last year, and some of it was breathtaking. She makes really good bruschetta. But she doesn’t ever rinse a dish if she can just leave it in the sink. And her dirty socks are just everywhere. All over the house.”

His grin slips a little, and I can’t imagine having to ask someone else what my own daughter is like.

And now my throat is closing up again. “Is there anything you want me to tell her for you?”

He drops his head. “God, I can’t imagine there’s anything I have to say that she needs to hear. But I have a favor to ask. I wouldn’t, I swear. But there’s nobody else...”

We lock eyes for a second, and my heart quavers. “What?” I rasp.

“I have a cat, and my three roommates are mostly strangers to me. I’m worried they’ll forget to feed her. Could you, uh, go to my place and grab her? The animal rescue is in Westbrook. They would take her back. She’s a good girl. And if the hearing doesn’t go my way, I’ll go back to prison...”

I swallow hard. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. I need your address.” I pull out my phone and make a note, while he rattles off an address.

“The cat’s name is Zoe. There’s a soft-sided pet carrier in my room. If Rick answers the door—he’s the nicest one—maybe you could also grab my bass. It’s the only valuable thing I own, and I also keep my most important stuff in the case. Like my bankbook.”

I look up from my phone. “All right. Natalie can hold on to it for you.”

“And if I don’t get out of here next week?” He looks away. “Just... don’t let Natalie come to see me. Not here. If she wants to write me a letter—great. But I don’t want her anywhere near this place.”

“Okay,” I say quickly. “Sure.”

He rubs his forehead like it pains him. “Tell her I’m fine, okay? And I’m so sorry.”

My eyes feel hot again. “I’ll tell her. I promise.”