Page 51 of A Lifetime in 30 Days
“A text?” Ronni asked. “Why didn’t you call him? How often does he check his texts?”
“The more important question is, Did they find anything?” Jamaica asked.
Aden normally responded to her texts throughout the day fairly quickly—unless he was in a meeting or had a client, which he had gotten into the habit of telling her about. She never asked about his schedule or requested explanations for his time spent away from her, because she didn’t think he owed her any of those things. They talked when they talked, saw each other when they did, and she was fine with that. Or at least, that was what she had been telling herself, because Ronni’s question did have her wondering why she hadn’t heard from him yet.
However, Jamaica’s question trumped Ronni’s. So Vanna stopped picking up the trash can the police had knocked over. Then she stuck her head out the door to look back into the bedroom where Jamaica was standing. “Why the hell do you think they would find something?”
Jamaica held up her hands in surrender. “It’s just a question, Vanna. You know I know you didn’t do this, but you also know I’m down with what law enforcement does to make a case.”
That was true. Jamaica had gone through training and started working at the jail right after they’d graduated from college. She was now a lead correctional officer, and advised staff as well as mentored lower-level officers. If any of them in this room were more versed inthe legal field than Vanna, it was Jamaica. And in the criminal law field especially, Jamaica definitely surpassed her.
“Them bastards planted a couple of those casino money bags,” Granny said.
“What?” Jamaica asked. “This is crazy. It’s bad and it’s crazy.”
“But she’s innocent,” Ronni said.
“We know that, which is why it’s crazy. But for some reason, they’re hell-bent on making it look like you’re guilty,” Jamaica said.
Vanna had gone back into the bathroom, but she could still hear them talking. And she agreed with every word being said—thiswascrazy. She was innocent. And they were determined to pin this on her. But why? Who had she pissed off to earn this?
In the back of her mind, thoughts of how life was always coming at her with not just curveballs, but fuckin’ hardballs that smacked at her with painful persistence, surfaced. But she couldn’t lean into those thoughts. Couldn’t spiral down that black hole, where the possibility existed that perhaps she somehow deserved all the strife that plagued her. At the same time, she couldn’t quite come up with a positive vibe, a word of encouragement, or any of that therapeutic shit at the moment.
Jamaica appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. “Has Aden hit you back?”
For whatever reason, the cops had yanked everything out of the bottom cabinets of the vanity, so Vanna had knelt down to pick them up and put them all back. She looked over her shoulder to see Jamaica. “What?”
Her friend leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded over her chest. “Aden. Has he texted or called you back after you told him what was going on?”
“No. Not yet. At least, I don’t think so.” She looked around and then sighed. “I left my phone downstairs with my purse, so he could’ve called while I’ve been up here.”
“But he’s not here,” Jamaica said. “We got here before him.”
There was a hint of something in Jamaica’s tone, something that took the place of what she hadn’t actually said. And one of her excellently drawn eyebrows was raised in question, which made Vanna oddly uncomfortable. She sat back on her heels and sighed. “You were off today, J. Your house is barely twenty minutes from here—twelve—when you’re speeding, which I’m positive you were. And the school Ronni works at is just down the road. That’s why the two of you got here so quickly.”
When Jamaica didn’t respond, Vanna sighed again. She leaned forward and planted her hands on the floor so she could push herself up to a standing position. Then, because she knew her friend well, she turned to face Jamaica. “Say what you want to say.”
“I don’t think you’re gonna like it,” Jamaica replied.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“True.” Jamaica pushed off from her leaning position and held her hands out in front of her. “Just hear me out. I’m only going on what we know definitely. You know, just the facts.”
Vanna leaned a hip against the vanity. “Okay.”
“The first time you saw Aden after fifteen years was at the cemetery where you’d just buried your husband. Right?” Jamaica didn’t wait for Vanna’s reply. “Then you’re arrested at the cemetery. Aden has a lawyer he can call to get you out. You see a strange car up the street. Aden calls Jovani, and they set up a meeting with the detectives. Your house gets raided; they find money bags that had to be planted, and Aden has been spending a lot of nights here, so ...”
“Stop!” Vanna said. Her temples were throbbing, and she suddenly felt a little sick. “You’re right, I don’t like where you’re going with this.”
“You ever heard of hero syndrome?” Jamaica asked.
“I told you to stop.” Vanna moved to turn on the faucet. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to toss cool water onto her face.
Jamaica—true to her obstinate personality—continued anyway. “It’s when somebody creates a situation where they can then swoop in and act like the savior.”
Vanna could hear her step farther into the bathroom until she stopped right beside her.
“He’s been coming to your rescue since this whole thing started. You don’t think that’s kind of weird?”
