by Beth Yarnall
Atone is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept ebook Original
Copyright © 2016 by Beth Yarnall
Excerpt from Reclaim by Beth Yarnall copyright © 2016 by Beth Yarnall
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Reclaim by Beth Yarnall. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9781101883112
Cover design: Caroline Teagle
Cover photograph: Volodymyr Tverdohlib/Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Beau
Chapter 2: Vera
Chapter 3: Beau
Chapter 4: Vera
Chapter 5: Beau
Chapter 6: Vera
Chapter 7: Beau
Chapter 8: Vera
Chapter 9: Beau
Chapter 10: Vera
Chapter 11: Beau
Chapter 12: Vera
Chapter 13: Beau
Chapter 14: Vera
Chapter 15: Beau
Chapter 16: Vera
Chapter 17: Beau
Chapter 18: Vera
Chapter 19: Beau
Chapter 20: Vera
Chapter 21: Beau
Chapter 22: Vera
Chapter 23: Beau
Chapter 24: Vera
Chapter 25: Beau
Chapter 26: Vera
Chapter 27: Beau
Chapter 28: Vera
Chapter 29: Beau
Chapter 30: Vera
Chapter 31: Beau
Chapter 32: Vera
Chapter 33: Beau
Chapter 34: Vera
Chapter 35: Beau
Chapter 36: Vera
Chapter 37: Beau
Chapter 38: Vera
Epilogue: Beau
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Beth Yarnall
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Reclaim
Chapter 1
Beau
I walked out of the California Institute for Men in Chino, California, two thousand two hundred and seventy-one days—more than six years—after I walked in. I was finally free.
Free.
I don’t have the same definition that most people have for that word. While I’m no longer serving a life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit, I’m far from free. The repercussions of my incarceration blasted every area of my life, pitting or obliterating everything in sight. There isn’t a single thing left unscarred. I don’t have a home. I don’t have friends. I don’t have a job or any qualifications to get one. I don’t have any money. I don’t have the same family I had on the day of my conviction.
And I don’t have Cassandra.
There’s a big gaping hole in me where she once lived. Of all the things that were taken from me, she’s the one thing I can never get back. I left her sleepy, naked, and sated in her bed almost seven years ago, stealing out of her apartment with other things on my mind, unimportant things. I had an early day the next morning and needed to get home. I bent down, kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and left.
I never saw her again.
She was brutally raped and murdered that night.
I haven’t been able to take a full breath since. Not because of my subsequent arrest and conviction for her murder. That was nothing. Well, not nothing. It was definitely something. But it’s not why I can’t pull in enough air. There’s a hole in my chest she used to fill. There’s too much space and I can’t imagine or even remember what it felt like to be whole. I’ve been walking around with this big, sucking chest wound since the night she died.
I’m raw yet scarred over. Little things scratch at me, reopening the wound so it never truly heals. A song. The scent of jasmine. A movie. A joke. Her name. I haven’t been able to say her name out loud since I screamed it outside her apartment when her body was found and the place crawled with law enforcement personnel.
I see her everywhere.
I get a glimpse of her at least once a day. Every time I turn my head I have to remind myself it’s not her. It will never be her. I won’t get to hold her hand, have her lay her head on my chest the way she used to, or make love to her ever again. I can’t call her and tell her about the stupid things that happened to me that day. She won’t ever tilt her head up with the look in her eyes that was only for me. I haven’t laughed in so long I’m not sure if I remember how.
My sister, Cora, thinks I should see someone, a grief counselor. I don’t want to. My grief is all I have left of Cassandra. Cora doesn’t understand that. No one does. I can’t explain it. There are no words for what it feels like to carry it everywhere. I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing holding me together. I walk around, going through the day-to-day of living, relying on those feelings to get me through. What would I have without them? Who would I be? I’m not the same man who left Cassandra’s apartment that night. I’ll never be him again. I shouldn’t be him. I sure as shit shouldn’t want to be him.
And yet…
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be normal. What would happen if I took off this mantle of grief and laid it down? Would I stop seeing Cassandra everywhere? Would the smell of a common flower stop reminding me of her unique scent? Would I forget what she sounded like, her laugh, and how she felt under me? Would I lose her all over again, this time forever?
The air outside of prison not only smells different, it feels different. I’m not used to anything resembling normal life. I’m still on a prison schedule despite having been out a couple months now. My only rebellion is letting my hair and beard grow. I don’t know who that man in the mirror is. He’s rougher, harder than he was six years ago. He has scars and crude tattoos jabbed into his skin by makeshift prison tattoo guns. He looks like he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Cora arranged for me to come work with her. I think she’s hoping it will give me something to aspire to. I’m lost. I don’t recognize anyone or anything. I don’t know who or what I want to be. There was a time when everything I wanted to do and be was lined up in my head just waiting for me to tick them off like a fucking checklist. Go to college. Check. Get a good-paying job. Check. Marry Cassandra. Check. Buy a house. Check. Start a family. Check. Grow old with Cassandra. Check.
None of those boxes will ever be crossed off.
I have to create a new list. But where do I start? I’m twenty-four years old. I should be halfway through my checklist by now. Cora tells me I can do or be anything I want. She pushes community and technical college catalogs at me, trying to get me interested in something. At night I lie awake and attempt to imagine my life a year from now. All I see is me still lying on Cora’s couch, still struggling to figure my shit out. I’m frustrating her and myself. Maybe this Take Your Brother to Work Day will give me some kind of direction, even if it only helps me realize what I don’t want to do.
I wait outside for Cora, sipping a cup of strong black coffee. I got the taste for it in prison. Before that I never touched the stuff. Cora bought me a coffeemaker even though she doesn’t d
rink it. She’s been good to me. Too good. Better than I deserve. She’s the reason I’m leaning against her car on a foggy San Diego morning, waiting for her instead of sitting in a prison cell wondering Why me? She was the only person who believed in my innocence. The only one. Not even our parents—who should’ve stuck by me no matter what—considered for a moment that I could be innocent.
I don’t know who that says more about—them or me. Cora says them, but I’m not so sure. My conviction destroyed my parents individually and as a couple. I haven’t seen either one of them since shortly after being assigned a prison uniform. At first Cora made excuses for them when she visited, and then she stopped mentioning them altogether. We’re supposed to have a family reunion this Sunday. Cora arranged it. She’s the only reason I agreed to go. I’d do anything for her. She’s more than proven she’d do anything for me. She’s done everything for me.
Cora backs out the front door of her garage apartment, her arms full. I jog up the walk and relieve her of the files she’s carrying. She locks the door and turns to me, a big smile on her face. It gets me every time. A combination of joy and surprise like she can’t believe I’m really there. I can’t believe it either. I hope I never get used to this feeling, or to that smile. I hope she doesn’t either.
I follow her down the walk to her car and put her files in the trunk. I stand just in time to see the car keys flying at my face and catch them before they smack into my nose.
“You have to practice sometime,” she says. “Drive us to work.”
I haven’t driven in more than six years. My license expired while I was in prison. My parents sold my car.
“Are you sure?”
She opens the passenger door and climbs in with a wink. I let out a frosty breath in the cool morning air. This is one more thing I have to relearn in my life outside. I slide into the driver’s seat and adjust it for my bigger body and longer legs.
“The mirrors too,” Cora reminds me.
It’s like I’m taking driver’s ed all over again, but with my little sister as my teacher. I hope driving isn’t as hard as riding a bike. That shit took me too many tries to get right. I’m wobbly like a kid riding without training wheels for the first time. Bike riding is a fucked-up metaphor for my life now. Everything is an uphill struggle and scary as fuck. I suck so bad at it, I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t just commit a crime for real this time so I can go back to the predictability and reliability of prison life. I won’t, but the thought is scarily tempting sometimes.
You wouldn’t think being free would be so hard.
I do as Cora instructs and start the car. She coaches me the whole way. I’m relieved when we arrive safely. Driving is a hell of a lot easier than riding a bike. We get out of the car and head into the offices of Nash Security and Investigation. I owe Cora and everyone in this place everything. If Mr. Nash and his son, Leo, hadn’t agreed to help Cora find the bastard who killed Cassandra and worked to set me free, I’d still be sitting in a cell. How do you repay someone who rescued you from hell and gave you your life back?
I juggle Cora’s files that I retrieved from the trunk, open the door for her, and follow her inside. The receptionist, Savannah, looks up at Cora, then does a double take when she spies me trailing behind my sister. Her first, fleeting glance is full of female appreciation that quickly morphs into avid curiosity tinged with fear. She doesn’t want to be attracted to an ex-con, but I’d put money on her panties being soaked at the thought of fucking me. I’m a walking, talking good girl’s bad-boy dream. I’m the guy she bangs once or twice on the quiet just so she can brag about it later to her friends.
I grin at Savannah, following it with a wink and a lick of the lips. She gasps and presses her hands to her chest. Her cheeks bloom red. If we were alone I bet I could take her right there on top of her desk. Wouldn’t even have to pull her panties all the way down, just push up her skirt and pull them aside. She’d shower after, feeling dirty, and later she’d jack off, reliving it. I’m not even the slightest bit tempted by her or any other woman I’ve met since I got out.
Another way my life’s fucked up.
I set Cora’s files down where she directs me to. Her office is small, with two desks in the middle facing each other. It’s an odd arrangement, but Cora likes it this way, I guess.
She gestures to the desk opposite hers. “Have a seat.” She sifts through her pile of files until she finds what she’s looking for, then pulls it out and comes around to where I’m sitting. “I thought maybe I’d start you off with some simple searches. See if you like the work.” She twitches the mouse, bringing the computer screen to life. “These are the search sites we use.”
Clicking on the top three bookmarked sites, she brings them up, explaining how they use them and what info the sites can provide. She has me do some easy searches, then leaves me on my own. I don’t suck at it. I’m actually quite good. And I like the work. I’m halfway through the searches Cora wanted me to do when Savannah sticks her head in the doorway.
“Vera Swain, your ten o’clock, is here,” she tells Cora. Her gaze darts to me, then back to Cora.
“Thanks, Savannah. Want to sit in?” Cora asks me. “Take a break from the computer?”
“Sure.” I stand and stretch.
Savannah jumps and squeaks, then disappears from the doorway.
Cora’s mouth bends into a frown. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her lately.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Leave it.”
I follow Cora into the reception area. Savannah blocks whoever it is she’s talking to so I can’t see who it is, but whoever they are, they’re small, much smaller than Savannah’s five-nine frame. Savannah shifts, revealing a pastel confection of a young woman about Cora’s age.
All lace and silk, she’s sweet looking in her soft colors like she just walked out of a Sunday church service. But the look in her eyes is wary…suspicious…jaded, reminding me of angry, hard prison stares. This chick’s seen some shit. More than that, she’s experienced some shit, has maybe even done some shit. She’s a survivor. This I understand. I recognize her in the same way I recognize the new man that stares back at me in the mirror.
Her costume is nearly perfect. I bet if I sniffed her she’d smell like baby powder and lemons. I edge closer to her. She catches me with a sudden flick of a glance, freezing me where I stand. Everything about her shouts Back the fuck off. It only makes me want to draw closer. Who is she? Who or what made her this way? And why does she look at me like she knows who I am? Not the TV-news-segment me, but the real me, the Beau deep down inside.
For the first time since I got out of prison I don’t feel alone. There really are others out there like me. One of them is standing mere feet in front of me, regarding me with the same guarded, expectant look I’m wearing.
And she’s beautiful.
Chapter 2
Vera
The office of the private investigation agency isn’t special. After all I’ve heard about it, I was expecting something more lavish or flashy. It’s understated and utilitarian, like a government building. Whoever decorated it didn’t care about esthetics, only functionality and, distantly second, comfort. There are a few photos on the walls and some news clippings of their most notable cases—mainly, images of the two men the agency helped free after serving prison sentences for crimes they didn’t commit. I lean closer to get a better look.
One photo is of Maurice Battle, an elderly black man who was freed after nearly four decades. The other is of Beau Hollis, a younger white man about my age. The grainy black-and-white newspaper photo washes out a lot of detail, but I can tell he’s handsome. Other than that, there’s nothing remarkable about either man. You’d pass them on the street and not have a clue about what they’d been through. I’m working on that trick.
I touch a finger to the glass over the photo of Maurice Battle. Thirty-nine years is a hell of a long time to be locked away.
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The tall, blond receptionist, who greeted me when I first walked in, returns. “Cora will be with you in a moment. Can I offer you a beverage? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.”
She shifts, gesturing to the young woman joining us. “This is Cora Hollis.” The rest of what she says fades to background noise.
It takes everything in me to stay still and not let the careful mask I’ve perfected slip. Behind Cora is the young man from the photograph. His gaze connects with mine and I hear an audible snick like the sound of a lock being engaged or the cock of a gun hammer. Danger radiates in the air around him. Instinctively, I adjust my stance. He watches me like he knows me, like he knows what I’ll do next before I can even think to do it. The other two women in the room seem oblivious to the force of him. No. Not the receptionist. She keeps just out of his reach.
He tilts his head to the side and looks me over like he can see through my carefully maintained appearance. It amuses him that he can do it. I raise my chin and look down my nose at him, staring right back just as bold and brazen as he does. Standing a full foot and a half taller than me, he clearly has the advantage. I’ve fought men his size and lost, but that wouldn’t stop me from taking him on if I had to. He concedes this with a nod that tells me he means me no harm. His eyes crease at the corners in a smile that doesn’t reach his mouth.
I slowly let out the breath I’ve been holding. He uses his size and attitude the way I use clothing and makeup—to project an image the rest of world would expect and accept. His is as careful and meticulous as mine. Predictable. Protective. Very, very protective. Inclining my head, I acknowledge him in return.
