Free Sister Dear by Laura McNeill Page A

faster.
    But every ounce of effort she expended seemed wasted. She might as well be running in quicksand. The air, thick and sticky, clung to her like guilt.

TEN
    ALLIE
    2016
    Allie’s parole officer, Gladys Williams, was a serene-faced, longlimbed woman with skin the color of rich mocha. She wore a trim, bright red suit, the color setting off her brown doe eyes and glossy black hair. Her voice, low and musical, reminded Allie of jazz vocalists in New Orleans.
    Her office wasn’t far, but Allie had asked to borrow her mother’s car to make the drive. The first meeting consisted mostly of a lecture, which Allie supposed wasn’t at all out of the ordinary.
    “Never had a parolee sent back,” Gladys explained, leaning back in her chair and studying her with a grim expression. “Don’t plan on you being the first.” She ran through potential offenses—obvious ones like missing parole meetings or phone check-ins, avoiding known offenders, and getting arrested again.
    “I understand,” Allie replied. She wasn’t the same person as she’d been ten years ago. Nine years earlier, she’d been vulnerable, naïve, and full of grief. Quick to anger. Fast to defend herself. There was so much she didn’t know and had to learn. There were no how-to manuals for prison life. No tips that taught you how to survive.
    In the end, it all came down to a will to live. Wanting freedom more than wanting to give up. Wanting justice, and a real life with Caroline.
    “Don’t go looking for trouble,” Gladys warned. She stared at Allie for a moment, not allowing Allie’s gaze to fall away. “People aren’t going to always be accepting about you moving back to Brunswick. There might be a tendency for you to want to set people straight. Even do a little investigative work of your own.”
    Clearly, Gladys was an intelligent woman, fully aware of small-town politics. Under duress, off the record, she might even agree that some cases were far from fair, that evidence was overlooked or buried. Her job, though, wasn’t to defend Allie’s guilt or innocence. It wasn’t to make things right or hold anyone’s hand. It was to keep her parolees safe.
    As Gladys continued to talk, Allie suppressed the urge to defend herself, to explain that—if given time—she was sure she could connect Sheriff Gaines to the coach’s death. The two men, who’d worked together to create a championship football team, must have come to blows over something huge, Allie thought. With the worst of timing, she’d stumbled into a storm like no other, getting sucked into the vortex, everything she’d ever known to be true ripped from her grasp.
    “Are we clear?” Gladys finally asked. “No drama. No gossip. No editorials in the paper. And no talking to anyone about the coach, his football team, or how much you still believe those players were being abused or coerced into bulking up with steroids.”
    “I understand.” Allie dropped her chin; her eyes flooded with tears. She’d been naïve and reckless, so bent on exposing the truth, only to find out that no one wanted to hear about it. Allie wiped at her cheeks. If she even breathed a word of her suspicions, Gladys would likely tell Allie—ever so politely—that she was due for an IV full of psychiatric medicine to flush the idea out of her system.
    Gladys softened her voice. “I know this is hard. But I want you to have a real chance at a new life. A second chance.” She paused. “So let’s start by looking for a job. Something that will keep you busy, out of the public eye if possible. Let things settle down.”
    Allie nodded. She had held a job at the prison library and had loved the calm. She enjoyed being around the books and often helped the other inmates who were taking classes or pursuing a GED. While the library was a possibility, she imagined that well-heeled local moms probably wouldn’t relish the idea of Allie even being in the same building during children’s story time.
    “Where’d