Page 53 of Into These Eyes
“I’m holding myself to it. Live with it. Now, what’s the first step?”
He digs into his salad and chews before he finally answers. “First step is submitting an application to the Court of Criminal Appeals.”
“And a Dying Declaration will be enough?”
He shakes his head emphatically. “No. You can draw up an affidavit swearing to your father’s confession, but as you said, you’re the only witness. When Gavin Lake’s confession to the parole board comes into play, that’ll be the end of it. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I’d say it’s game over before you even start playing.”
I stare at him, unable to hide my disappointment. How the hell am I going to tell Gavin I’ve made a promise I can’t keep, no matter how much I want to?
“Maybe,” Pete says with sympathy, “just knowing you believe him, and were willing to fight for him, will be enough. Without any solid evidence, you’re wasting your time, and getting the guy’s hopes up for nothing.” He takes another bite of salad and chews thoughtfully. “If something new comes up, something solid, bring it to me. We’ll go over it together and make sure it’ll be enough to get you over the line. Until then, I wouldn’t go mentioning this to anyone else. Okay?”
“Fine.” I don’t bother confessing that I’ve already told Jarrod. What does it matter? If I can’t gather more evidence, the point is moot. As far as I know, my father’s confession is the only evidence at my disposal.
When we’re served our main course, I can’t stop trying to figure out if there’s something else the police missed during their investigation. Jarrod Reid clearly had tunnel vision. Things get missed when the police believe they have the offender wrapped up in a pretty bow. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become. There has to be something.
Because, apart from me, it seems no one else is interested in helping an innocent man.
Chapter 20
Gavin
After giving Benny another lesson on how to make the most of his phone, I trudge back to my caravan to make some lunch. The moment I enter the stifling oven, my phone rings.
Jamie.
My heart thrums in my chest as I grin. As my thumb trembles over the answer button, I tell myself not to get my hopes up. These things take time. A lot of time. For all I know, she’s calling with bad news.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hi. I … I’m here, in the parking lot. You said to call, so …”
“Right. Be there in a sec—”
“Wait,” she interrupts. I freeze, suddenly very afraid she’s here with news I don’t want to hear. “If, ah, you haven’t had lunch yet, I could use some. I think I passed a little place on my way here.”
“Sounds great.”
It’s not until I take the phone away from my ear that I realise I have a death-grip on the damn thing. With my pulse thumping, I clean my teeth, shrug on a clean t-shirt and brush my hair. When I glance in the tiny mirror, I’m convinced it looks like I’m trying too hard, so I run my hands through my hair to muss it up a little.
“Dick,” I tell my reflection. This isn’t a fucking date. She’s here with bad news. That’s why the lunch invitation. To soften the blow.
Steeling myself against the negative thoughts swirling around in my head, I shove my feet into my runners and hurry out to meet her.
By the time I get to her car, the strong possibility that she’s about to cut me loose forms a pit in my stomach.
The moment I slide into the passenger seat and close the door, that intoxicating scent hits me. She smells like … I want to sayhome, but that’s such a distant memory, I’m not sure if it even exists.
Fighting the urge to close my eyes and breathe deeply, I glance over and flash her a smile as I clip on the seatbelt. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she says, looking down at the centre console and turning a dial.
As I take in her long ponytail and pretty dress that ends halfway up her toned thighs, the car moves backwards. Which wouldn’t bother me if she was looking over her shoulder.
I clutch the seatbelt, convinced she’s about to hit something.
She stomps on the brakes and stares at me with genuine concern. “What? What is it?”
“You’re backing up without looking.” The second the words are out, I want to take them back. Here she is taking me out to lunch and I’m criticising her driving. Especially since I’ve become such an expert over the last sixteen years. In fact, apart from the occasional Uber ride—something that didn’t exist when I went inside—this is the first time I’ve been in the front seat since my conviction.
