We had paper.
Two days after Gordon’s interview, my phone rang.
I’d bought a cheap prepaid phone by then, with my first paycheck from Opal. Only four people had the number. Opal. Russell. Helen. And the parole office.
But the number on the screen was one I knew by heart.
Trevor.
I stood in Opal’s kitchen and watched it ring three times. Four times.
Then I answered.
“Quit harassing Gordon,” Trevor said.
No hello. No how are you. No I’m sorry I didn’t pick you up from prison. Four years, and that was the first thing my husband said to me.
His voice sounded exactly the same. That easy, friendly voice that everybody liked.
“I’m not harassing anyone,” I said.
“He’s an old man, Becks. He’s confused. He doesn’t need you dragging him into your mess.” He
sighed, like I was being difficult. “You already lost once. Let it go. Move somewhere. Start over. I’m trying to help you here.”
