glance at the digital red numbers on my parents’ old alarm clock. Jake is on his way to Building Buddies, where he’ll continue his parole. A probationary period he has because he went to prison for starting a fire that destroyed a school and took a life.
Rita, you have to believe me. I didn’t do it.
Isn’t that what all criminals say? I’d never defended a case for a crime like arson, but I imagine anyone accused would plead innocence.
My body sags against the wall as innocence before proven guilty is always presumed in my line of work. Jake must have been found guilty despite his confession to me. A collection of his peers or perhaps even a single judge found him responsible for a crime. The proof was in the decision.
Still, my head taps against the wall at my back because I want to believe him. I want to believe he couldn’t possibly start that fire. The Jake I’d learned more about in the past few weeks wasn’t vicious or vengeful or even unkind. He was funny. He was charming. He loved to dance, and he had glorious sex just like he moved in sync with the music. He kissed me under a covered bridge when I said I wanted romance. He fucked me against a pole when he wanted to be reckless. He made me feel alive, like I haven’t felt in years.
Most of all, I had to accept that Jake never intended to kill Ian. My former fiancé’s death was ruled involuntary manslaughter. Essentially, he was an unplanned circumstance of the initial crime. An accident. It was difficult to wrap my head around the concept. It also didn’t explain the fire and Jake’s role in a blaze that destroyed half a building.
My eyes close again, but I’ve had enough of my cycling thoughts. Pressing off the wall, I decide to head to the office in hopes of losing myself in work as I’d done since the day Ian died. I press back the curtain just enough to check again that Jake is gone. Then I make my way to the front door to retrieve the coffee and the object he left behind next to it.
Sitting at my desk, I vacillate my eyes between the object Jake left for me and my laptop. Once I arrived at the office, I felt like a sick joke had been played on me. I’ve turned so many contracts and cases over to May, I don’t have anything pressing to busy myself. Instead, I went through a stack of mail in hopes of avoiding the object on my desk and found an invitation to Vermont Law’s summer graduation ceremony. Alumni are always invited to support the future bar members. Flipping the card stock in my hands, I stare blankly at the lettering and recall how Jake invited me to attend his nephew’s commencement.
“My brother and I are so proud of him. We always knew he’d be something more than either of us.”
I hadn’t liked how Jake put himself down at the time he mentioned the future accomplishment of his nephew. Jake’s life hasn’t been a failure. At least, not from what he’s told me. He’d been a success in his own right, working his way through an apprenticeship to become a master electrician while volunteering as a fireman and raising his brother, and eventually, helping raise his nephew. He’d given up a lot to see that his brother turned out to be more than a teenage dad and his nephew leveled up. The recall puzzles me as it’s a reminder that Jake has been loyal to his family and hardworking at that. However, he could also be an excellent liar, and everything he’s told me could be total bullshit.
Then I look over at the unique sculpture sitting on my desk. It’s made of industrial pieces—plumber pipes, copper conduit, and electrical wiring—positioned in a manner it looks like an abstract person fishing. I’m assuming it’s a woman with flowing hair in strips of copper material mixed with electric wire wrapped in gray casings. She holds a pole made of another copper pipe with a thin wire dangling off it. A miniature light bulb hangs from the wire, representing a fish. An engraving on the bottom of the lamp reads: Hook, link, and sinker, you’ve captured me. I don’t understand the significance of the lamp other than the fishing metaphor, and the fact Jake and I spent a day doing such a thing.