The Hero's Redemption

Erin couldn’t watch him leave.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LOOKING OVER THE skeleton of the house that was his current job site, Cole unlocked his truck and tossed his hard hat onto the passenger seat. It felt good to take the thing off and let his scalp feel some air. A breeze—now, that would be even better. Too bad this was July and today’s temp had soared into the nineties. Given the typical Pacific Northwest humidity, he’d sweated buckets. If he wanted a breeze, he’d have to find a fan.

Rico Sanchez walked past toward another guy’s truck. “See you at Mickey’s?” he asked.

“Probably.” Cole lifted a hand to a couple of other men, then got in. He grimaced. The cab felt like a preheated oven. His attempt to let the heat escape—by rolling down the windows—hadn’t done any noticeable good. Since the air-conditioning was defunct, that was the best he could do.

A popular local tavern, Mickey’s was air-conditioned, which right now was its main appeal.

Cole had made himself socialize. He even managed to enjoy himself for short stretches of time. Being the odd man out with a crew like this could be uncomfortable. Phillips hadn’t been around much this week; he had crews working on four houses at once. But when he did show up, he seemed to watch Cole more closely than any of the other men, probably assessing his ability to work with them, as well as his skills. The month he’d been on the job wouldn’t be enough for the boss to let go of a degree of wariness. Cole couldn’t blame him; the recidivism rate for ex-cons was high. Still, feeling that extra scrutiny, knowing he had to prove himself, kept him on the razor’s edge.

He felt pretty upbeat in general, but he wasn’t in the mood to join a crowd tonight. He’d want to flatten his back against a wall and stay where he could see everyone. Too many people around sent prickles down his spine.

At the back of his mind, always, was a question. What would happen when these guys found out about his history, as they inevitably would? Even if they didn’t join the jury in condemning him, they’d look at him differently. Fear him, on some level. They wouldn’t want their girlfriends or wives around him. Would Phillips get rid of him if the rest of the crew became uncomfortable working with him?

No matter what, he stayed conscious of the gulf between him and everyone else. They didn’t know him, and he didn’t want them to.

He was surprised his stay at Walla Walla hadn’t already been exposed. Had whoever filed his application not even glanced at it? If she had—and he’d seen the bleached-blonde who ran the office in the trailer currently parked here in this development—could she really have resisted the impulse to gossip with the next employee who wandered in? Maybe, because he’d filled out an e-application, Phillips hadn’t ever printed it. Cindy, the blonde, might not have access to his computer files. Still, if Cole wasn’t outed any other way, he would be the first time a cop came by to accuse him of the latest crime.

While he was living at Erin’s, he hadn’t fully appreciated what it meant to have a boss and landlady who did know him. Not through-and-through, but close enough. This past month, he’d become quieter, reverting to instinct, which meant double-checking every word before he said it.

Finally preparing to pull away from the curb, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Speak of the devil, a big black pickup was about to pass, the driver none other than Tom Phillips. Seeing Cole, Phillips tapped his horn. Cole waved and started down the street behind him.

He hadn’t reached the main road when his phone rang. Dani, he saw. Smiling, he steered to the curb and answered with “Hey.”

“How’s it going?” Before he could answer, she raised her voice, but somehow muffled it, too. “No, you cannot go to Damien’s to hang out. It’s almost dinnertime. No argument.”

Cole laughed. “Tough love.”

“Sure, I’m going to let my kid go knock on his buddy’s door just as Damien’s mom is putting dinner on the table. She’s thinking, Oh, God, do I have to invite the kid to stay? Doesn’t his own mother ever feed him?”

Still laughing, he said, “Does Damien ever knock on your door at five thirty, looking hopeful?”