— “She shouldn’t have been with him. Her mistake.”
That was it. Blake Harris and Charlie Gruber were sentenced to life without parole.
After the sentencing, the prosecutor caught Alex in the hallway.
— “You should file a civil suit. Wrongful conviction, lost wages, emotional distress. You’re looking at millions.”
Alex shook his head.
— “No.”
— “Why not?”
He looked at Rusty, who was chewing on an old tennis ball near the exit.
— “I don’t want the money. I just want this to be behind me.”
The talk shows called. The news networks wanted “the exclusive.” He turned them all down. He didn’t want to be a celebrity; he wanted to be a ghost.
He bought an old truck, packed a bag, threw Rusty’s bed in the back, and said one word:
— “Let’s go.”
The house he found was in Maine. It was old, drafty, and smelled of woodsmoke and pine. It was perfect. The owner, a local carpenter, had fixed the roof and left a stack of firewood. On his way out, he told Alex:
— “The silence up here isn’t just background noise. It’s something you have to learn to live with.”
Alex nodded. He was used to living with things that didn’t speak.
He bought the place with the modest settlement the state had forced on him. He took the money reluctantly, but the house felt right. It was on the edge of a lake, forty minutes from the nearest town. A place where he didn’t have to hear anyone else’s voice.
At first, every sound made him jump. Every look from a stranger at the hardware store felt like a judgment.
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