Page 6 of Own Me, Outlaw
Tucked between survival manuals and a well-thumbed copy ofThe Hobbit, between field guides and outdatedNational Geographicmagazines, I find a thin binder filled with laminated newspaper clippings. The plastic is cloudy with age, the paper yellowed at the edges.
Some are recent. Some are old. But one has a headline that makes my blood pause mid-flow:
"Local Man Sentenced in Deadly Bar Fight.”
My fingers freeze on the page, and I have to read it twice before the words sink in. The picture shows him—Outlaw. Logan McKenzie, according to the article. Younger, hair a little longer, but those same ice-blue eyes staring back at me from the page.
The article is short. Clinical. It talks about charges and plea deals. I flip through the binder, finding another headline: “Local Man Takes Fall for Friend in Bar Fight That Turned Deadly.” I skim the article, my heart pounding. Witnesses say Logan wasn’t involved in the fight at all. That it was his friend, a man with the same build and similar in appearance.
But Logan pled guilty. Did he serve time for a crime he didn’t even commit? To protect a friend?
Suddenly, there's a shadow behind me. "I said not to snoop."
I spin, guilty heat flooding my cheeks. "Sorry. I wasn't—okay, I was. But I didn't mean to pry. I just—"
He steps closer, slow and steady like a predator circling prey. But there's no threat in his movements, just a bone-deep weariness that makes my chest ache.
"Was it an interesting read?" His voice is low. Rough. Like he's been swallowing broken glass. "You ready to run back down the mountain now that you know I’m a felon?"
I shake my head, probably too quickly. “No… I just… I’m trying to understand."
"Understand what?"
"Why someone would go to prison for something they didn't do."
His jaw tightens, and I watch the muscle tick beneath his skin. The scar along his jaw seems to pale in the firelight.
I should stop there. I should back off and give him space and pretend I never saw the pain in his eyes.
But I don't.
"Were the witnesses right?" I ask quietly. "Did you take the fall for someone?"
He stares at me for a long time. Silent. Barely breathing. The only sound is the pop and hiss of the fire and the rain still pattering against the windows.
"He was my best friend,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless. “We were drunk. Stupid. Got into it with some guys at a bar. He swung first. The guy went down and didn't get back up."
My heart clenches in my chest, and I have to fight the urge to reach for him.
"Charges were coming for both of us. Manslaughter. Maybe worse." He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see the weight of it in his shoulders. "He had a kid. A baby girl. I didn't have anyone."
My throat tightens. "So you protected him."
"Yeah." His voice turns bitter, self-loathing. "Got me six years in State and a nickname I can't shake."
He moves past me, grabbing the binder and shoving it back into place between the books. His movements are sharp and controlled, like he's fighting not to put his fist through something.
"Outlaw," he mutters. "Makes it real easy for folks to remember what they want to believe."
"I don't believe it," I say.
He goes perfectly still.
"I mean, I believe the story. But I don't believe you're dangerous. Not to me."
He turns then, slow and full of tension, like he's trying not to crack wide open. "You don't know me, Lark."
"No," I whisper, taking a step closer. "But I want to."
