The offices of Eagle Rock’s local newspaper were housed in a squat, single-story shop front squeezed between an artisan ice cream joint and a vinyl record store. Jessica had never felt any great desire to sample the kind of strange-sounding designer dairy products on display in the café’s window. But the line for brown bread, burnt sugar, and red velvet Oreo ice cream had spilled out the front door and snaked along the sidewalk as folks sought a fun way to cool off on a sultry day.

She shook her head. Only in Los Angeles.

In sad contrast, the music store was empty, save for a bored-looking cashier behind a neat window display of records from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s.

Unbidden, a memory of Tony popped into Jessica’s head. She was sixteen the first time she’d heard Johnny Cash’s iconic album At Folsom Prison. It was a Saturday night, and Tony had been in one of his melancholy moods when she’d returned home from a friend’s house. The lights had been dimmed; a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam had sat on the coffee table next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, Cash’s voice crackly and jumpy as the needle danced across the vinyl.

Tony’d had that sad, faraway look on his face he’d get sometimes when he’d been drinking, his eyes fixed on an image only he could see.

Picking up the album sleeve, Jessica had read the song listings on the back. “What’s up, Tony?” she’d teased. She had always called her father Tony, never Dad. “Don’t tell me you got the ‘Folsom Prison Blues’?”

He’d laughed, but she’d noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes. She’d flopped on the couch and listened to a couple of songs with him for a while, then told him she thought this Johnny Cash fella must have been pretty brave, or really dumb, to play a gig in a prison full of murderers and rapists.

Tony had been silent for a few minutes, and she’d thought he hadn’t heard her. Then, in a voice so low she almost couldn’t hear it, he’d said, “Not everything’s black and white in this world, Jess. Sometimes good people make mistakes. Sometimes innocent folk are locked up for things they didn’t do. And sometimes, the really bad ones never have to pay for what they’ve done.”

At the time, Jessica had had no idea what he was talking about, had put his ramblings down to too much liquor and jailhouse music.

Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.