Page 42 of Salem's Fall
“You were with my brother longer than I expected.”
“It was less than an hour.”
“That’s a lifetime for Lucien. He’s usually very abrupt with people.” He lifts a brow. “You must’ve charmed him.”
“Hardly.”
“Just remember, Lucien is not someone you want to get involved with.” Damien shifts in his seat, angling his body toward me. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Learn anything interesting?”
I can tell by the look on his face he knows something’s off, but I’m not ready to talk about what I’ve learned. Not yet anyway.
“Maybe.”
“So I was thinking,” he says after a moment, “as long as you’re still here in Salem’s Fall, we should grab lunch. There’s this charming little place?—”
“Thanks, but I need to work.”
The words come out harsher than I mean them to. There’s a pause, a stretch of silence that feels like it’s going to snap any second. His body stiffens slightly, jaw clenching. I can tell he’s not used to being turned down.
“You need to take care of yourself, James. You’ve been pushing too hard.”
I study him, my eyes narrowing. “Is that concern for my well-being? Or your case?”
He holds my gaze. “Both.”
I can feel him watching me, waiting for me to saysomething further, but I don’t want to tell him what I’ve learned yet. I don’t know who or what to trust.
The moment the car pulls up to the Cottage, I grab my bag and bolt. “See you later,” I say over my shoulder, already rushing for the entrance.
“James, wait—” he calls after me, but I don’t look back.
I spend the rest of the day in my room with Lucky and room service, watching old sitcoms on TV while drafting discovery motions for Quinn to review and updating my case memo with notes from my interview with Lucien. I leave out one important detail about our meeting—I don’t include the part about my dad. Ethically, I’m crossing a line by not including it. The information pertains to our case, and it’s my professional responsibility to disclose it, but my gut tells me this isn’t something I should share yet with anyone. Not even Quinn.
If I’m being brutally honest, it’s not just the impact this information could have on my family, but I’m also worried about the impact it could have on my career. If there’s a real conflict here, Quinn will have to take me off the case. Maybe I didn’t want to be on the case in the beginning when things looked bad, but after all the progress I’ve made, I’ll be damned if anyone sidelines me now. What I need to do is get to the bottom of things with my father first. Then I can decide my next steps.
The very next morning, I begin the short drive to Massachusetts Correctional Institution—the medium-security prison where my dad is incarcerated, about twenty miles away. It goes by in a blur. Before I know it, I’m stepping inside the familiar prison walls where I’ve spent so much time these past few years, shivering, rubbing my hands together to warm myself up. It’s always freezing here.
I square my shoulders as a guard leads me toward the visiting room, trying not to gag at the strong smell of disinfectant,sweat, and something stale. The walls around me are painted in a bland, institutional beige, designed to drain the life out of the place and the people inside. My footsteps echo down the hallway, each step a reminder of the reality I’m about to face—my father, behind glass, a man whose life was stolen from him years ago. He’s been in this place for nine years now, almost a decade. His life reduced to four walls, a narrow bed, and whatever peace of mind he can carve out of this cold, dead environment.
As I step inside the visitor’s area, my stomach churns with a mix of sorrow and a bit of anger. Rows of small plastic chairs line the wall in front of thick, bulletproof-glass partitions. Each station is its own isolated world. Behind those partitions sit men who have been locked away, some of them for good reason. Others, like my father, for reasons that are less clear.
I take a seat at the booth labeled “Thomas Woodsen.” My fingers smooth the wrinkles in my blazer as I wait. The ticking of a clock on the far wall is too loud, too persistent, like it’s counting down to something inevitable. Around the room, other visitors are talking to their loved ones through the glass, their voices muffled by the barrier. An elderly woman leans in close to the partition as she speaks to a man on the other side. Her expression is unmistakable—grief. Loss.
The door creaks open behind the glass, and my breath catches in my throat. Every time I see my dad, it’s like being hit by a freight train all over again. Guilt rushes through me as I take in his salt-and-pepper hair, almost entirely gray now. He looks older than I remember.
I try to come as often as I can, but I’ve been so busy at work. His once-vibrant pale blue eyes are duller, wearier, though they light up when they see me. He’s still in good shape, trim and muscular, but the hard lines on his face tell meprison life has taken a toll on him in ways I can’t begin to comprehend.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, his voice warm. “It’s great to see you.” He smiles as he sits down, a sad, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I notice the way his thumb rubs over the spot where his wedding ring used to be—a habit I’ve seen a million times before.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, my voice cracking.
“James?” His expression instantly tightens with concern. “Everything okay? Is it Madison? Are you in trouble at work again?”
Dad knows all about my last screwup at the office. I email him often using the prison’s monitored email system, updating him on my life and job, even Maddie. My little sister refuses to talk to him herself. She still blames him for Mom’s death, no matter how many times I’ve tried to tell her I know he’s innocent.
“No, nothing like that. Everything’s fine.” I shake my head. “But I need to talk to you. It does involve work, I guess. It’s… complicated.”
He straightens a bit, his expression growing more serious. When my dad looks at me, I always know I’m getting his full attention, that nothing else matters in the world more than what I have to say. Dad has always been the best listener I know.
