She smiles, but her voice is serious when she speaks again. “It’s your story, Ollie. I was just the messenger.”
He raises a brow. “Maybe, but no one was listening before you came along. I wish Mom was here to see this.”
Donna Barlow, a plump, soft-spoken woman who devoted her life to her youngest son, never wavered in her commitment to proving his innocence. After more than a decade of dedication to what many saw as a lost cause, she died when an aneurysm burst inside her skull weeks before the appellate judge’s ruling excluded the tainted evidence that had led to Oliver’s conviction.
“She liked you a lot,” Ollie says. “She trusted you, even with your fancy car and your city ways.”
He’s teasing her. Tessa has adapted to urban life and looks the part. Her dark hair is cut into a sleek bob with long bangs. Her clothes are stylish and of good quality. But beneath the surface, she’ll always be a small-town girl.
“I liked her too, Ollie,” Tessa says. “It was an honor to know her.”
“Thank you for coming, Tessa. Thank you for everything.” Ollie hugs her again.
“Seeing you walk out of that place is all the thanks I need. So why are you wasting time? Get out of here. Be happy, Oliver. Go live your life.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a grin and a salute.
She waits and watches until the gold sedan turns out of the parking lot. The horn honks once as it drives away, then disappears into the distance.
“Tessa Shepherd?”
She turns, surprised when a straggling reporter calls her name.
The documentary Tessa produced and directed about the case was a huge success and made Oliver Barlow a household name practically overnight, but Tessa is never on camera. She’s rarely, if ever, recognized outside of professional circles.
“How does it feel to know you helped free an innocent man?”
“No comment,” Tessa says with a half smile and a quick shake of her head. She knows he has a job to do, but today isn’t about her.
She tucks her hands into her coat and walks slowly back to her car. How does it feel?
Tessa turns the key in the ignition.
Ollie’s conviction was a travesty. A breakdown of justice at the most basic level, and Tessa played a part in righting that wrong. Tonight, Oliver Barlow will celebrate with his family, a free man at last.
How does it feel?
It feels amazing.
Her gaze falls on the phone she left charging. There are hundreds of numbers programmed into it, hundreds of people she could call. People who would meet her for celebratory drinks or dinner. Acquaintances, friends, coworkers. Her mother’s number is there—Tessa’s biggest supporter.
She can picture her with a cup of coffee on the front porch of her Pennsylvania farmhouse, hear the pleasure in her voice at an unexpected call from one of her daughters. She can hear, also, the tension that would eventually creep in between all the things they’d leave unsaid, because they’ve been said so many times before and gotten them nowhere.
There’s one number that isn’t there. It doesn’t need to be. Tessa knows it by heart. She never dials it, but there’s a part of her that hopes each time her phone rings that she’ll see that number displayed, reaching out to connect after all this time.
But that’s never happened, and Tessa can’t remember the last time she felt so alone.
2
Eighteen months later
The wrap party is in full swing when Tessa clinks a fork against a glass of champagne. She waits patiently while the small but lively crowd quiets down.
Carefully chosen, her team is an eclectic group. Despite their current and varied levels of intoxication, each is outstanding at what they do. They’ve earned the chance to relax.
Their latest project, a three-part documentary delving into the child sex trade, was harrowing. No one walked away unaffected. Tessa discovered one of the interns crying in the bathroom last month and sent the girl home early. She didn’t expect her to come back, to be honest, yet there she was the next day.
Tessa schools her face into a neutral expression.
“I don’t need to tell any of you this one wasn’t easy, so I won’t,” she says. “What I will say is, rest up and enjoy your weekend, because next week we’ve got work to do.”
That gets the full attention of the room. There are a few groans, but they all come from the plus-ones. A twinge of guilt tugs at her conscience, but she chose this crew for their talent and dedication. That doesn’t always equate to an easy family life.
The empty apartment waiting for her is a testament to that.
Tessa’s phone vibrates on the table in front of her. She glances at the number.
It’s Oliver. Again.
Tessa bites her lip, conflicted. She lets the call go to voice mail. Now isn’t the best time, but she’ll reach out tomorrow. She will.
She turns her attention back to her crew. “I’ve just gotten word that the pitch for our next project has been selected.”
“Since when do we pitch?” asks Anne, Tessa’s production assistant. Anne’s been with Tessa longer than anyone and looks peeved to be hearing this for the first time. Tessa didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up only to disappoint them if the project fell through.
“When the former first lady wants a biopic, and her people ask for a pitch, then you pitch,” she says with a shrug.
Tessa smiles as the words sink in. There’s a beat of silence as mouths drop, but it doesn’t last. The room erupts into cheers. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and for the rest of the evening they celebrate accordingly.
Even Anne manages to forgive Tessa’s secrecy.
By the time she lets herself into her apartment a few hours later, Tessa’s ears are still ringing and her cheeks are tired from grinning.
She tosses her keys into a decorative bowl on the kitchen counter and kicks off her shoes before dropping onto the sofa with a sigh of relief.
Her phone buzzes again in her bag. The possibility of ignoring it crosses her mind, but she can’t do that. Checking her phone is a compulsion, one that all the therapy in the world can’t cure her of.
With an exhausted stretch, Tessa digs it out of her bag and cracks one eye open to peek at the number.
She sits up straighter and answers the call.
“Mom?” Tessa glances at the clock. It’s after midnight.
“Hi, sweetheart,” her mother says. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I just got in. A little late for you, though. Is everything all right?”
“Of course. I couldn’t sleep and you’re always up late working, so I thought I’d say hello.”
There’s a pause while Tessa takes that in.
“O-kay,” she says, drawing out the word. Jane Shepherd is an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of person. “Hello to you too. Now, what’s going on?”
From the other end of the line, Tessa hears the refrigerator door open, then a clink of ice cubes hitting the bottom of a glass. This is followed by the faint but distinctive sound of a screw top lid and liquid splashing.
“Mom, are you drinking?” Tessa asks. Her mother drinks alcohol about as often as she makes phone calls after nine o’clock.
“Tessa. Brace yourself. This may come as a shock, but according to my records, I am, in fact, an adult. I know it’s difficult to wrap your head around, but if I choose to pour a drink to help me sleep, I’m well within the bounds of acceptability.”