There was no shortage of townspeople willing to talk to the local news about the "troubled young man." By the time the headlines finished, Keith was a drug-abusing truant with a history of violence.
"I can't believe you were hanging out with such an animal," Mr. Evans said over breakfast. "He's been in my home."
"It's all lies, Dad! You know Keith is a good person. His father's been abusing him for years!"
"If that were the case, they'd say so, honey," Mrs. Evans said.
"They don't know! But I have proof." Kendra opened up the file on her phone and showed them the pictures of Keith's body. Her parents were quiet as they scrolled through the photos.
Maria gagged at the sight of his back. "Jesus."
"This is terrible," Mr. Evans said. "Why didn't you tell us this was going on?"
"You hated him, Daddy. And he made me promise not to tell."
"No child deserves this kind of treatment," Mr. Evans said. His honey-brown eyes clouded over in shame, racking his brain to see if he'd ever ignored signs of abuse just because he disliked the boy.
"I'm disappointed in you, honey. You should've shared this with us. It might have prevented this whole tragedy from occurring."
"It's not her fault," Maria said. "She's just a teenager, and she was trying to protect her friend. I'll make some calls this morning and see if I can get this entered as evidence. I'm sure it will influence the case."
Maria pushed the issue through front and back channels, until Keith's charges were lowered. But because he was 18 and an adult, he got a six-year term.
Mr. Evans wasn't willing to drive Kendra to see Keith in prison, but he told his daughter if she wrote, he would mail the letters along with a monthly check for Keith's canteen privileges. "Some things you can avoid in jail, if you have the money," he said.
The first time she tried to write, she couldn't get past a few lines without tears.
Hey Keith, I'm traveling Spain. The gypsies remind me of you. Wish you were here.
The trajectory of their lives spun light years apart.
***
Seven Years Later
***
3:14 a.m. Sunday, and Kendra was riding the train home. Boston could get rough, but she felt safe. She was alert and she'd taken several personal safety classes. She'd graduated Yale, then Harvard, and was just ending a late night at the law library, studying case law for the firm where she was a junior partner.
She had to stay on her toes. It had been four months since she and Niall called it quits, but he was a petty, vindictive sonofabitch. Not that he'd been all that passionate when they were together. Hell, she and Niall hadn't had sex at all those last two months. Still, he was her boss—or at least, her superior at the firm. The longer their affair dragged on, the greater the chance of discovery, and the greater the professional price she'd have to pay. She'd ended it with a cordial lunch date and a vow to stay on top of her caseload at all costs. Tonight, she was looking forward to nothing so much as her own bed.
A hard-looking guy boarded her empty train from the connector, not the platform doors. She'd seen him before; he was a regular on her route. Tall, tatted, muscular and very pale, he looked a little scary, but he never bothered her. She saw him give up a seat to an old drunk once, and not in the you-smell kind of way a lot of people would have. She imagined he lived somewhere on the South side.
The car rattled to a stop and two more men boarded: one skinny and hyper, the fat one with a weird, high voice. They greeted the tall guy, which surprised her. All these months, she'd never seen him talk to anyone. They were clearly ex-cons or worse, and they gave her a bad feeling. She stood and gathered her bag but the doors closed before she could approach them.
Damn. She resolved to get off at the next stop and change cars. The fat one inclined his head towards her, then turned to speak with his pal.
