After the Woods by Kim Savage Page A

said, and I quote: ‘His prognosis is excellent. I do not suspect he will ever be at risk for violence’?” Paula says.
    â€œI am not qualified to speak toward his psychiatrist’s findings,” Pantano responds.
    â€œWas it the probation officer who rarely visited Jessup at his home, never talked with neighbors or local police to know if he violated his parole, and ignored complaints by coworkers at the GameStop where he worked that Mr. Jessup made them feel uncomfortable?”
    â€œThe actions of the probation officer in question are being examined internally,” Pantano says.
    â€œOr is it the seven members of the Massachusetts parole board who granted parole to this high-risk offender? The seven men and women appointed by the governor who decided Donald Jessup should be allowed back on the streets of Shiverton, so that he could strike again?” Paula presses.
    Pantano runs the tip of his pinky finger over a ring on the other hand.
    â€œThe seven men and women who directly report to you?” Paula adds.
    Pantano grimaces. “I cannot say that the parole board or the police did all they could to ensure public safety.”
    â€œLet me be clear: you’re telling me you cannot say that the parole board or the police did all they could to ensure public safety,” Paula repeats.
    Pantano twists his gold ring hard.
    â€œThe governor is convening an outside committee to examine the monitoring of Mr. Jessup, who has since committed suicide while awaiting sentencing in custody at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Cedar Junction, as you know. I have no conclusions at this time,” Pantano says.
    Switch to the studio, and the pancake-faced reporter, now in the anchor chair, asks Paula if what they just heard is the department’s official statement.
    â€œYou heard him, Ryan,” she says. “Parole Board Chief Valerio Pantano cannot say that the parole board or the police did all they could to ensure public safety. We’ll keep following this story as it develops. Live in Shiverton, I’m Paula Papademetriou. Back to you.”
    I whistle. “Damn, girl,” I murmur.
    My last thought before I fall asleep is of a severed pinky finger in a box.
    *   *   *
    I wake in the predawn dim with an anger hangover. The memories come at night now, more vivid than the daymares. So real that I’m lying here thoroughly pissed, because I remember the days after the woods, in the hospital, like it just happened. I’d been ready to cry with Liv, looked forward to a good, long, cleansing cry, one that included survivor high fives and hugs. Instead, she had observed me with an alien lack of empathy, refusing to acknowledge my busted ankle, my terror, or the fact that I took her place in hell.
    Everything had looked creamy from the morphine drip, lit from within, with glowing trails coming off the nurses’ fingers as they tended to my IV and adjusted the traction ropes that held my foot. The blue fluorescent bar above my head made Liv look angelic.
    â€œYou went to heaven,” I’d said, all dopey.
    â€œI went where?” Liv asked.
    â€œNever mind. It’s the drugs. You came. How’d you get out?”
    â€œI sprinkled a ground-up Ambien in Deborah’s pinot noir and begged a ride from Boseman.”
    Liv’s cousin Boseman was a party hanger-on who stunk of cloves and always looked me up and down with skittery eyes. He was at least twenty-four and made beer runs for the whole school, taking too much money and skimming off the top.
    â€œI’m glad you came,” I said.
    â€œOf course I came.” Liv stared at the IV taped to my hand.
    â€œWhere’s my mom?”
    Mom hadn’t left my side. She slept in a vinyl chair under a blanket and ate leftover Jell-O off my tray. I figured Erik had finally dragged her to get something real to eat. Later, I found out she’d been in the parking lot arguing