When I’d gotten back, thirty minutes later, the dog was still barking out back—louder now, a periodic whimper, and this time I thought: Maybe Ruby was supposed to walk their dog and forgot. It was the first day of spring break, and maybe the Truetts were heading out of town. Maybe they’d left the dog out back, assuming Ruby would be over shortly.
But then I’d thought of Ruby getting in at two a.m., the sound of the shower running, and hadn’t wanted to wake her if I was wrong.
It was nearly seven a.m., but they were typically early risers. Still, I knocked gently, not wanting to wake anyone on a vacation day. Especially not my boss, who didn’t like running into me outside of our work environment.
It was then, as I’d waited on their front porch, that I heard the hum from the garage. The running car, like maybe someone was getting ready to go. I’d waited for the garage door to slide open, but it didn’t. I kept waiting until I knew, in my gut, that too much time had passed.
I rang the bell this time, twice in a row, and still no one came to the door.
My hand shook as I reached for the handle. It was unlocked.
I pushed the door open, and I knew. Immediately, I knew.
I did not go in. I stumbled back, looked frantically around, saw another jogger at the corner, and recognized the familiar stride. I screamed for him—Chase! Chase!—and there must’ve been something in my tone that warned him. Because he shifted direction, his stride faster, more erratic. Charlotte must’ve heard me, too, because she came outside in her pajamas, met me on their porch. The car has been running, I said, and her hands rose to her face.
It was Chase who covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm as he raced inside to turn off the car engine, yelling at us to open the doors and windows.
It was too late.
Ever since, the sound of a dog barking put me on edge, brought me back to that moment—the moment before I knew, and everything changed.
Thinking about that time was like thinking of another version of this neighborhood, when the perception of our own safety was shattering. When we were realizing that here—with our lazy summers, with our neighbors who were also colleagues and friends, with our cop down the street—we had only convinced ourselves that we would be protected.
This was not the same place anymore, and we were not the same people.
* * *
WHEN I WENT BACK inside my house, I heard the shower running upstairs, and I tried calling Charlotte. When she didn’t pick up, I texted instead: Heard about the meeting. Anything I can do?
I’d long since learned that the best way to get what you needed from Charlotte was to offer to help. As the head of the owners’ association, she had enough people stopping her outside or coming by her house at all hours, asking her questions or complaining. Between that and her job as a counselor at the college, she was surrounded by other people’s problems.
A door upstairs crashed open, and Ruby came running. She stumbled down the steps in such a rush that a sense of panic spread through the room. The tags were still on her clothes, and her hair was wet and unbrushed, and I looked for the danger, for who was after her. But she stopped in the living room, frantically moving the couch pillows. “It’s on, it’s on.”
“What? What’s happening?” I stood beside her, trying to help, but had no idea what she needed.
It was then I noticed the phone in her hand. A phone I’d never seen before and didn’t know she had. She held it up to me. “My lawyer called. The news. They’re doing a program.”
“You have a phone?” The wrong comment. The wrong question.
“Yes, my lawyer gave it to me. I don’t have anyone’s number, though.” She was half-paying attention, her gaze roaming around the room until she found the remote.
It was the first time since she’d arrived that I saw behind Ruby’s carefully constructed facade. A tremble in her fingers as she turned on the television, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. She was practically breathless, standing in front of the couch, shifting back and forth on her feet.
“That’s her,” Ruby said, pointing the remote at the screen. “That’s my lawyer.”
The woman had sleek dark hair, cut blunt to her collarbone, angled cheekbones, a sharp suit. Her name was displayed on the bottom left of the screen in bold print: Blair Bowman. And now her words were coming through: “A grave miscarriage of justice. Evidence that could’ve exonerated her early on had been destroyed by those who should’ve known better. The crimes against Ruby Fletcher go back further than the trial itself. She never should’ve been arrested.”