and cut shorter than before, but she seemed not to have aged a day in the two years. Her skin was still creamy with a hint of sunburn, and her body still remarkably lean and fit. Even at thirty-five—even after spending three days in jail—Rebecca Fenney's beauty still stunned him.
Scott stood.
Her eyes darted around the crowded lobby like a lost child looking for her parents. She spotted him and almost ran to him. She was crying before she threw her arms around him.
"Oh, Scott. Thank God you came."
She clutched him tightly for a long moment, then he felt her slim body sag in his arms. She sobbed into his chest. After all that time, she was back in his arms. She felt good even if she didn't smell good. She finally wiped her face on his shirt and looked up at him.
"I'm sorry, I must smell awful after three days."
"You didn't shower?"
"With those women? You wouldn't believe how many prostitutes are in Galveston. I was so afraid."
He released her. "Did they hurt you?"
"The women?"
"The police."
"They brought me here in handcuffs, they took my clothes, hosed me down … Scott, they sprayed me for lice."
"Why didn't you hire a lawyer to get you out of here?"
"I don't have any money."
"On TV, they said Trey earned millions."
"None of it's mine."
"You could've put your house up to secure bond."
"It's not mine either. Nothing is. The house, the cars, the yacht—everything belongs to … Why would someone kill Trey? This is all like a bad dream."
"It's real. But I'm here now, Rebecca. I'll take care of you."
She glanced around as if worried they had made a mistake and would throw her back in jail. "Can we leave now?"
"Not out the front door. Reporter."
Scott went back to the bail window, signed for her personal effects, and asked Sarge if Rebecca could leave out a back door. Sarge obliged. While he took her around back, Scott walked outside and past Renée Ramirez just as her cell phone rang. She answered and said, " What? He's here? I didn't see a lawyer go in." She hung up and hurried inside, trailed by her cameraman. Scott got into the Jetta and drove around back where he found Sarge with Rebecca. He opened the door for her like a hotel doorman.
"Hope you enjoyed your stay, ma'am."
Sarge shut the door and gave them a little salute. Scott drove around front just as Renée Ramirez and her cameraman came running back out.
"Duck down."
Rebecca ducked her head until they had exited the parking lot. When she came back up, she said, "What happened to the Ferrari?"
"Repoed. I lost everything. Sold the house to avoid foreclosure when the bank called the note."
Scott drove past the bail bonds and low-rent law offices that lined 54th Street, bit players in the tragedy that was the American criminal justice system. He stopped at a red light at Broadway. They sat in silence until the light turned green. He stepped on the gas pedal, and she spoke in a soft voice.
"Scott, they think I killed Trey. Why? "
"I don't know. But I'll find out."
Scott parked on Seawall Boulevard fronting the Gulf of Mexico.
"Let's walk."
They got out. Rebecca lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, inhaling the fresh sea air like a lifer pardoned after thirty years behind bars.
"I'm free. Thank God. I thought I was going to die in there."
Three days in county jail—she'd never make life in prison. They walked down the wide sidewalk. Across the boulevard to their left were bars, restaurants, hotels, condos, and swim shops; to their right was the beach, seventeen feet below. The air was warm and the sky blue. The breeze blew strong and brought the smell of the sea to shore. Above them, white seagulls floated on the wind currents then suddenly dove down to the water and swooped back up with fish in their beaks. Down below on the beach, colorful umbrellas lined the narrow strip of sand. Sunbathers lay on towels, surfers rode the low waves, and tourists tiptoed through the tide. Waves crashed against the jetties or died out in the
Scott stood.
Her eyes darted around the crowded lobby like a lost child looking for her parents. She spotted him and almost ran to him. She was crying before she threw her arms around him.
"Oh, Scott. Thank God you came."
She clutched him tightly for a long moment, then he felt her slim body sag in his arms. She sobbed into his chest. After all that time, she was back in his arms. She felt good even if she didn't smell good. She finally wiped her face on his shirt and looked up at him.
"I'm sorry, I must smell awful after three days."
"You didn't shower?"
"With those women? You wouldn't believe how many prostitutes are in Galveston. I was so afraid."
He released her. "Did they hurt you?"
"The women?"
"The police."
"They brought me here in handcuffs, they took my clothes, hosed me down … Scott, they sprayed me for lice."
"Why didn't you hire a lawyer to get you out of here?"
"I don't have any money."
"On TV, they said Trey earned millions."
"None of it's mine."
"You could've put your house up to secure bond."
"It's not mine either. Nothing is. The house, the cars, the yacht—everything belongs to … Why would someone kill Trey? This is all like a bad dream."
"It's real. But I'm here now, Rebecca. I'll take care of you."
She glanced around as if worried they had made a mistake and would throw her back in jail. "Can we leave now?"
"Not out the front door. Reporter."
Scott went back to the bail window, signed for her personal effects, and asked Sarge if Rebecca could leave out a back door. Sarge obliged. While he took her around back, Scott walked outside and past Renée Ramirez just as her cell phone rang. She answered and said, " What? He's here? I didn't see a lawyer go in." She hung up and hurried inside, trailed by her cameraman. Scott got into the Jetta and drove around back where he found Sarge with Rebecca. He opened the door for her like a hotel doorman.
"Hope you enjoyed your stay, ma'am."
Sarge shut the door and gave them a little salute. Scott drove around front just as Renée Ramirez and her cameraman came running back out.
"Duck down."
Rebecca ducked her head until they had exited the parking lot. When she came back up, she said, "What happened to the Ferrari?"
"Repoed. I lost everything. Sold the house to avoid foreclosure when the bank called the note."
Scott drove past the bail bonds and low-rent law offices that lined 54th Street, bit players in the tragedy that was the American criminal justice system. He stopped at a red light at Broadway. They sat in silence until the light turned green. He stepped on the gas pedal, and she spoke in a soft voice.
"Scott, they think I killed Trey. Why? "
"I don't know. But I'll find out."
Scott parked on Seawall Boulevard fronting the Gulf of Mexico.
"Let's walk."
They got out. Rebecca lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes, inhaling the fresh sea air like a lifer pardoned after thirty years behind bars.
"I'm free. Thank God. I thought I was going to die in there."
Three days in county jail—she'd never make life in prison. They walked down the wide sidewalk. Across the boulevard to their left were bars, restaurants, hotels, condos, and swim shops; to their right was the beach, seventeen feet below. The air was warm and the sky blue. The breeze blew strong and brought the smell of the sea to shore. Above them, white seagulls floated on the wind currents then suddenly dove down to the water and swooped back up with fish in their beaks. Down below on the beach, colorful umbrellas lined the narrow strip of sand. Sunbathers lay on towels, surfers rode the low waves, and tourists tiptoed through the tide. Waves crashed against the jetties or died out in the
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