Free The Truth About Love by Sheila Athens Page B

from my dad are always such a pleasure. You did the right thing—got out while you could.”
    “You want to talk about it?”
    “No.” He pulled the last grape Nehi out of the fridge. He really wanted a beer, but with his father’s history of drinking, he stuck to the nonalcoholic stuff when he wasn’t out with his friends.
    “You sure?”
    “Not now.” He cradled the phone against his shoulder as he tugged the cap off the bottle. “Not ever.”
    “You two don’t get along very well.”
    No shit.
    He took a big gulp, knowing he needed to say something nicer to her than what he was thinking.
    “Not a great history there?” she said before he could come up with a response.
    “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but this isn’t something I like to talk about.” He’d realized since he was a kid that other people had different experiences. Other people had families. He’d always be the kid whose mom had to work in a run-down country store and whose dad hadn’t wanted him. Even with his football success, he’d always be the kid who didn’t belong.
    “You should treat him with a little more respect.”
    He scoffed. “Did your dad live with you growing up?”
    “Yes.”
    He could almost imagine her nose rising into the air as if to say “Of course my father lived with us.” He’d learned a long time ago that people like her took family for granted. That they assumed everyone had one.
    “And what does your father do for a living?” he asked her.
    “He’s a hospital administrator.”
    “So he goes to work, brings home a paycheck, stays sober long enough that they want to keep him working there?”
    “Yeah . . .” Her voice had a questioning tone.
    “Then don’t tell me how to treat my dad,” he said. “You don’t know anything about it.”

    Gina and Landon stood as the professor from the university in Tampa entered her office.
    “Dr. Stanton.” Gina extended her hand and the older woman shook it. “I’m Gina Blanchard. The administrative assistant asked us to wait in here.”
    “That’s fine,” the woman said as she turned toward Landon.
    “Landon Vista,” he said as he shook her hand.
    “I didn’t expect people who were so”—Dr. Stanton motioned for them to sit as she circled behind her desk—“young.”
    “Landon—I mean, Mr. Vista—works for Senator Byers,” Gina said. “And I work for an organization that gets wrongly convicted people out of prison.”
    “Which must make my work particularly interesting to you,” Dr. Stanton said. Gina watched her movements, trying to figure out if she knew Landon’s history as an eyewitness to a crime, but Dr. Stanton appeared to be unaware.
    “Yes,” Gina said. “I read up on your work once I found out we’d be interviewing you.” The professor’s research on false memories made her one of the leaders in the field.
    Dr. Stanton turned to Landon. “And you?”
    “I . . . ummm . . .” Landon fidgeted. Gina had e-mailed him links to all the articles she’d read online, but she wasn’t sure he’d read any of them. “I’m familiar with your research.”
    “Good,” the professor said. “Then we don’t have to start with the basics.” She rested her elbows on her desk. “So what do you want to know from me?”
    Gina opened her notebook and dug a pen out of her purse as she spoke. “In my line of work, we know that eyewitnesses are often wrong.” She avoided looking at Landon.
    The professor nodded.
    “But why are they wrong?” Gina continued. “How do they think they saw something they really didn’t see?” God, if she’d only known the answer to that after Tommy’s murder. Before she’d sent Nick Varnadore to prison.
    The professor sat back in her chair. “The mind has a tricky retrieval system. People under stress—like those witnessing a robbery or a homicide—sometimes don’t capture the right details. And if they do, the mind may not retrieve them correctly. That’s why the witnesses often