I watch his eyes fill with tears and the sight has agony ripping through my already tortured heart. “You’re wrong, Livy. They hurt you because of me, because of what I did to that boy, and you’ll never know how sorry I am ’bout that. I swore to your mama, at her grave, that I would always protect you. I’m so damn sorry.” His voice cracks and for the first time in my life I watch my grandfather cry.

His torment hurdles through me like a tidal wave. As hard as it is, I push away my pain because I know he needs me right now. It’s time for me to be strong for him like he always has for me. “Pap, you listen to me right now.” I keep my voice steady, trying to hold back my emotion. “What happened is not your fault and Mama would be devastated for you to think otherwise, same with Gram. No one is to blame for this but the men who committed the crime. You have given me everything I could ever hope for. I love my life, and I love you, do not let those men take any more from us. I have faith that the police will find them. We just need to stay strong and stand together through this.”

Wiping a hand down his face he meets my gaze again and gives me a small, genuine smile. “You’re so much like your mama. Always seein’ the good in everyone, never letting anything jade you. I swear, Livy, you have more courage and strength than any other human being that walks this earth. I’m proud of you.”

I love it when he tells me how much I’m like my mama because, from what I can remember, she was something special.

“You’re right, justice will prevail because ain’t no way I’ll ever accept anything less,” he adds.

“But we do it the right way, Pap. We let the police handle it, okay?”

He nods. “Yeah, darlin’, okay.”

“Okay,” I repeat with a smile, feeling better.

The music on the stereo changes songs to Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” A song that both Pap and I love.

“Come on, Livy, dance with me.” He stands and offers his hand to me.

My heart melts as I take it, allowing him to pull me up. Clasping our hands he brings them to his chest, against his heart, and hums softly to the beautiful tune as we sway back and forth. “I danced with your grandmother to this song many times, it was one of her favorites.”

“It’s one of mine, too.”

“She loved to dance with me and my moves only got better with age.”

I giggle but know it’s true; no one can dance like Pap.

“Have I ever told you our story?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

I smile. “Yes, many times.”

“Ah well, let me tell it again.” He pulls me in closer. “Once upon a time there was this young, good-lookin’ farm boy who saw this beautiful girl pickin’ apples from a tree… Well, she was really stealing them since it wasn’t her tree.”

Another snicker escapes me, remembering the story well.

As I lay my head on Pap’s shoulder and listen to their love story for what feels like the hundredth time, I feel a little of my damaged heart being mended again.

CHAPTER 11

Grayson

I stop at Pillar’s for a cup of coffee most mornings and usually see the same faces every day. Miss. Betty who works down at the DMV always comes in around this time as well as Mr. Myers who runs the local hardware store. He always buys donuts for his staff. But this morning I notice a woman and her son walk in who I’ve never seen before. She looks in a hurry, pulling the boy by his hand.

“Uh oh. Wook, Mama, powiceman,” the kid says while pointing at me, looking nervous.

“I see him.” She eyes me suspiciously. “Just ignore him.”

As they walk down the aisle to the coolers in the back I return my attention to the cashier. After paying for my coffee, I stuff my wallet back in my pocket and pick up my cup, but I don’t make it out the door before I feel someone jerk on the bottom of my pants. I look down to see that same little boy, his eyes wide and a little hesitant.

“Hey, little man,” I greet him, crouching down slowly to get on his level. He backs up a couple steps. “What can I do for you?”

He wears a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it and looks to be about five or six.

“Do you shoot people?” he asks, pointing to the gun on my hip.

I hate the fear I see in his big brown eyes. “Not if I don’t have to—no.” That doesn’t seem to make him feel any better.

Fuck, how do I explain this to him?

“Listen, kid. You never have to be afraid of me, or any of the police for that matter. We’re here to help you not hurt you. Our job is to catch the bad guys and keep everyone safe. That’s why we need to carry guns—for protection not to hurt anyone.”

His young, intelligent eyes assess me, wondering if he can trust me. It fucking sucks, and I start to feel like nothing I say will reassure him because it’s obvious he’s been taught differently.

“So you don’t wanna hurt no one?”

I shake my head. “Never. We only want to help. So if you ever need anything you can always call us and we’ll be there. I’ll even drive extra fast for you and turn my sirens on really loud so everyone knows they just messed with the wrong kid.”

He giggles like I hoped he would. “Awight, cool.”

“Cool.” I raise my fist for him and he gives me a knuckle bump.

My eyes lift to his mother who is stomping furiously our way. “Boy, I told you not to wander off,” she snaps, pulling him away from me.

“It’s no trouble. We’re just having a talk,” I say, standing to my full height.

She glares up at me, contempt prominent in her eyes. Whether it’s because of my uniform or the color of my skin I have no idea.

Both thoughts are unsettling.

“Yeah, Mama. We’re just tawkin’. I wanna be a powiceman when I grow up,” he tells her.

“No, you don’t, boy, now shush it.” Scooping her son into her arms, she walks away. “You need to be careful around the police. I told you that. It’s not safe.”

Her words spark a rage inside of me, and before I say anything I might regret I walk out and get into my patrol truck, remembering something my father said once.

Hate isn’t something you’re born with, it’s taught.

I turn those words over in my mind as I maneuver onto I-9, heading out of town to Eddie Willard’s house.

What Liv overheard between Lane, Eddie and Walt yesterday has my stomach in knots. When I brought it up to Dixon last night he didn’t seem too concerned. He reminded me that Eddie and Lane are just harmless rednecks with a whole lot of mouth and not enough ass to back it up. Usually, I would agree, and I’m hoping that’s all it is, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m going to get to the bottom of it and warn him to stay away from Liv. She doesn’t need to hear whatever hate he and Lane are spewing and neither does Walt. That man is furious enough; he doesn’t need anyone adding to it.

I’m just as mad as everyone else about what happened to Liv, even more so. But the difference is my anger is toward the assholes who did it, not anyone else. When I think about how Fletch was treated yesterday, lumped into the same category as the criminals who committed the crime, it infuriates me. And it’s not just one-sided, this race shit is being played from all sides, and I’m goddamn sick of it. So many people are losing their heads over this and it’s only making everything worse.

Then there’s Liv.

After everything that’s happened to her, she remains strong. She doesn’t show an ounce of bitterness when she has every right to feel that way. She’s stronger than I gave her credit for, but I should have known better than to doubt her. The way she shoved aside her fear and went out to the diner with me, then stood up for Fletch in front of everyone… I shake my head.

Pulling into Eddie’s driveway, I see his old pickup parked around the side of the house, a Confederate flag license plate mounted proudly on the front bumper. It’s something I wouldn’t have thought twice about before, but now I have to wonder—does he display it as a symbol of his heritage or hate? I know the history behind it, most educated people do, but all too often it’s been used for far more than a representation of southern pride. After what Liv heard him say yesterday, I’m assuming it’s the latter.