“Would you like to sit and talk?” I hoped his animosity toward me might take a positive spin.

“My favorite place to visit with a killer is behind bars.”

I sighed. The rancid heat of humiliation assaulted me. “From your perspective, I had that coming.”

“Yep.”

“Anyone ever give you a second chance?”

“Never needed it. I’m squeaky-clean.”

“Officer Hughes, I’m not your doormat. So clean your muddy boots somewhere else.”

“I expect to receive respect from the likes of you.”

I refused to respect any bully. “Did you leave the note to run me off?”

He leaned on one leg. So bully typical. “Nope, it would be breaking the law. Did it work?”

“I’m here, and I intend to stay. Does the sheriff have the note or was it destroyed?”

He smirked. “My sister was here when you got it, so she’ll make sure he knows about it. But it’s hard to nail down where a typed note came from.”

“So you’re the guilty one?”

He rolled his eyes like I used to do when my parents objected to my behavior. “By the way, the parole officer is expecting you this afternoon. A no-show means a stain against your record.” He tipped his hat and walked to his cruiser.

9

The rear bicycle tire flattened about three miles from Valleysburg. The air valve stem cap was missing. I suspected an intentional action on Officer Hughes’s part. I walked the bike into town and stopped at a hardware store. After airing up both tires, I bought two stem caps and a chain and lock. The store owner gave permission for me to keep the bike locked there until I finished with errands. The idea of someone stealing it left a sour taste in my mouth. As soon as I had a few dollars extra, I’d flip for my own two-wheeled transportation.

Thirty minutes before the parole office closed, I approached a weathered brick building. A sign above the door read, Established 1932. Inside, an arrow indicated various offices on the second floor, and I climbed the wooden steps. Every creak and groan spoke of age and history. At the top, I inhaled a generation gone by and admired the tall ceilings, arched windows, and age-scarred but polished wooden floors. If I owned the building, I’d re-create the era and update only what was needed for safety and convenience.

Not my purpose this afternoon.

The parole office occupied a secluded spot at the end of the hall. There I met a balding man with thick black-framed glasses rummaging through a file cabinet.

“Mr. James Peterson?”

His glasses slid down his long nose, rather comical, but I knew better than to laugh. “How can I help you?”

I extended my hand. “I’m Shelby Pearce.”

“Ah, yes. Have a seat, Ms. Pearce. Officer Hughes stopped by and indicated you were eager to see me this afternoon.”

I bit my tongue. “Yes, sir. I wanted to make sure I got started on the right foot.”