locations of the semen, and all I had to do was cut off a small sliver in an unobtrusive spot. I decided to take off a small section along the rip. A missing bit of cloth would be hard to detect there.
I pulled that section of fabric out of the bag’s opening. I switched my multi-tool from knife to scissors and, again, checked over my shoulder. The door was still shut, and I could hear no activity in the hallway.
My hands began to shake, and I reminded myself that I had to do this.
I didn’t let myself think of the consequences. I started to cut, taking small snips to make the edges appear as jagged as possible.
When I was finished, I set the multi-tool back in my lap and quickly stowed my sample—a small strip about one inch long and a quarter inch wide—into my waiting evidence bag.
One day, this little strip of cloth would save my sister.
How strange a thing to say about a piece of cotton.
I was just resealing the evidence bag when I heard a door slam in the hallway.
Guttfield was coming.
Dammit. I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone. My snappy reply must have tipped him off that something was wrong. Or maybe he’d heard about the layoffs and knew I was on the list.
With shaking fingers and unsteady mind, I sealed my new evidence bag and slid it into my pants pocket.
The motion caused my multi-tool to fall to the floor with a loud clunk. Cursing, I reached for it just as the door behind me opened.
I sat bolt upright, unable to grasp the tool in time.
Best just to pretend everything was fine and hope Guttfield didn’t notice the multi-tool on the floor beneath my chair. I began to place the rest of the evidence back into the box with slow deliberation.
I felt his approach, but I didn’t say a word or even look at him. I just kept working as if he weren’t there.
“Jules, tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
I spun around and faced the worst possible person who could have caught me in the act: Tripp Carver.
Tripp looked much as he had in high school, only now he was dressed in a wrinkled sport coat and slacks. His dark brown hair gleamed in the lamplight as he looked at me with those dark, hooded eyes. I loved those eyes, and now, they held disappointment.
“What are you talking about?” I asked even though I knew he saw right through me. He leaned down and picked up the multi-tool, and as he returned to his full height, he swung the scissors attachment back into its place. He handed it to me with a look full of meaning.
He knew exactly why I was here, what I’d done.
“What?” I asked. My voice was high, nervous.
“I told you I’d take care of things,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do this.”
Tripp was wrong.
I did have to do this.
I had no other choice.
The serious expression on his face told me that my next words would be crucial.
Our entire relationship would hinge on them.
I could either tell him the truth and hope one day to rekindle our romance, or I could lie, and lose the possibility forever.
His eyebrows were raised almost in curiosity, but his mouth was drawn down in a tight frown as if he were expecting the worst and still hoping for the best.
I was at yet another decision point in my life. I could do what my heart wanted and confess everything to Tripp. If I did that, Tripp and I would still have a chance, but my sister’s rapist would likely never be arrested and incarcerated.
Or I could walk out with the evidence tucked in my pocket and the hope hidden in my heart that one day, the rapist would pay for what he’d done to my sister and my family.
All I wanted to do was stand up and throw myself into Tripp’s arms. I wanted to be done with the search for justice; I wanted to lead my life for myself and not for Tricia.
But something within me would not allow that to happen.
Not yet.
Until Tricia’s rapist was caught, I would never be truly free.
I looked at Tripp and watched sadness steal over his features.
He knew too.
My next words were soft, and my heart tore in two as I spoke them: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tripp’s face did not change, but when he spoke, his voice sounded overburdened. “Okay, Jules.”
We stared at each other for long moments, and then, he offered me a sad smile that seemed to reflect all that we had in the past and all that we might have had in the future.
All that was gone now.
Soon, he was gone too.
Alone again, I faced the box and replaced its lid before hurrying out of the common room and back to Guttfield at the counter. I slid the box in his direction with mumbled thanks and signed the registry with my departure time.
I was halfway to the glass doors when I heard him bark, “Jackson!”
I stopped, terrified that I’d been caught somehow or that Tripp had squealed on me.
Slowly, I turned to face the steely-eyed old man.
He bared his teeth in a smile. “Don’t let me see you back here for a while,” he said. “Mental health reasons.”
I tried to smile back. “You definitely don’t have to worry about that.”
And that was the truth.
Then, I turned, pushed open the door, and stepped into the bright morning sunlight.
I was a different person from the one who had run into this glass door less than an hour ago. I was now fully dedicated to my quest.
There was no turning back.
I had committed a felony.
I had obliterated any chance that Tripp and I might one day become a couple again.
But I had the evidence that would one day liberate my sister and family.
Yes, I was stepping into a new day.
About the Author
J. W. Becton (a pseudo-pseudonym for historical fiction author Jennifer Becton) worked for more than twelve years in the traditional publishing industry as a freelance writer, editor, and proofreader. Upon discovering the possibilities of the expanding ebook market, she created Whiteley Press, LLC, an independent publishing house. Absolute Liability, the first in the six-book Southern Fraud Thriller series, became an Amazon Kindle Best Seller and made the Indie Reader Best Seller list for three nonconsecutive weeks.
Connect with Jennifer Online
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Southern Fraud Thriller Series: https://www.jwbecton.com
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