Sins of the Father: A Paranormal Prison Romance (Sinfully Sacrified Book 1)

by Mary E. Twomey

  These two are complicated.

  I curl my fingers around my tray and stand. “Look, thanks for helping me during sewing detail today. Whatever it is you think I can do for you, I can’t. I’m stuck here, just like the two of you. I can’t help free us all out of here, and I really can’t right all the wrongs in the socio-economic arena.” I can’t help the hurt that tints my tone. “If that’s why you were nice to me today, I’m good on my own.”

  Charlotte shakes her head, her mouth open in a stunned “O” shape while Cass splutters that I’ve got it all wrong.

  Without looking back, I take my tray to a different table. It’s filled with enough empty spots so I don’t encroach on anybody’s conversations or personal space.

  Apparently, a football field isn’t enough space for them. The moment my butt hits the bench, everyone scatters, like being within ten feet of me constitutes befriending the leper.

  Whatever. Head held high. I’ve eaten alone plenty of times. Any time Sloan has a meeting, I eat alone.

  I chew my food like it’s my job, wanting the bell to ring so I can get out of here already. Whatever the next class is, I hope it’s so hard, no one has the energy to bother with me.

  I feel hundreds of eyes on me, but one gaze in particular sears me because it’s closer than the others. I glance up, locking my gaze on the only other inmate who’s also sitting at a table by himself.

  I’ve not interacted with many shifters, so I’m not sure what to do. Shifter or not, this man stuck his neck out for me when my tray smashed to the floor. As a silent thanks, I dip my head in his direction.

  Half a smile finds my face when he does the same to me. I think Cass said his name was Gray.

  The shifter forks a hunk of the meat brick and raises it up, as if it’s a champagne flute, and he’s toasting our meal of loneliness.

  I spear a tomato and do the same, raising my plastic utensil to echo his toast. The other corner of my mouth quirks upward, completing my smile.

  Huh. Didn’t think I’d find one of those in here.

  There are no words exchanged, but a calmness comes over me when he makes a show of breathing in deep through his nose.

  Perhaps finding a serene moment is possible; I just have to dig for it.

  An enormous screen on the far wall with the day’s menu on it flashes when I’m halfway through my roll. It’s accompanied by a polite chime, as if we’re in a department store. The sign reads: “Visitation Requests” and then has a list of names below.

  Most glance at the list and go back to their meals, but I’m on my feet.

  Please show my name. Please. Please, please, please. I beeline to the screen, needing to see some scrap of hope.

  An exhale worse than a tsunami of tears gusts out of me when “Arlanna Scarlett Valentine” shows up on the screen at the very bottom.

  I’m the only inmate with a middle name listed, which I know is yet another way admin is trying to single me out. But that doesn’t slow down the relief that floods me.

  Where do I go? Who’s coming to see me? How do I get there? Can I go now?

  “First day in gen-pop, and you’ve already got a visitor? Nice.”

  I turn my head to the left, surprised that Cassia Chang’s voice isn’t aggressive. “Is that abnormal?”

  She pokes her finger toward the screen. “There’s about a dozen names there, and probably five hundred of us in here. You tell me, Princess.”

  My first instinct is to bristle, but I can tell Cass doesn’t mean anything more than a slight tease by bringing up my media moniker. “I guess I’m lucky, then,” I deadpan.

  None of us are lucky, paying for our parents’ crimes.

  “I didn’t mean to make you think we were only hanging around you so we could use you.” Then Cass holds her hand out to me.

  It’s a bold offer, because I know too many people are watching as I take her hand and shake it, sealing our attachment.

  I can’t believe anyone’s offering to shake my hand in here.

  The moment our palms meet, emotion jerks to my throat, strangling me beyond what I can pass off as no big thing. It’s a very big thing, this humanizing contact. “You’re not winning any popularity points by shaking my hand like this, you know.”

  She drops my grip and pulls a face. “What? Well then, forget it!” I’m horrified until her snarky grin takes over. “Don’t worry about them. You’re the freak of the week, but it’ll die down.” She turns back to the screen, and I notice her name isn’t there. “Most of us never hear from our parents the entire time we’re in here. Too ashamed to look us in the eye, I guess.”

  “What about you? Is it uncool to ask how you landed yourself in here?”

  “Uncool? Yes. Hurtful? Sure.”

  I hold up my hands to excuse my audacious question, but she smirks at me and tucks her hands behind her back.

  “My story is nothing as glamorous as some of the stories in here. Not nearly as big as yours, I’m sure.”

  I clam up, realizing I don’t want to share the family’s corruption with anybody.

  Cass points to my grimace. “See? That’s why it’s a question you don’t really ask someone in here unless you’ve known them for a while. Don’t ask unless you want to stick around to deal with the fallout that comes when you have to drudge up something painful. I guess we’re officially friends now, huh.”

  I blink at the fast pace of her. “I guess so. I’m still getting the hang of this place. It’s a lot.”

  She chucks my shoulder. “One day at a time, right? Now grab your sorry tray and come back to sit with Charlotte. She’s beside herself, thinking you hate her.”

  “I don’t hate her.” I turn back toward the rows and rows of circular tables. “I hate this place.”

  “We all do.” Her tone is somber. “But that’s why you shouldn’t go through your five years alone. I’ve got you.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, grateful for her moxie. My heart thuds as we walk together back to my food, dodging anger-infused glares along the way.

  My appetite is gone, because I know that associating with me will bring trouble to the only two people who’ve risen above. Cassia and Charlotte want to give me a chance to find an identity without relying on the family name.

  I only hope their kindness doesn’t cost them the scraps of peace they’ve managed to find in this place.

  3

  Visitation Hour

  I’m in the short line of people readying to greet their loved ones, and honestly, I couldn’t care less about the “Dad sent me to jail in his stead, so I’m mad at him,” aspect of things. I want a familiar face. And I was never under any impression that accepting gifts and using the family credit card would ever exempt me from having to pay for my family’s many sins.

  I just didn’t expect the price tag to be this steep.

  The shifter is in line two people ahead of me.

  Gray is tall and burly, built like a football player, like most shifters are. You can always tell a shifter because they’re hairier, and a head taller than anyone else. Plus, the fangs are a dead giveaway.

  Gray has russet hair that falls to his chin, and thick eyebrows that give character to his brown skin. He glances over his shoulder at me once, but we don’t exchange words.

  Not like I’d know what to say. The family employed a few shifters to keep the grounds, but my interactions even with the help were limited.

  “You stink like dirty money,” comes a voice from over my shoulder, from someone who, incidentally, stinks like sour beef.

  I say nothing, because I just don’t care to engage. I’m going to see family. I have a visitor.

  “If you think you’re safe in here, you have no idea how many ruined lives are waiting for the guards to turn the corner so we can show you just how much pain your family’s caused us.”

  A chill climbs up my spine. I curse the goosebumps for giving my anxiety away.

  A whisper of impatience flows through the line, judging by th
e way everyone’s shifting their weight from side to side, eyeing the door like it’s a chocolate sundae.

  After being shoved twice by the idiot behind me, I stomp back hard on his instep and fling my elbow back into his stomach. The satisfying “oof!” sound alerts the guard in charge of our altercation, which is funny, because he was blind and deaf to me being shoved around just now.

  Valentines aren’t supposed to get their hands dirty, I know, but enough is enough.

  “Hands at your sides, Princess,” Officer Andrews snaps. “We don’t take lightly to fighting.”

  I want to argue. I want to insist he call me by my name, and not a mocking nickname concocted by the media, but of course, that’s not my place, now that I’m a convict. I do as the officer instructs, and luckily, that seems to be the worst of it.

  The moment we’re ushered in, I search for my dad’s tired face. Instead, I’m greeted by someone that makes my heart leap. The tears I’ve held back come streaking down my cheeks, but I don’t care to be embarrassed by them. “Sloan!”

  I run to my best friend and throw myself into his arms. He looks the exact same as always—black suit, shiny shoes, sunglasses hooked on the collar of his white dress shirt.

  Sloan’s hug is the best thing in the universe. Sloan was the adult who pushed me on the swings. He was the one who made sure to pat down my prom date. He was the one who stayed up late with me, listening to me cry over chocolate chip cookies that I had no girlfriends. No friends my age, really.

  Sloan is my constant, and finally, he’s here.

  “Hey, what’s happened to you? Arly, are you… Did you get a cut on your chin? Oh, bunny. That’s bruising up real good.”

  The second he’s done inspecting me, I’m back in his arms, my head on his shoulder, ignoring the chairs at the small round tables. Everyone else has found their seats except for us. “I missed you so much! How has it only been a handful of days? I hate it here!”

  “I know.” His hug is firm but welcoming, warm despite the cold glare I know he’s fixing on anyone who stares at me for too long.

  When the hug finally breaks, we sit at the table big enough for only three or four to fit around. This whole room is the only one I’ve seen that doesn’t have concrete walls. It’s made to look homey, like this isn’t such a bad thing our parents have done, sending us here.

  “How can I help?” he asks, and I truly believe he means it.

  I’m tempted to beg him to find a way to get me out of this place. I’ve never underestimated Sloan’s reach before, but the rules of the world are pretty firm. People have been protesting the Sins of the Father bill for years, but their objections have never gained any traction.

  I run my hand through my long hair. “I don’t know. Just keep visiting me. Everyone in here hates me because of the family. Makes a little thing, like eating lunch, harder than it needs to be.”

  He eyes my chin with a firm frown. “I’ll take care of this.” He pats his pocket and groans. “They took our phones when we came in here, so I can’t take a picture. Your father’s not going to be pleased to hear you’ve been mishandled.”

  I fight the urge to spout back that if dad truly cared about my welfare, I wouldn’t be in here in the first place. But I know I can’t go down that road. I’m in the family. This is just my turn to help out by taking the heat.

  “Tell me everything. Anything. Make me feel normal.”

  Sloan sits back in his seat and crosses his right ankle over his left knee. “I’ve been reassigned until you get out. Guess who I’m guarding?”

  “No!” A genuine smile cracks my face. “Don’t tell me you’re on Harlan duty.”

  “Afraid so. If I ever complained about taking you to the mall, I’d gladly live at the mall if it meant never having to go to fur coat shopping again. The man isn’t even five feet tall, and he’s fat as the day is long. Wrapped in a fur coat? He looks like an oversized beaver.”

  I giggle at the mental image of dad’s money scrubber dressed so obnoxiously. “Excellent. I needed that visual.”

  But in the middle of the merriment, something clicks in the back of my mind. I see Sloan’s chuckle aimed at his shoe instead of at me.

  My smile evaporates. “You’re lying.”

  Sloan freezes, as he always does when I catch him. “How do you do that?”

  “Magic,” I deadpan. “Or the fact that I’ve known you since I was born. You’re getting older, not better at hiding things from me.”

  He motions to the cuffs on my wrists. “How are you adjusting to the magic-muting cuffs?”

  “Worst jewelry ever. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Out with it.”

  Sloan’s entire posture droops. “I really did take Harlan fur coat shopping, but I’m not guarding Harlan. I’m not guarding anyone.”

  My jaw tightens and my toes ball up in my boots. “You’re back on collections?” It’s a nice way of saying “window and bone breaker on accounts who’ve fallen behind.” I shake my head. “That’s for entry-level goons. It’s beneath you, Sloan.”

  His eyebrows lift and then fall, but his gaze fixes on the table. “I agree. Which is why I quit.”

  “You what?” Suddenly, the day’s drama feels like child’s play. “No! You can’t have quit. You’ve been working for the family for…”

  “Twenty-eight years. You were my reason for sticking around, Arly. I’ve stood by your father and watched him do a great number of things, but passing his crimes off onto you? What did I work for the family for all those years protecting?”

  My skin feels cold all over as my fingers curl around the lip of the cold seat. “You can’t say things like that, Sloan. I can’t hear it!”

  “He threw you away, Arly. I raised you. He paid me to keep you safe.” He runs his hand over his mouth. “Well, when I realized I couldn’t keep you safe from this, I knew I couldn’t work for him anymore. I’d failed.”

  “You didn’t fail!”

  My indignation draws the eyes of a few, but the shifter keeps his gaze glued longer than the others. He’s being visited by what looks like his thicker older brother, judging by the shared light brown skin tone, the chin-length umber hair and the mole they both have on their left temples.

  The stranger angles his body forward, looking angry at Gray, who is impassive and steady in response, leaning back in his seat. I wonder if anything can rock the solid shifter inmate. He’s calm, even as his relative is laying into him for something I can’t decipher.

  Gray shrugs, and though I don’t know what they’re talking about, I can’t help but be amused by Gray’s nonplussed “take your drama elsewhere” demeanor.

  Sloan jabs his finger at my chin, bringing me back to our conversation. “You’re telling me I didn’t fail, looking after you? That bruise tells the whole world that I’ve failed! When was the last time you had even a scratch on you?”

  I bite my lower lip as more tears fall. “I can accept that this is my role to play for the family. Why can’t you? Don’t come to me with this. It’s too much! I’m barely holding it together in here, Sloan.”

  His shoulders lower and he slides closer so he can pull me into his arms. “It’s going to be alright. I’ve got a fantastic resume and loads of opportunity. I left your father on good terms. He’s not mad. He understands.” He kisses the top of my head and sifts his fingers through my hair. “But don’t feed me this garbage, telling me this is your role to play for the family. Your role was to be a good daughter, and you are. A child’s role is never to pay for her parents’ crimes. I don’t care what the law allows. The Sins of the Father bill is wrong. I would never ask you to pay for my sins.”

  I snort through my tears and wipe my face on his suit jacket. “What sins? You’re perfect.”

  It’s Sloan’s turn to snort. “Oh, bunny. Keep thinking that. Maybe one day, it’ll be true.”

  Only Sloan calls me “bunny”. When I was a little girl, I wanted a rabbit, but Daddy said no. So Sloan and I pretended to be rabbits
for the next week. He was the big rabbit, and I was his bunny.

  Still am.

  The shifter watches me surreptitiously, but not with any sort of attitude. In fact, his entire expression seems shrouded, unreadable for subtext. Like he thinks it’s strange to watch someone show real emotion.

  He nods in my direction, as if communicating that he respects me for this vulnerability.

  His relative catches Gray’s eyeline and scoffs in my direction, as if my privileged existence means I’m not permitted to feel any sort of sadness.

  I don’t care that I’m making a scene. The entire world can bite me. I’m allowed to take a breath and be without my confidence for a few minutes.

  Sloan tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Now talk to me. Are you eating okay?”

  I nod, sniffling through my tears.

  He tugs a tissue from his pocket and holds it to my nose, his other hand on the back of my head. “Blow.”

  It’s so gross, but I don’t begrudge him the parental things. He takes such pride in doing them for me.

  “Anyone in particular giving you trouble?”

  “Only everyone in general.” I sit up more fully and do what I can to compose myself, swiping at the moisture on my cheeks. “Nothing I can’t handle. It’s the isolation that’s gnawing at me. I miss you.” My nose scrunches. “That sounds trite, but it’s true. You’re my one solid person.”

  Sloan dimples, but beneath his smile, I can see he’s not slept well. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re a very friendly person. You’ve just got a bit of your father to your personality. One offense, and off with their heads. Maybe without the adults in there to muck things up, you can take things at a slower pace. Give people a chance, Arly. Two chances, if you can manage it. No one in here is going to be their best selves. They’re all trying to make sense of what the adults are shouting at them has to be. But we all know it shouldn’t be.”

  I nod slowly, taking his advice in without brushing it aside. “Where are you living?”

  “You only just got sentenced, bunny. I’m living in a hotel with your stupid dog while I figure things out. I’ll let you know where I land. It’ll be a two-bedroom place, so you’ll have somewhere to stay when you get out of here.”