I don't know what it means, if we're still on or what. She's been hot and cold from the beginning. I knew who she was when I got into this. She's not the kind of girlfriend who needs reassurance and insurance. She's more like a cat.
Hell, I'm not even sure she's my girlfriend.
Maybe it's the lack of sleep, but I'm not sure of anything anymore.
My phone buzzes, the vibration inching it away from me across the dashboard. Keeping one hand on the wheel and an eye on the road, I stretch out my arm, closing my fingers around it.
I know the laws about texting and driving in the tri-state area. I also know the statistics. But there's a good chance it's Olivia, or Lucy, or the club. I right myself in the driver's seat and drop the phone into my lap. The last thing I need is to get pulled over for texting. It'd also violate my probation, and that'd land me right back in the pen.
Except this time there'd be no Mercy looking out for me.
It's weird, knowing that for twenty years there might've been guys inside with me who wanted me dead. I have a lot of questions for Mercy. I know the club was split over whether or not to kill my father for what he was doing to Lucy. There were a lot of people who loved Bastard, devil or not. Growing up, I remember my father always surrounded by friends. I need to know that there isn't anyone else inside or out who wants a bullet in my head.
My phone buzzes again—the two-minute reminder, I think. Unless someone's rapid texting me. I scan the highway for cops. All I see are other cars. It's times like these I think Lucy's right, I should learn how to use Siri. There's just something so unnerving about talking to a computer.
I unlock the phone with one hand and open up my texts. There's just one.
Olivia: Be safe.
No way I can type with one hand, so I toss the phone onto the passenger seat. Maybe I'll call her when I get to Lewisburg.
Maybe I won't.
Seems like playing it cool is working in my favor.
Even then, I want to tell her to have a good first day. I want that kind of relationship.
Lucy's words echo in my head: Be careful with Olivia. She's not the marrying type, but you are. She's right. The longer I've been out of prison, the more I see that. By all right and reason, Olivia and I are no match for each other. But I can't let go.
For better or worse, I love her.
I just need to decide whether I can live with that.
* * *
Lewisburg is just as forlorn as I remember it. From this side of the barbed wire and in the sunshine of May, it should be less depressing. Behind the gothic arches and carvings is a hell I'm still trying to forget.
A hell I'm about to walk right back into—this time as a visitor.
Dread makes my limbs heavy. I sit in the Jeep Wrangler that Mark let me borrow and smoke cigarette after cigarette. I don't even have to walk those halls, past the D block cages that I once called home, but I can't make myself go in. Part of me holds this silly fear that they'll take one look at me and realize they made a mistake.
I have to do this. For the club. For Olivia. For myself.
Just the thought of the narrow solitary cell I spent most of my time in sends a chill down my spine. In the pen, you're either predator or prey. My size and crime made me a wolf, but there were many men inside with me who weren't strong enough to defend themselves.
See, it's not just rapists and murderers that go to fed. There are a lot of nerdy guys who used the internet to steal money, a few accountants who got caught up in RICO cases but couldn't prove their innocence. There are a few men who need medication in order to function, who did something bad but have no memory of it, and after a few years inside, they don't know up from down anymore. Guys who wouldn't hurt a fly—really.
Then there are the animals who enjoy the hunt. They don't care who those men were outside. All they care about is establishing dominance, showing the rest of the pack that they're not to be fucked with.
So they pick on the dweebs.
I couldn't stand for that.
I spent a lot of time in seg for it.
The doors to the cells in SMU—the Special Management Unit—are so narrow, I had to walk sideways to get in and out. The ceilings are so low, even inmates of average height have to crouch to take a piss. Each cell was built for one person, but often they'd cram two or even three of us into one.
I can still hear the screams of men who saw things that weren't really there. I can still smell the blood, taste the fear. After twenty-four hours in seg, even guys without schizophrenia start to lose their minds.
Dropping my fourth cigarette out the Jeep window, I shake away the memories. I've got to go in. I don't have to go far. The visitor side is by far nicer than the rest of the place. I just need to meet Mercy, then I can get the fuck out of here.
And drive four hours back to Connecticut, trapped in a cage with Olivia's father.
I open the car door and step onto the pavement, asphalt I haven't set foot on ever since climbing into that taxi last winter. In some ways it feels like ages have passed. In other ways, it'll never be long enough.
From the outside, Lewisburg looks like a nice place—a cathedral or a museum, even. It kind of reminds me of the old train station turned newspaper in Waterbury. If you ignore the thirty-foot wall and barbed wire fence. Instead of a clock tower, there's a watch tower. I pass under brick with angels carved into it, move through an arched doorway. Armed COs patrol the compound grounds on foot, while still more sit inside eight gun towers.
I pass through a metal detector and get patted down by still more COs. Seems they've added a few to the roster since I left, because I don't recognize these guys. They're younger, eager. Probably young enough that they still think they can make a difference.
Inside, I step up to the desk, protected by bulletproof glass. On Mondays, there's no visitation. At least I don't have to wait in line.
"Back so soon?" CO McKennan asks. His dark bald head gleams under the florescent light.
"I'm here to pick up Mercer Reynolds." I try not to look as uneasy as I feel. My fingers twitch for something to do, my feet itching to move.
He picks up a clipboard and scans the list of names. There aren't many. Picking up the receiver of a phone, he punches a few buttons. "Yeah," he says. "Inmate Reynolds's ride is here." He hangs up. For a moment, he eyes me up and down. "You look good, Demmel. Still getting into fights?"
"I'm a bouncer now."
He laughs. "That's a good fit. Have a seat. Reynolds will be out shortly."
I sit on the hard wooden bench, a fixture that's probably been here since the prison opened in the 1930s. Most of Lewisburg is original, except the cameras they added. When I was inside, inmates couldn't scratch their asses without someone seeing. Those cameras made things really hard for the entrepreneurs among us.
A lock clicks and the heavy metal door opens. I glance up from the red tile. A man with hair as black as Olivia's—what hasn't gone gray yet, anyway—fills the doorway. Brown eyes hard as steel appraise me. I know those eyes.
Olivia is the spitting image of her father, only a hell of a lot prettier. Her bones are finer, too. They have the same eyes, the same lips, and the same cheekbones.
Standing, I hold out my hand. "Cliff," I say.
"Red Dog," Mercy rasps. He clasps my hand. "I know you." He releases my hand and shakes a finger at me. "You don't recognize me?"
"Sorry."
"It's been a long time." He shifts a brown paper bag to his other arm. "Your old man was my best friend." Saluting CO McKennan, Mercy turns and strolls toward the exit. "Get me the fuck out of here, Red Dog."
I lead him out to the Jeep, letting him hang back, enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. I remember that feeling all too well, the knowledge that there are no longer walls and guns keeping you inside.
Unlocking the Jeep, I reach into the backseat for the things Ravage gave me. "Your cut," I say, tossing it to Mercy.
He catches it with one hand. Putting down the paper bag,
he shrugs into the cut. It hangs a little loose on him. "Guess I've got some burgers to eat," he says with a grin. "You got my house keys, too?"
I grab them from the backseat and pass them over.
"All right," he says with a nod. "Let's roll." He picks up the bag and strolls to the passenger side.
I climb in too and start the engine, mind reeling. I don't know where to start. My father was his best friend. Even more questions funnel through my head.
It's just as well. We've got four hours to kill. That's plenty of time to get some answers.
Unfortunately, it's also plenty of time for him to grill me.
21
Olivia
My new supervisor, Diane, wastes no time getting me settled in.
"We're overloaded," she says the second I sit down in her office. "I wish I could take some time and teach you the ropes, but I don't have time to hold your hand. I'm putting you with Glace. She's been with us for seven years. You'll pick up everything you need to know just by watching her."
Someone knocks at Diane's door.
"Come in," she calls.
I turn in my seat to see the newcomer. A curvy woman with long curly hair and copper skin leans in through the doorway. Behind purple frames, her brown eyes are warm yet observant. In just a few seconds, I sense her taking in everything about me, from my clothes to my own curls to the scuffs on my riding boots.
"Glace," Diane says, pronouncing it like a shortened version of "glacial," "this is Olivia, your new trainee."
"Hello." Glace waves. "I hope those boots are comfortable. We've got a home visit in twenty." Without another word, she turns and bustles from the office.
My mouth falls open. "I thought I had paperwork to fill out."
Diane waves a hand at me. "Stop in later, we'll get those tax forms handled. Go."
Pushing back my chair, I hurry to catch up with Glace. She works her way around cubicles toward the entrance, pausing only long enough to say hello to a few of the other social workers. From behind, I study her gray jeans and long sweater.
I might've overdressed.
Glace bursts through the double doors, holding one open for me. I slip through and follow her to a blue Hyundai Elantra.
"State vehicle?" I ask, glancing at the plates. They look normal to me.
She gives me a funny look. "Yeah right. Hop in."
"Where are we going?" I ask as I jog to the passenger's side.
"A home visit," she says, as if I didn't hear her the first time.
"Yeah, but where?" Opening the door, I slide into the seat. Her car smells like vanilla. A Yankee Candle air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror.
"Mapleridge Drive." Glace gets in and starts the car, air conditioning blasting out of the vents. "Disabled kid, depressed mom. I'm trying to help them out, but the mom makes it really hard."
Mapleridge is in one of the few remaining nice neighborhoods in Waterbury—not the kind of place that usually comes to mind when I think of DCF taking kids.
"How so?" I ask as she pulls out of the parking lot.
"The kid is a wheelchair user. Nice. Quiet. He won't go to school, though. He's been truant for so long, pretty soon we'll have to place him with someone. The mom's husband up and left, and she pretty much gave up."
"Damn," I say. Even middle class people have their problems. "So what can we do?"
"I'm holding out as long as I can, but eventually I'm going to have to start the paperwork for placement. I tried setting her up with therapy. She won't go. I tried having someone come for in-home services. When they knock, she won't answer." Glace sighs, a long, weary sound that rattles my bones. "Not only is he missing school, but he's also missed a year's worth of doctor's appointments. They're behind on bills. Facing eviction. She even let her food stamps go."
"There's really nothing else we can do?" I stare through the windshield, watching the city pass as we head to the East End neighborhood in Waterbury.
"Can't help someone who won't help themselves," Glace says with a shrug. Flicking on her turn signal, she glances at me while she waits for traffic to pass. "This job can eat you alive. I suggest you don't get too attached."
With those words, she turns the car up Meriden Road.
We lapse into silence. I knew being a social worker wouldn't be easy, but I'm already frustrated. When DCF took me from Bree, I didn't like it, but I got it. Bree left me for days at a time, often without food in the house. All for her flavor of the week. This mom that Glace describes sounds like someone who's just fallen on hard times—someone the state should be helping, rather than punishing.
Glace pulls into the driveway of a green single-family home. It's all on one floor—perfect for a child with a disability. My fists curl at the thought of a landlord tossing a single mom and her disabled child out onto the street.
Opening her door, Glace steps out of the car. "Grab those files on the backseat for me," she says, walking to the front door.
I lean over the center console and find a black laptop bag stuffed to the brim with folders. I buckle it closed—barely. Wrapping my fingers around the strap, I yank it toward me. It practically sinks into the backseat.
"What does she have in here, rocks?" I mutter. I yank the bag free, hoisting it onto my lap. Apparently part of my duties as a trainee is lugging around heavy files.
It's not much different from being a Prospect.
I didn't expect to be given a case on my first day or anything like that, but I went to school for four years and got licensed so I could help people, not so I could be someone's bitch for a day. Squaring my shoulders, I carry the bag inside the house.
The first thing I notice is how normal everything looks inside. The living room is tidy, and the scent of apple cinnamon wafts through the air from candles on the coffee table. It's nothing like Bree's house, that's for sure.
The mother sits on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. Her son sits in his wheelchair, an Xbox controller in his hand. On the TV, a game sits paused, the sound on low. Once again, I'm struck by how completely normal it all is. This isn't a case of child abuse. It can't be. I stand in the living room and fix my gaze on the framed photos on the entertainment center rather than staring. Most of them are of the kid, from infancy to now, his teen years.
"Renee," Glace says, "this is Olivia. She's just started her training with the department, so she's going to observe. Is that okay?"
Renee shrugs. "As long as she isn't here to take my son."
Glace opens her mouth, but I interject.
"I'm not here to take your son, Renee." I take a seat on the other end of the couch and drop the bag on the floor. "We don't make the rules, do we, Glace?"
Glace blinks at me, stunned. "No," she says. "We don't." She pinches her eyebrows together and narrows her eyes at me.
Rifling through the bag, I pull out the Thomas file. I tap the manila with a fingernail. "On our way over here, Glace briefed me on your situation. Renee . . ." I let my voice trail off, hold my eyes to hers. Let her see me. "I was a foster kid. The state does the best it can, but it was still hell for me. At his age and with his condition, your son—" I flip the folder open and scan the names inside. "Rhett will probably be placed in a group home." I slap the folder shut. "Do you want that for your son?"
Rhett lets out a low, guttural moan.
Eyes wide, Renee places a hand on his shoulder. "No one is taking my baby."
"That's my point," I snap. "Do you think you're the only case we've got?" I pick up the bag and drop it onto the couch for emphasis. It sinks into the cushion, the whole couch shaking as it lands. "Glace has been extraordinarily patient with you, but it's just about out of her hands. The state is stretched thin as it is. They're not going to keep working with you. Do you understand me?"
Tears spill from Renee's eyes. She shakes her head. "Please," she sobs.
"You've got to meet us halfway," I tell her.
"No," she cries. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
"You didn'
t," I soothe. "I know your scumbag of a husband took off and left you with a child who needs around the clock care because of his Lou Gherig's disease. I know you can't work because no job is going to fit your needs. I know you're heartbroken and you feel like you've got no one on your side. But I'm telling you, right here, right now, that Glace and I are all you've got. So are you gonna let the therapist come in here and talk to you? So we can check this box off on our list, and close your case?"
Renee's eyes meet mine, hope blooming in them. "Okay," she breathes.
"And are you gonna send your kid to school?"
"I can't," she says through tears. Her face reddens in splotches.
"Why the hell not?" I demand.
"Olivia," Glace warns.
"They're awful to him," Renee cries. "He's not even learning anything there. I know—" A hiccup cuts off her words. "I know there's not much they can do for his condition. It's degenerative. I know that. But all they do is let him play on an iPad and give him candy. That's not school." She buries her face in her hands, shoulders heaving.
I glance at Glace. Her eyebrows reach her hairline. "I had no idea," she admits.
"Glace, are there better programs we can look into for Rhett?" I ask.
"Absolutely." She pulls her phone out of her purse and holds it up. "I'm going to call Diane, pick her brain. Just give me one moment." Pressing the phone to her ear, she steps outside.
I slide closer to Renee and rub her back. "I'm sorry. I know you're hurting. I can't promise you that it'll stop, but I can promise you that if you do what Glace has been asking you, things will get better."
Lifting her face from her hands, Renee reaches out and squeezes my hand with a soggy hand. "Thank you," she whispers.
I squeeze her hand back. I probably just got fired myself on my first day, but at least I know I made a difference.
22
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 9
