were malicious accusations, one of them being that he was on the take. All that turmoil was packaged neatly into a past that continued to haunt him. He still wasn’t any clearer on what had actually played out. Grief had a way of clouding your judgment and hiding the bigger picture. Who had been motivated to set him up? He had to admit Jesse was partly right; he had made himself look guilty when he packed a suitcase of essentials and jumped on a plane to Seattle. But the entire truth was that for Sam, running away hadn’t just been a matter of vengeance—he had needed to escape the gut-wrenching pain.
“Someone forged my signature on a requisition, and drugs disappeared. I was investigated and cleared. It was a bad forgery,” he said.
Marcie furrowed her brows. “And they already suspected your wife of doing the same thing with the ATF? No, I can see that wouldn’t look good. I can also see why being with me is making it really bad for you.”
He couldn’t respond honestly. This situation wasn’t entirely her making. He had walked away from too many things. Why was it up to him to clear his name? He already knew the answer. That was how the world ticked: Guilty until proven innocent.
Trees thickened on both sides of the busy highway as Sam drove deeper into bayou country.
“Sam, where are we going?”
His eyes remained glued to the road. “Some place where we can lie low for a bit, just until I can figure some things out. You’ll be safe.”
Sam drove cautiously, not too fast to be pulled over and not too slow to attract attention. Alert and silent, he continued to glance in the rearview mirror, his full lips pursed in a manner that gave nothing away.
* * * *
A road sign announced Grand Isle right before they crossed over the wide-open Caminada Bridge. Marcie shivered in the damp heat, hit by an unexplainable sense of déjà vu along with a strange yet familiar sense of coming home.
They drove through downtown Grand Isle, past a few restaurants and gas stations. When Sam turned down a narrow winding road guiding them to a middle section of the island, Marcie was swept up in the majestic beauty of the old towering, windswept oak trees and oleanders that seemed to grow around each rustic Creole cottage.
Then, out of nowhere, they passed downed trees and vacant lots that looked more like a war zone, piles of busted wood and rotted foundations.
Sam slowed and turned right down a long dirt driveway surrounded by massive oaks leading up to an old clapboard cottage, completely secluded. He parked in front of old, weathered plank steps that led up to a screened-in front porch. Sam climbed out of the Camaro and shoved the door closed. Holding his head high, he walked around the front of the car. He pulled in his broad shoulders, deep in thought and contemplation. Sam opened her door and held out his hand. He was an enigma, and Marcie couldn’t understand the jerk in her belly and why her heart flipped by such a simple gesture.
A self-conscious wave passed over her. She felt sticky, dirty, and just plain gross. She longed for a bath filled with scented lavender oil, surrounded by white candles. The peaceful thought faded instantly when she stood in front of the tiny run-down cottage with boarded up windows. Sam pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her up the rickety steps to the screen door.
“I haven’t been back in a while. As you can see, I’m one of the lucky ones. Not much damage to mine after Katrina swept through. Many places were condemned, abandoned, or torn down, no way to save them. We passed those along the coast and some inland, too.”
Marcie ducked under his arm and stepped cautiously across a creaky, unpainted porch. Sam wasn’t as careful. He squeezed around Marcie and tried to open the heavy oak door, but a secured lock held. For some reason, he seemed satisfied and bent over with a pick, inserting a silver prong in the lock. He had a strong focus. His tongue slipped out
“Someone forged my signature on a requisition, and drugs disappeared. I was investigated and cleared. It was a bad forgery,” he said.
Marcie furrowed her brows. “And they already suspected your wife of doing the same thing with the ATF? No, I can see that wouldn’t look good. I can also see why being with me is making it really bad for you.”
He couldn’t respond honestly. This situation wasn’t entirely her making. He had walked away from too many things. Why was it up to him to clear his name? He already knew the answer. That was how the world ticked: Guilty until proven innocent.
Trees thickened on both sides of the busy highway as Sam drove deeper into bayou country.
“Sam, where are we going?”
His eyes remained glued to the road. “Some place where we can lie low for a bit, just until I can figure some things out. You’ll be safe.”
Sam drove cautiously, not too fast to be pulled over and not too slow to attract attention. Alert and silent, he continued to glance in the rearview mirror, his full lips pursed in a manner that gave nothing away.
* * * *
A road sign announced Grand Isle right before they crossed over the wide-open Caminada Bridge. Marcie shivered in the damp heat, hit by an unexplainable sense of déjà vu along with a strange yet familiar sense of coming home.
They drove through downtown Grand Isle, past a few restaurants and gas stations. When Sam turned down a narrow winding road guiding them to a middle section of the island, Marcie was swept up in the majestic beauty of the old towering, windswept oak trees and oleanders that seemed to grow around each rustic Creole cottage.
Then, out of nowhere, they passed downed trees and vacant lots that looked more like a war zone, piles of busted wood and rotted foundations.
Sam slowed and turned right down a long dirt driveway surrounded by massive oaks leading up to an old clapboard cottage, completely secluded. He parked in front of old, weathered plank steps that led up to a screened-in front porch. Sam climbed out of the Camaro and shoved the door closed. Holding his head high, he walked around the front of the car. He pulled in his broad shoulders, deep in thought and contemplation. Sam opened her door and held out his hand. He was an enigma, and Marcie couldn’t understand the jerk in her belly and why her heart flipped by such a simple gesture.
A self-conscious wave passed over her. She felt sticky, dirty, and just plain gross. She longed for a bath filled with scented lavender oil, surrounded by white candles. The peaceful thought faded instantly when she stood in front of the tiny run-down cottage with boarded up windows. Sam pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her up the rickety steps to the screen door.
“I haven’t been back in a while. As you can see, I’m one of the lucky ones. Not much damage to mine after Katrina swept through. Many places were condemned, abandoned, or torn down, no way to save them. We passed those along the coast and some inland, too.”
Marcie ducked under his arm and stepped cautiously across a creaky, unpainted porch. Sam wasn’t as careful. He squeezed around Marcie and tried to open the heavy oak door, but a secured lock held. For some reason, he seemed satisfied and bent over with a pick, inserting a silver prong in the lock. He had a strong focus. His tongue slipped out
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