The Darkest Corners by Kara Thomas Page A

screen.
    Federal Court of Appeals to hear new evidence in case of Wyatt Stokes, convicted serial killer, in October. If not granted a new trial, Stokes could be executed as early as next year.
    I zip my sweatshirt up as far as the zipper will go.
October.
That’s only a few months away.
    What new evidence do his lawyers have? What aren’t they revealing?
    A buzz at the gate interrupts my thoughts, and a stocky man with a thick beard and wearing a guard’s uniform steps into the waiting area. “Lowell?”
    I stand, legs shaky. He’s holding a clear trash bag.
    “This is all of it.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile. People in prison shouldn’t be this nice. I grab the bag and leave without thanking him, because apparently I’m sapped of gratitude for people who feel sorry for me today.
    When I get outside, I press my back to the brick wall. Squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want any of his shit. I don’t want any physical reminders of the man who left us when the money ran out and called once a year from prison to beg for more.
    I look down at the bag. Through the plastic I can make out its contents. There’s a Bible, which is hilarious, and papers. Lots and lots of papers, with sketches on them.
    So my father took up drawing in jail. Better than his old hobbies, I guess, which largely consisted of abusing pills and stealing money.
    I’ve convinced myself I don’t care what’s in the bag, and that it’s sheer curiosity that makes me fish out the envelope pressed up against the side.
    There’s a name scrawled in his uneven block writing.
    TESSA.
    I tilt my chin toward the sky, stare at the sun until the pressure behind my eyes goes away. I am not going to get emotional over some deadbeat who thought stealing money for booze and cigarettes was more important than being around to see his children grow up.
    They caught him after he robbed the third store—the one where he shot Manuel Gonzalo in the torso. The attorney the state assigned to my father portrayed him as a family man pushed to the brink by the crumbling economy and unemployment. My father used to be a good man, a hardworking man. He never intended to hurt Manuel Gonzalo—my father panicked when he saw the cashier pull a gun from under the counter, so he shot first.
    Even as a kid I could smell bullshit. My father went into that store with a gun and a plan. We all have choices, and he made his.
    I turn the envelope over, running my thumb across its lip. Someone tore it open.
    It’s empty.
    I stare into the sun again.
You’re nothing but flesh and bones now,
I think,
and you’ve still managed to disappoint me.
    I hear the van before I see it—see
her.
Callie’s glaring at me through the open passenger window, her palms up in the
What the hell are you doing?
position.
    I climb into the van and set the bag at my feet. “Sorry.”
    “We have to go home.” Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “My mom called. The police want to talk to me about Ari.”
    Everything else she says is a dull hum in my ears. I’m still reeling from what Wanda told me, and what it means.
    Jos was one step ahead of me the whole time she was in Fayette. She may have seen our mother, or talked to her.
    The only lead I have on Jos is my mother—the person who acted like I never even had a sister once she was gone.
    •••
    Callie is so nervous, she almost forgets to put the van in park when we get back to the house. There’s a single patrol car parked at the curb across the street. Through the Greenwoods’ living room window, I see the back of a man’s head.
    “It’s Ryan’s uncle,” Callie mutters as we climb the steps. “I’m so screwed. There’s a giant handle of vodka under my bed.”
    “They’re homicide detectives,” I say. “I doubt they care about your stash.”
    Maggie doesn’t smile as we step into the living room. A mug rests on the coffee table in front of Jay Elwood. Another detective sits on the opposite end of the couch from