Lane lowered her voice. “Please tell me you’re not like them.” Lane hitched her thumb in the direction of the courthouse’s front doors. “Miguel has PTSD and lives in the woods and keeps to himself, but he is not what they’re calling him. You have to believe me.”

Charlie drew in close and looked like he wanted to pull her into his arms, but then he stopped. Pushing his fingers through his hair, his expression pained, he finally said, “People with PTSD have been known to act out in unexpected ways.”

“He’s never hurt anyone before.”

“Maybe not, but people come home from war not right in the head—accident or not, they can be dangerous. I saw him the night when he hit you. I’ve seen too many buddies take the path of least resistance and try to numb their pain. It’s never ended well.”

Charlie’s voice was soft, as though he was speaking from experience. His friend, Tate. The one he couldn’t save. Her chest tightened. Charlie did understand—better than most—and yet it wasn’t enough.

“Do you know that for as long as Miguel’s come into my café, I’ve never even smelled a whiff of alcohol on him? Harley’s known Miguel since they fought in the war and even he can’t believe what you’re doing—”

“The evidence is there, Lane.” Charlie’s jaw flexed. “I know he’s your friend and you want to help, but it’s my job to follow the evidence.” Charlie closed the space between them by half. His fingers grazed hers. “Let me help Miguel by finding the truth. That’s the only way we can help him.”

“But have you heard what they’re saying about him out there?” She lowered her voice. “Even if you prove Miguel’s innocence, do you think the whole town will just forget he was once suspected of killing someone? It’ll haunt him the rest of his life, and I don’t know if he’ll recover.”

Suddenly, her father’s insistence about keeping what happened two years ago quiet made perfect sense. If people found out what she did—the circumstances behind Mathias’s death—her reputation would never recover. People would never let her forget. There’d be whispers. Questions. Assumptions.

This time Charlie took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and drew her close to him. “Then we’ll make them see beyond their discrimination. We’ll show them the beauty in his sculptures and art. And if after all of that”—he squeezed her hand—“they still don’t see what you see, then it’s their loss. Not his.”