I Signed Away Eight Million To Leave Him Chapter 42
News of my father’s appeal was quickly picked up by the media.
Someone recut Sloane’s original interview, deleting her later public retraction and leaving only the clip of my father looking into the camera and calling me a liar.
The same headline appeared once more outside the school.
CHARITY PROJECT—OR WRONGFUL CONVICTION?
The principal set the printed article down on his desk.
“We can release a statement supporting you.”
“No need.”
I opened the court’s public docket online.
Sloane’s retraction, my father’s conviction, and the appeal notice were all there.
“The school only needs to tell reporters this is a place where students come to learn.”
“As for the case, let them read the full record themselves.”
The principal looked at me for a long moment, then crumpled the article into a ball and threw it in the trash.
“All right. I’ll have security keep them off school property.”
At lunch, a collect call came through the library desk from the prison system.
A mechanical female voice gave my father’s name and asked if I would accept the call.
My finger hovered over the button.
Across all those years, I could almost hear the sound of a bottle striking a wall again.
But now, there was no locked wooden door in front of me.
Only two buttons I could choose between.
I pressed decline.
The line disconnected.
Ten minutes later, it rang again.
I declined again.
The third time, Eli happened to walk over from the counseling office.
He saw the notice on the screen and did not reach to hang up for me.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
I rejected the call, then contacted prison administration and submitted a written request refusing all calls and forwarded mail from him.
The staff member on the line reminded me, “He is your immediate family.”
“He is also the man who killed my mother.”
The line went quiet.
A few minutes later, a confirmation email appeared in my inbox.
My father’s number was now blocked by the system.
That evening, his lawyer told the media that I was refusing to speak with my father because I feared my memories wouldn’t hold up under questioning.
My attorney responded with a single sentence:
“The appeal reviews the trial record, not whether the victim’s daughter is willing to answer prison calls.”
Then he released the statement I had refused to sign.
Everyone could see that what my father wanted me to admit was not that my memory might be wrong.
He only wanted to take one truth, cut it apart, and stitch it back into a lie.