Some 5 million children, or roughly 7 percent of all children living in the U.S., have a parent who is currently or was previously incarcerated.
—childtrends.org
Victor pulls into our driveway and angles his car around to the side of Journey’s van.
Wait. Journey’s van?!
Journey’s leaning against the door, peering at his cell phone. He looks up and flashes that brilliant smile that grabs my heart and pulls it straight out of my chest.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
I still experience an actual, physical chill when I realize that Journey Michaels is my boyfriend. In a million years, I never thought anything that cool would happen to me.
But then I remember, he’s not just my boyfriend, he’s also Victor’s intern. “Is he here to see you … or me?”
Victor shrugs. “I didn’t make a date with him, so he must be here to see you.”
I squeal and vault out of the car before Victor has even turned it off. “See ya later.” I stop before closing the car door and glance back inside. “Thanks … for everything…” I pause. “I really mean that.”
Victor smiles and nods. “We’re a team now. Or, more than a team. Have fun. Be safe. And, oh yeah, if I’m in charge now, what time will you be home?”
I glance over at Journey’s brilliant smile. “I won’t be late. I promise.” I close the door and dance all the way to Journey’s van.
Journey slings an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. He presses his lips into my hair and murmurs, “I stood you up for our date last night. Don’t hate me.”
I throw an arm around his neck and give him a huge hug. “I could never hate you. And it’s okay. I was worried but then I heard you had a pretty tough day.”
Journey looks past me at Victor getting out of the car. He waves and smiles. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he says, “I thought maybe we’d head over to the Point for a while … unless you’re hungry?”
I pull back and inspect his face. The Point is the town make-out spot. Our relationship is so new we haven’t done the Point thing yet. But tonight, I’m feeling bold.
“The Point is perfect.”
“It is?” He looks surprised.
“Yes. Let’s go.” I’m not exactly thinking of making out, although I’m not opposed to that either. What I am thinking is that the Point is perfect for the private, uninterrupted conversation we need to have.
Journey helps me up into the van and then goes around to his side.
Once he’s steered us out onto the road he launches into a conversation. “I met my dad today.”
“That’s so crazy. How was it?”
“Both better and worse than I expected,” he says.
“Confusing, I’m sure.”
“It was better because now I have a real person to match up with my image of him.”
“He’s not angry that you came to see him?” I ask.
“Not today. He was smart and calm and really cool. He apologized for freaking out yesterday.”
“And it was worse because…?”
“He’s still in there. And if we can’t change that, he’ll stay in there for at least another ten years.” Journey goes quiet while he makes the winding drive up to the Point. And I contemplate the notion of another ten years in prison. “Yeah. Ten years,” Journey says as if reading my mind.
“What did he say about reopening the case?”
“He’s excited and extremely grateful to Victor … and to you.”
We arrive at the Point, which is a bluff overlooking the spot where the Pacific Ocean and the Columbia River come together. It’s dark, but not gloomy. The star-strewn sky glitters like it’s dressed for a night on the town.
Journey pauses his story to concentrate on finding a place to park. There’s room for about ten cars up here, without being right next to each other. He pulls into a spot, sets the emergency brake, turns off the engine and the lights. He slides his seat back and turns toward me, patting his lap. “I got to tell him about you.”
I release my seatbelt and move over to sit on his lap. “What’d he say?”
“He wants to meet you and hopes you’ll come next time.”
“There’ll be a next time?”
“Yes. He said I could start coming regularly.” Journey’s voice grows thick with emotion. “I’m a man now and he needs to get to know me.”
I lay my head on his chest and melt into his warm hug. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You will, I promise.” Journey digs in his pocket and pulls out a small, hand-carved wooden disc about the size of the palm of my hand. “He also gave me this.”
I take the disc and run my fingers over it. It’s an elaborate scene of two dolphins rising out of the water carved inside the circle, making it more of a ring than a disc. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
“Apparently, this was one of my toys when I was a baby,” Journey says. “My parents said I used it for teething.”
“Awww.” I give it a closer inspection. “So cute. There are tiny teeth marks on it.”
“Yeah. What’s not cute is where it came from.”
I give him a questioning look.
“My parents don’t know where it came from. They suspect it came from Rodney, the boy who—”
“The victim?” I can’t disguise my surprise.
Journey is surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve been reading.” Off Journey’s frown I quickly add, “Just reading, though. That’s all.”
He nods. “Anyway, I like using his name. I think it’s the right thing to do.”
“I agree. He had a name. We should use it.”
“Apparently, he was an artist. My parents think he carved it and gave it to me. My mom said it was one of my favorite toys.”
“Wow. Do you think he was sending your parents a signal by giving you that toy?”
“Good question,” Journey says. “The part I haven’t told you—which is the creepy part no one ever told me—is that the harassment my parents were dealing with wasn’t as harmless as the newspaper made it sound. They would wake up in the morning and find me out of my crib. They were sure it wasn’t possible for me to climb out by myself.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Journey says. “Most days I’d be sitting on the floor playing with toys. Then, one day, they found me in the kitchen, playing in a pile of flour.”
“Holy crap. How do you play in a pile of flour?” I ask.
“You don’t,” Journey says. “Apparently, I drooled and it was gross and sticky.”
I run my finger across his lower lip. He pretends to bite my finger.
“Anyway, it got real one morning when they woke up and I was gone. Completely gone. They checked every room in the house.”
“Oh my god. That’s terrifying.”
“I know. And then they found me outside, playing in the dirt near my dad’s truck.”
“Which is where he kept the shotgun, under the seat.” I say.
Journey gives me a warning look.
“I’m researching ballistics for camp week and I knew there was gun evidence in your father’s case. I was just reading a little.”
He hugs me tighter and plants a kiss on my head, which I hope means my snoopiness is okay.
“Yeah. Who checks under the seat of the truck every day to make sure the shotgun is still there? It could have been taken at any time. My dad had no clue. Anyway, they called the police, multiple times, reporting things like trespassing or attempted kidnapping. My dad said the cops never believed them. Their theory was that either I was an escape artist or one of my parents was a sleepwalker.”
“They didn’t investigate?”
“What was there to find about a kid out of his crib? My father changed the locks. Put a fence around the property. He installed an alarm system. He tried everything. There was other stuff, too. They would come home and the shower would be damp. Small amounts of food went missing.”
“They could have checked for fingerprints,” I say.
Journey gives me a sideways glance and ruffles my hair. “It’s adorable that you think they might have thought like you. But no. They weren’t going to do that.”
“To be honest, the police didn’t do all that much when my mom was murdered either,” I say. “So I get what you mean.”
“Anyway, after finding me outside the house, my dad just flipped out and quietly rigged the trap with a paintball gun. He believed the paint would be a great way to prove that someone was there. Even if they didn’t catch him, there would be an outline of paint on the wall indicating that an actual human had been there and not a ghost.”
“What about the DNA test that Miss P was trying to do for you? What would that have proven?”
Journey sighs. “Miss P knew it was a Hail Mary try. There isn’t a lot of actual evidence in my father’s case. There’s the shotgun and the motion-activated harness and some spent shells. My father never disputed that those things belonged to him. And, because there was no crime lab, his DNA isn’t on file anywhere. Miss P wanted to try to get a baseline on him. Then we could ask them to test the shotgun.”
“But didn’t they already test the shotgun?”
“They verified that the gun was his and that it fired the fatal shot but that was all they did,” Journey says. “But you know how you load a shotgun, right?”
I nod. “Sorta.”
He demonstrates. “You crack open the barrel and push the shells into the barrel with your thumb. Miss P explained that DNA tests are much more sensitive now than they were back then so it’s possible that simply scraping a thumb across the metal edge of a shotgun barrel could leave enough epithelial cells behind for a test.”
“And, if that DNA belonged to anyone but your father…” I chime in, following the logic.
“Exactly,” Journey says. “It could prove his story that someone rigged the gun and that would be enough to get him a new trial. That was our goal, to get him a new trial.”
“What does Victor say?” I ask.
Journey reclines his seat a little and pulls me closer. “Victor thinks the DNA theory is risky. It’s likely if they found any DNA at all that my father’s DNA would be there too. And that could be confusing and could make his situation worse. Victor wants to do more than just get a new trial. He wants us to find something they missed or find someone new to blame.” Journey cuddles me up in a warm hug.
“If anyone can do it you know it’s Victor,” I say.
“I know.” Journey buries his face in my hair. “So, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts. The last two days were surreal. But I especially loved the Snap of your hair.”
I feel my cheeks getting warm. “It’s okay. I just felt bad for you, is all.”
“I made it through. So, how was your day?”
I pause to give him a kiss. And then another. And okay, one more.
I sit up a little on his lap and lean back against the door. “My day was pretty surreal, too. Rachel and the chief are getting married…”
“What?” Journey studies my face. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not kidding.”
“Whoa. A murderer’s son dating the police chief’s daughter sounds like a movie of the week.”
“It’s stepdaughter, and your father is innocent. Wrongfully accused.”
Journey sighs. “I always believed that. But after meeting him, I believe it even more.”
“Then we have to do everything—leave no stone unturned—we have to get this right.” In my mind, there are banners and flags waving and music blasting as I say this.
Journey raises his eyebrows. “We?” he says.
Dang! “I mean the collective we. Like you, Victor, Mr. Martin, the chief.” I chuckle self-consciously. “You thought I meant we as in you … and me…”
“I thought you meant we as in you and me and the girls,” he says.
“Yeah. No. The girls and I, we’re busy setting up the camp.” I’m nervous stammering, so it’s time to change the subject. “In related news. I might have actually met my father today too.”
“What?” Journey squeezes me excitedly. “That’s amazing. Who? Tell me.”
“Well, it might be Victor,” I say.
“Wait. I thought he’s your uncle.” Journey frowns. “How does that work?”
“You know the deal. Rachel was my mom’s best friend and Victor is Rachel’s brother, so we’re not related … or, maybe we are. I’m not sure, there’s a chance, possibly. A big one. Victor could be my actual biological dad.”
Journey is a little hesitant. “Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. I’m great with that. Aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t really affect me,” Journey says.
“You’re his ‘intern.’” I put air quotes around the word as I say it.
“Ah yeah, well, Victor’s cool. I’m not worried about that. But wow for you. That’s a pretty big day. When will you know for sure?”
“Yeah, that question doesn’t have an exact answer,” I say.
“Because?” Journey asks.
“Because we decided not to find out for sure.” Journey reacts with an expression that’s half confused, half silly. “It’s a long story,” I say.
My phone pings and I slide it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Spam. Her timing is hilarious. A straight emoji line of kissing lips. I flash my phone toward Journey. “Spam.”
He chuckles.
I text back: WHERE ARE YOU?
LYS AND I JUST DROVE PAST YOU.
WHERE ARE YOU GOING NOW? I ask.
BACK TO MY HOUSE, she replies. YOU SHOULD COME. WE CAN KICK THE LITTLES OUT OF THE BASEMENT AND ASSEMBLE SOME BELLAS.
I glance up at Journey. “She wants to know if we want to go to her house.”
He gives me a soft look. I know what he’s thinking.
“I’ll tell her no. We haven’t been alone in days.” I start to key in a text response, and after a few seconds Journey lays his hand over mine.
“I have a better idea,” he says. “How about I drop you off at Spam’s and I go home. Today has just kind of been—I don’t know. I’m still in shock and overwhelmed and—” He swipes the hair off the side of my face and tucks it behind my ear. “Would it be okay with you if we call it a night? I really needed to see you, but now I’m kinda wiped out.”
I nod. “I completely understand. I’m exactly the opposite. I’m wound up.”
When I don’t move out of his lap right away we go ahead and make out a little. It’s soft and sweet. Tentative. No pressure. Just like things have always been with Journey.
But at least we’ve made it past The Point. That’s a relationship milestone.