Free THIEF: Part 3 by Kimberly Malone Page B

but my face feels frozen.I’m not afraid of losing—I just don’t want to see Gordon’s face in court.But I won’t offer a settlement.I won’t let him think he’s won.
                  Kyle’s watch beeps.“I’ve got dinner plans with my son,” he says, “but I’ll call you later in the week with my plans for the trial—what we’ll say, the documents we’ll need.Won’t take long.”
                  Won’t take long, fastest civil trial : Kyle makes it sound so easy.And for him, it is.Open and shut.Get in, get out, get paid.I wish I could see it that way.
     
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
                  My new place, a renovated townhouse at the edge of the city, seems emptier than usual when I get home.Silas jumped his lease when he took off; legally, I couldn’t stay at his apartment without starting a new one, so I had to leave.Not that I minded.Silas’s apartment was tiny and packed full of memories I didn’t want to have.
                  The townhouse is cozy, just enough space.When I first toured it, I liked the way the closets smelled like sawdust and paint, the way water beaded on the glass backsplash of the kitchen, and how the stairs creaked with a sturdy reassurance under my feet.Mostly, I liked that it was in a neighborhood I didn’t know, where no one knew me except the postman—and even then, only by E. St. James, the formal type of all my letters.So I bought it.
                  Tonight, I change into yoga pants as soon as I get inside.My couch is deep; I sink into it under a thick fleece blanket and turn on the television.The local news is mostly puff pieces tonight: the beginning of apple-picking season, featuring Isolde Thompson, mini-celebrity of Channel 5, fishing fat red apples from the trees of Hoffman Orchard; a new skating rink opening across town, just in time for the holidays; and the latest flu outbreak at a string of daycares, with generic shots of parents dousing kids in hand sanitizer.
                  I don’t even realize I’m waiting for it until his face shows up on the screen, the same file photo they’ve used for weeks, and I let out my held breath.
                  “…still haven’t found twenty-four-year-old Silas Marlowe, wanted for petty larceny and kidnapping,” the man says gravely.“Investigators believe Marlowe has left the state and urge anyone who sees a man and child fitting this description to call their local police: Marlowe is 6’1” with brown eyes….”
                  “Hazel,” I tell the television.
                  “…and the child, Emma Landings-Marlowe, five years old with blonde hair and a missing eye, with severe scarring on her face and arm.”
                  Emma’s picture has the strange effect of making me miss Silas even more, almost understanding why he took off—he didn’t want to lose her—and making me even angrier.I think of the day he left, when I realized it wasn’t his ex-wife who got wasted and caused the fire that damaged Emma as a baby: it was Silas.When I’d closed the door on him that day, I hadn’t seen Silas.I’d only seen a monster, and my own reflection in his glasses.
                  The news starts recapping the events of Emma’s kidnapping, but I’m not interested in hearing this story again.It’s been on every screen and everyone’s lips since the day Silas left; it’s almost all anyone I know talks about with me.
                  It’s not just the repetition I hate, not having a chance to forget a little and let the pain die down; it’s the reaction I have to give.People bring up Silas with this eager face, like they’re just waiting for my explosion.And I am angry, so I call that forward and show them what they want.
                  I nod when they call Silas a scumbag.
                  I make noises of agreement when they