Page 1 of One More Truth
1
JESSICA
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
The great Frenchdramatist Jean Racine once claimed there are no secrets that time does not reveal. I don’t know how true the quote is, but I do know my secret, the most important one I’ve been trying to hide, is now public knowledge.
I stare dumbfoundedly at the back of the newspaper in Troy’s hand. The ramifications of Cora’s article about my former life as Savannah Townsend twist in my head like a deadly cyclone, uprooting my emotions, uprooting my life. The article reveals that I’d spent time in Beckley State Correctional Institution, a maximum-security prison for women. It includes a recent photo of me with bottle-blond hair and scars on my face.
An hour ago, I was in Violet Wilson’s house, fearing for my life. My hand goes to my sore neck. The FBI had descended on Violet’s house and found Officer Dunbar squeezing the life from me, his arm clutched around my neck. They shot him.
And now I’m sitting in Troy’s ER room, on the chair next to his bed, waiting for news on his shoulder. He had reinjured it during a fight forhislife.
Zara and Garrett are with us. Zara’s perfectly shaped black eyebrows pinch together, her frown directed at the newspaper.
I push to my feet and move to stand next to Troy. I glare at the article in question, wishing this was just a bad dream. That I’ll wake up in a few minutes and none of this is happening. Troy and Garrett won’t look as if they’ve been traipsing through the forest. Troy’s face and navy T-shirt aren’t smudged with dirt.
A reporter. For the past several weeks…all the questions. I’d thought Olivia’s sister had just wanted to get to know me better. Turns out she was preparing to write an exposé. Informing the world I now live in a small, mountainous Oregon town.
Informing everyone in Maple Ridge about my dark past and my shame.
How long will it take before more people in Maple Ridge see the article? How long before they piece together that the woman in the photo is me?
Cora didn’t mention that my new name is Jessica Smithson. What she had done was explain that Savannah Townsend, widow of Officer Wayne Townsend, had been released four months ago from the California prison after new blood evidence came to life. Evidence proving I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger that killed my late husband.
The article talks about how I’m slowly piecing my life back together. I’ve been quoted a few times, each quote taken out of context. Some of my comments originally had to do with the With Hope Festival—a festival Troy’s organizing to help individuals in the area who struggle with PTSD and their families. Not once during her time here have I spoken to Cora about my own experience with PTSD.
Not once have I talked to her about my time in prison or about my abusive husband.
Yet here it all is in the article—but with no mention of the festival. It’s all about me and my dark past.
Troy stands from the bed, his hand going to the lower curve of my spine.
I inch closer to him, needing to feel the reassuring warmth of his body. “Everyone is going to…know.” My whispered voice comes out rough, the words irritating my injured throat and vocal cords. “They’re going to know…about my past.” They’re going to judge me in the worst possible way.
Troy shoves the newspaper at Garrett, who takes it from him. “It’s gonna be okay, Jess. No one will think worse of you because of what happened.” Empty hope fills Troy’s words, trying to mask itself as something better, brighter. But it’s human nature to judge, even if the negative thoughts only last a flutter of a heartbeat. People will judge me because of my past. Maybe not my friends, who already know the truth. But there will be plenty of others in Maple Ridge who will.
“Which part of your past are you worried about?” The frown on Zara’s face eases, compassion nudging it aside.
“All of it.” The truth of my words sits on my chest like a dead weight. “People wondering why…I didn’t leave my husband. If it was really all that bad…why not just divorce him? Why put up with his abuse? But that won’t be the worst of it. I spent five years. In. A. Maximum. Security. Prison. Not a five-star resort…where you come out refreshed and feeling like a new person.” Just the opposite. My throat aches, but I push forward, pressing my case. “My past…that’s how people will view me. Their prejudice…will determine how I’m treated.”
“Jess, you’re supposed to be resting your voice,” Troy tells me, his tone gentle but firm. “Doctor’s orders.” The flicker of understanding in his eyes sides with me. He knows I’m right about everything I just said.
My throat feels like I swallowed coarse-grit sandpaper, but it’s not enough to keep me from powering on. “I spent five years with prisoners…you don’t necessarily want to…to introduce to your grandmother. People will believe I might have gone in innocent…but they’ll think the experience changed me in the worst possible…way. How could they not?” Air enters my lungs in shallow breaths. It scratches my throat, flames taunting the lining, fueled by the panic flooding in.
Troy takes hold of my elbow and guides me to the chair by the bed. My legs give out. I sit, but my breaths still race.
He kneels next to me. “Breathe into your cupped hands, Jess.”
I do as he suggests, and after several breaths, my panic eases. I lower my hands to my lap, which is currently in blue scrubs since my regular clothes are covered in blood.
Troy takes my hand and caresses the back of it with his thumb. “You’ve been living in Maple Ridge for four months and haven’t given anyone a reason to believe you’re anything other than a decent person.”
Garrett shoves his hands into his shorts pockets. “Prison didn’t turn you into a bad person, Jess. It didn’t turn you into someone to be rejected.”
“It made you stronger,” Zara adds. “Youhid Violet and Sophie when Violet escaped her husband. No one else did. Even after Alex Wilson beat you when he suspected you were hiding them, you were still determined to help them.”
