“Hey! What’s going on with you two? Is there a second affair going on that we should all know about?” Deputy Hudson yells from the car. A large smile is plastered across his face as he smacks his chewing gum loudly in an obnoxious manner to punctuate the brazenness of his commentary.

I’m snapped back into reality and a wave of questions cascades over me. Professionalism replaces empathy, and our former roles reappear. Defense attorney. In-the-way sheriff’s department.

“Nothing, Deputy Hudson. Mind you that your presence here was neither required nor requested and is highly suspect at best. So, please carry on with your important patrol of the perimeter of your own vehicle.” Sheriff Stevens rocked back on his heels.

“What about the murder weapon?” I ask ignoring Deputy Hudson. Back to the facts.

“We never found it. We’ve searched both homes and the surrounding woods, but nothing.” The sheriff drops his hands to his side and shifts awkwardly, not knowing how to end this.

“Do they know what it is?”

“They deduced it may be a small kitchen knife, a pocket knife, or even a letter opener. They’re running additional tests to try to narrow it down. But chances are we’ll never find it anyway.”

I give a slight nod and then shift a bit. I need to talk to Adam. Does he know that Kelly was pregnant? Did he know all along?

“Well, I should probably get going. I need to stop by the hospital to check on Adam.” I step away from Sheriff Stevens and walk toward my vehicle, glancing only for a second at Deputy Hudson.

He smiles and nods at me. “I’ll be seeing you,” he says in a friendly manner, but it seems more like a threat.

My smile back is small and curt, enough to remain professional.

“Sarah,” Sheriff Stevens calls out. I stop and turn, facing him. He walks down the porch steps to his car and stops. “Adam is being moved back to the jail for processing.” He pulls open his car door. “You can follow me there if you’d like.”

20. Adam Morgan

20

Adam Morgan

I’m lying in my bunk dressed in standard inmate’s attire: orange cotton pants and top. The doctor released me this morning. It appears they don’t take too kindly to a patient suspected of murdering a young local woman. They got me bandaged up quick, and after one night of observation, they sent me here. Here being a tiny room with a twin-sized bunk, a toilet, and a sink, surrounded by cinder block and steel bars. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong here.