Page 27 of Where the Blacktop Ends

“So, let’s get down to business. As we’re all aware, Colt has served over four years of his five-year sentence for assault.”

Colt’s jaw clenches, a subtle movement that anyone else might have missed, but I’ve known him too long not to catch it. He’s shut down, distant, wearing that stone-cold mask he’s perfected over the years, but I know underneath it all, he’s seething.

Hell, we all are.

His conviction was a damn injustice—a five-year sentence for something that never should have gone this far. Defense of an innocent woman. He should’ve been granted this appeal years ago.

“We’ve submitted his appeal for early release on good behavior and on account of the new video evidence that Troy was able torecover from the bar where the attack occurred. We are currently awaiting the results.”

The lawyer pushes two copies of the appeal paperwork towards us to review. I grasp my copy, but Colt ignores the document entirely, focusing instead on tracing the outline of what looks to be a new tattoo on the back of his hand.

I scan the paperwork quickly, skimming over the legal jargon that’s all too familiar. It matches what was sent to my office a month ago when I helped draft it. The facts remain the same: despite the grainy security footage, Colt acted in defense of the woman who’d been attacked by the sheriff’s drunken son. But the charges stuck because, as they claimed, the force was excessive. And knowing Colt, they probably weren’t wrong. What the footage also proves is just how badly Colt kicked the guys’ ass.

If it hadn't resulted in his incarceration and the destruction of our family, I might be proud of the kid for some of the blows I saw him throw.

“If the appeal goes through, you’ll be released—either on parole or without, depending on if the conviction gets overturned,” I explain to Colt.

“And if it doesn’t?” he asks, his voice flat, void of emotion.

“We can try the parole board for early release based on good behavior or...”

He nods, already knowing the answer.

If the appeal fails, he’ll have to serve the full, final year of his sentence. It’s hard to sugarcoat it—it fucking sucks. I’m not going to downplay the fact that it’sjust one more yearfor him. When you’ve already survived four, another feels like a lifetime.

His lawyer leans in, careful not to touch Colt but determined to hold his attention. “We’re confident this appeal will be accepted, and if it is, your conviction will be overturned. You’d be released with a parole officer to check-in with for the rest of the term, free to get back to a normal life.”

Colt scoffs, and I don’t blame him. We all know there’ll be nothing normal about his life after this, conviction sticking or not. Even without a felony on his record, and the love and support from the community for our family, his reputation will cling to him in Whitewood Creek. The farmstead will always have work for him, so employment will never be a problem. But the looks, the whispers in town—they’ll follow him forever.

“When will we get the results?” I ask.

“Two months or less.”

I rub my jawline, trying to suppress my frustration with the long timeline. The election falls next month, which means I’ll likely be back in North Carolina when they come in. I would have preferred to secure the governor’s seat first. That way, I could use my influence to help him, but it looks like that may not be a possibility.

“Mind if I speak with my brother for a few minutes alone?” I ask.

His lawyer nods, gathering the paperwork before standing to shake my hand. He exits, closing the door behind him without another glance toward Colt. He’s a decent enough guy, but my brother asked me to be his secondary counsel for a reason and I gladly accepted. I might come across as a simple man in my early forties—a North Carolina farmer with generational roots who happened to step into politics—but I can be a ruthless lawyer when necessary. And for Colt, I have been.

“Either way, we’ll get this sorted out,” I assure him using my best politician voice.

He scoffs, not meeting my gaze. “You’ve been saying that for four years.” His voice is gruff, full of anger.

It stings that he’s right. I’ve been hustling in New York for a decade, positioning myself for this governor role to help my family’s business, and to turn the state around. Colt’s conviction fell right in the middle of it all. It’s just another weight added to the pile of injustices against our family that I’m determined to rectify soon.

“I know, and I still mean it.”

Our eyes finally meet, and instead of anger, I see hurt reflected back at me. In some ways, that reaction feels even worse.

“When’s the election?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“November.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You better crush these motherfuckers, Troy.”

“I intend to,” I say firmly, my resolve solidifying.

“You see Regan lately?”

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