Page 2 of Trace of Doubt
I hadn’t been alone then.
My mind drifted back to high school days, when the future rested on maintaining a 4.0average and planning the next party. Maintaining my grades took a fraction of time, while my mind schemed forbidden fun. I’d dreamed of attending college and exploring the world on my terms.
Rebellion held bold colors, like a kaleidoscope shrouded in black light. The more I shocked others, the more I plotted something darker. My choices often seemed a means of expressing my creativity. While in my youth I viewed life as a cynic. By the time I was able to see a reflection of my brokenness and vowed to change, no one trusted me.
All that happened...
Before I took the blame for murdering my brother-in-law.
Before I traded my high school diploma and a career in interior design for a locked cell.
Before I spent years searching for answers.
Before I found new meaning and purpose.
How easy it would be to give in to a dismal, gray future when I longed for blue skies. I had to prove the odds against me were wrong.
2
During my years in prison, the demons ruled the night. Whenever one of the guards habitually unlocked my cell in the quiet stillness to force himself upon me, I vowed no one would hurt me again. Odd, I felt the same fear when I descended the bus steps at a Shell station in Valleysburg, Texas, as though the residents planned to attack me.
Darkness had long since covered the town in night’s blanket. Telltale signs of earlier rain glistened on the ground under the streetlights and cooled the temperatures. The prison chaplain had recommended the central Texas town as a solid place to start over and arranged for me to rent a cabin here. When I explored the area online, I was drawn to the rural beauty and proximity to what I needed for my second chance.
Actually, God had already given me a second chance. This location offered me an opportunity to contribute positively to others while inching forward as a productive member of society. But I was afraid that I couldn’t make the transition into society.
Memorized landmarks would be visible in the day hours, especially the location of the parole office on Main Street and a handful of boutiques whose owners might be interested in my jewelry designs. And the right church.
After exiting the bus, I looked for my new landlord, Edie Campbell—also a Realtor. She was to transport me to my new home and hand off the keys. A few people from the bus mingled outside the gas station, including some teens, but no one approached me. I’d described myself as wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt to Mrs. Campbell. Her delay wasn’t my fault because my bus had arrived on time.
I scanned the area again and waited twenty minutes. Prison life worked wonders in developing patience, but the unknown picked at my courage. What if Mrs. Campbell had changed her mind about renting to an ex-con? The fragment of me who’d survived prison life now faced reentry into the world, and I felt like I’d spent fifteen years on another planet.
I pulled her contact information from my purse inside the trash bag and walked into the Shell station. A twentysomething, tattooed man worked behind the counter.
“Excuse me, do you have a public phone?” The first words I’d uttered in the free world.
He glanced up. “Didn’t charge your phone, huh?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Bummer. But I get it. I’ve lost mine twice. I’m such a klutz. We don’t have a public phone, but you can use my cell.” The man handed me his device.
I smiled my thanks and hoped I could figure out how to use it. So many options. Dad had a new Nokia back in 2004 with a flip cover—nothing like this. “Would you punch in the numbers for me? I’ve had a rough day.”
“Sure. What’s the number?”
I gave him the numbers, and he pressed them in while I feigned interest in a candy display, my focus somewhere between lemonsours and bitter chocolate. When he returned the phone to me, it rang twice and a woman answered. “Mrs. Campbell?” I said.
“Yes.”
“This is Shelby Pearce. I’m at the bus station—”
“Oh, my goodness! I thought you were arriving tomorrow night. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“Hold tight, hon. I’ll be there. Just need to make arrangements for my kids. They’re asleep.”
“I can call Pastor Emory.” My number two contact per the parole guidelines.
