Page 166 of Shamed
Jayne’s eyes drop to the mailbox, where her hand still rests, then she taps it a few times while chewing on her lip. After one last glance at Jacob, she turns, and starts back toward me.
There’s no hurry in her steps, no rigid posture or curled-in shoulders. She’s at ease.
Mission accomplished.
I open the car door for her, and after one more nod in Jacob’s direction, I drop into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
Jacob remains standing at the door, watching as we drive away just as the clouds open up.
It takes a minute for either of us to speak, both unable to put into words what that simple encounter achieved.
Finally, I reach for Jayne’s hand, pulling it to rest on my thigh. “How are you doing?”
Her lips curve, small at first, but then it turns into a full-blown smile as she drops her head back, eyes closed. “I’m great.”
My own smile grows. “Yeah?”
She sighs, keeping her eyes closed. “Yes.”
“Well, what would you like to do now?”
Opening her eyes, she turns to me. Love and joy, and so much fucking happiness, radiates from her swirling gray eyes. “Let’s go live our lives.”
SECOND EPILOGUE
Jacob
The soft chorus of waves breaking against the shore creates the background music for my evening sitting out on my back porch.
Campbell and his wife Jasmine, along with their two girls, and Neil and his wife Sienna, with their three kids, left about anhour ago.
They spent the weekend here, celebrating one year since my exoneration.
What a weird thing to celebrate, being exonerated. An acknowledgement of my innocence.
It’s funny how quickly you can go from being the town villain to somewhat of a celebrity overnight.
People you’ve never seen before suddenly come forward to say they always knew you were innocent. Suddenly, they have stories to tell of someone they knew, who knew someone else who was wronged.
Of course, there are some people who are still wary of me, and honestly, that feels more comfortable to me.
Lowering my glass of lemonade to the small round table beside me, my eyes catch on the rumpled unopened letter sitting there.
I slide my finger back and forth over the name penned on the back—myname—and poke my tongue into my cheek.
I’ve brought it out here with me more than a dozen times since she dropped it in my mailbox, but I’ve never opened it.
I pick it up, turning it over in my hands a couple of times before resting it on my thigh.
Nothing but good things have come in the mail over this past year.
But this is different.
I can’t imagine what she could possibly have to say that I haven’t already heard through the media.
Do I even want to know?
Would it make me feel better? Worse?
