Innocence

by Kristin Mayer

  Innocence

  Copyright © 2015 by K. Mayer Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-942910-08-4

  Editor:

  Nichole Strauss with Perfectly Publishable

  Cover Designer:

  Lisa Jay

  Photographer:

  April Park at April Park Photography

  Interior Design and Formatting:

  Christine Borgford with Perfectly Publishable

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at www.authorkristinmayer.com

  Innocence

  Books by Kristin Mayer

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek of Trust Me

  Sneak Peek of Dissipate

  Thank You

  AVAILABLE NOW

  THE TRUST SERIES

  Trust Me

  Love Me

  Promise Me

  Full-length novels in the TRUST series are also available in audio from Tantor Media.

  THE EFFECT SERIES

  Ripple Effect

  Domino Effect

  STAND ALONE NOVELS

  Dissipate

  Bane (Trust Series Spinoff)

  JOINT COLLABORATIONS

  Predestined Hearts

  COMING SOON

  White Lies

  Black Truth

  THE CLANKING NOISE OF THE cell door signified it was opening. “London, are you ready?”

  With shaking hands, I grabbed my bag. One last glance in the mirror showed my caramel eyes were wide and scared. I tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind my ear before turning toward the sweet face of Deborah, the on-duty woman guard. “Yes, I’m ready.” My voice was shaky.

  I was about to be free.

  Free.

  The word felt like a vice in my chest. A bittersweet moment. One I longed for, but at the same time didn’t deserve for what I was told I had done. Part of me thought I should never be free again if it was true.

  “We have your new ID ready as well as some new clothes.” Her sweet voice brought me out of my negative thoughts.

  Forcing a small smile, I nodded and followed the auburn-haired guard out into the main block. Deborah was kind and always looked out for the best interest of the inmates—unlike others who worked there. Some prison guards were downright terrifying. I learned as long as I minded my own business, didn’t complain, and stayed off their radar . . . they ignored me.

  An involuntary shiver ran through me as I thought about the more unpleasant memories from my four years in prison. Once I’d been transferred from a medium to minimum-security prison, two and a half years ago, life became easier.

  The screams.

  The fights.

  The having to be on your guard every second.

  Closing my eyes, I pushed the memories aside.

  It was a small penance to pay in comparison. Four years ago, I’d been sentenced to prison for involuntary manslaughter. Though I have no recollection of the events from the night that changed my life, I served my time.

  Doctors believed my lack of memory was due to the impact of the collision. In their terms, I had localized amnesia due to brain swelling. From the photos I saw afterward, the indention of the windshield told the story of how hard I hit. I flinch at the thought.

  The events of what happened that fateful night were erased. The fog never lifted in the four years I’d been in Aliceville Alabama Federal Prison. From all the evidence presented, there was no doubt I’d been responsible for hitting the boy with my car. My lawyer expressed that, in his opinion, I was lucky to have only gotten four years.

  Lucky.

  There was nothing lucky about what happened.

  Taking a deep breath, the bleach smell from cleaning time permeated my nose. For the last time, I cast my eyes over the chow hall as we passed through. Every surface was hard, cold, and a dingy white that never looked clean.

  Sterile.

  Unfriendly.

  Unyielding.

  Deborah glanced over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re getting out, London. I know what happened, but you have an innocence about you. You’re young and still have your life ahead of you.”

  I was twenty-four years old. At times, I felt as if I was older and other times younger—not sure where my place was in this world but I desperately wanted to find it . . . feel like I belonged. The problem was I wasn’t sure where to begin. Baby steps. My life was ahead of me, but I’d already served time in prison. That in itself altered me.

  The familiar clawing at my chest started. “Thank you. I appreciate how kind you were.” Goodbyes were hard for me. Most goodbyes had a finality to them—or at least the ones I’d experienced.

  Three days ago, I’d been informed I would be getting out a week early due to a space issue. Only Dad and my best friend knew. They were the only two people I still kept in touch with. Everyone else faded from my life.

  I glanced out the window to see the women outside in the yard. Were any of them my friends? I hoped so, but the truth hurt. In prison, friends meant survival. We played our part to stay out of the spotlight—to keep any targets off our backs. I never heard from anyone once they were released, which spoke volumes to the depth of friendship.

  No one here knew the true me. I wasn’t sure I knew who the true me was anymore.

  Leaving quietly was for the best.

  As I saw a group of ladies at the table I normally sat at, the goodbyes I’d endured four years ago came rushing back. Each one was acutely felt.

  Goodbye to my family.

  Goodbye to my dance scholarship at Juilliard.

  Goodbye to the love of my life.

  Goodbye to my friends.

  Goodbye to all I knew.

  All because of an event I couldn’t remember. The night of the accident, while I was home for the summer from college, I’d been three times over the legal limit for alcohol. It was amazing I was alive. Sometimes I wished the alcohol had finished me off. None of it made sense. I didn’t drink because it was too hard on my body for dancing. Occasionally, I had a glass of wine. A bottle of tequila, nearly drained, was on my bed when officers investigated my room. Another bottle found in my car.

  I hated tequila.

  There was something more to that night—I knew it in the depths of my soul, but
there was no proof. My parents and lawyers left no stone unturned. None. At some point, acceptance of my transgressions became eminent in order to try and gain some semblance of myself back.

  Focusing on the tile floor, I reigned in my emotions. It had been a while since I thought about it all. But, in the scheme of things, I deserved every goodbye I’d been dealt. A boy lost his life because of me. My four-year sentence was nothing compared to the life sentence I’d given him and his family.

  The guilt never left me. Slowly, over the years, it chipped away at my soul.

  I followed Deborah into the light-blue walled office to complete the next step for my release. The rooms at the front of the prison were the only ones with any color. A pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt lay on the table along with my new ID and a manila envelope.

  Another female guard, Cassie, who was less than friendly through the years, stood in the corner with a scowl on her face. The spiky haircut and stocky stature only added to the apprehension when paired with her body language. On purpose, she would spill her coffee over a place that was recently cleaned or make unneeded noise while we slept.

  Needless to say, I was leery of her and she was not pleased I was released early. After the warden gave me the news, I overheard her saying, “She’s a murderer and should not be getting out early.” This guard believed the justice system was too lenient and my sentence was too light. Murderer . . . the name would be forever associated with me.

  I hated it.

  Behind me, Deborah lingered and I was thankful. Cassie stepped forward. “London McNally, please sign your name on the line. Within the manila envelope is your discharge certificate.” Cassie huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’ll need the certificate to vote again. You’ll also find gate money in the amount of fifty dollars. There’s a transport waiting outside the gate which will take you to the bus station unless you’ve made other arrangements.”

  “My dad, Ken McNally, should be here to take me home.” I tucked the escaped hair behind my ear again and looked down.

  “Very well. Once you change, Deborah will take you to the gate.”

  The envelope was shoved in my direction along with the piece of paper. Scribbling my name across the line, I took a deep breath. Cassie snatched up the paperwork and stomped out of the room.

  Deborah gestured in my direction. “Go ahead and change. I’ll be waiting.”

  I nodded and the door closed behind me. With shaking hands, I removed my orange scrubs with my inmate number on them. The jeans and sweatshirt were loose fitting as I’d lost weight since coming here. Being a dancer, I had been thin before but could tell a difference. I finger-combed my hair, hoping I looked somewhat presentable.

  I gathered the manila envelope. Waiting patiently, Deborah pushed off the wall as I came into the hallway. Silently, I followed her through several doors while feeling perspiration form on my brow. I kept my head down until the sunlight hit my face.

  A new life. Everything familiar before would be different now. I felt as if I was starting over without any sort of guide.

  My dad’s old red pickup sat in front of the prison. I cleared my dry throat. “That’s my dad.”

  Nervously, Dad got out of his truck. A sense of comfort came over me seeing him in his standard jeans and flannel shirt. He waved, which brought the first genuine smile from me. I raised my hand back. It seemed off to me to wave in front of a prison where I had been incarcerated. All I wanted to do was run into his safe arms, but I refrained, not sure if Deborah needed to tell me anything else.

  Deborah held out her hand which I shook. “Good luck, London. I wish you the best.”

  I looked down and barely said above a whisper, “Thank you.”

  After Deborah stepped out of the way, I walked toward my dad. There was something about a dad’s embrace that made everything better. I couldn’t wait to be safe in his arms.

  “Hey, London.” I paused and turned back Deborah’s way. “Don’t let the past dictate your future. Rise above it and be better.”

  “I’ll try.” Her words warmed me.

  Deborah nodded and a tear formed in my eye. Turning, I focused on my dad standing beside his vehicle. My dad was here supporting me—like always. This morning I remembered packing up a picture we took as a family a few weeks before the accident. In the four years since I’d gone to prison, Dad’s chestnut hair became speckled with gray. His once carefree face was laced with four years of stress as I thought back to how he looked prior to me being sentenced. Time had taken its toll.

  Shortly after coming to Aliceville Alabama Federal Prison, Mom was unable to visit me when she was diagnosed with Dementia. Three and a half years ago was the last time I saw Mom. She’d come with Dad for one of the monthly visitations and hadn’t remembered who I was. When I tried to explain, she broke down and screamed things I knew she never meant. My daughter is at home. My daughter would never end up in prison. My daughter is a good person.

  I never got to say goodbye to her. It happened quickly and we weren’t prepared. Doctors said her case was rare with the rate of progression. Normally, the disease moved slower. Part of me wondered if the stress of the trial and my incarceration brought it on. Dad assured me it wasn’t the case. I wasn’t sure.

  Mom now lived in a nursing home. Dad said Mom hardly recognized him anymore. I missed my mom. Over and over again, I wished I said more the last time she’d been coherent—told her how much I loved her, how much she meant to me, how much I wished I could get a redo at life.

  Warm arms engulfed me. “I’m glad to have you back, punkin’.”

  “I missed you too, Dad.”

  I felt safe, secure, and loved. The familiar scent of wood shavings eased the tenseness in my shoulders.

  “Let’s get you home and settled. We’re having your favorite for dinner.”

  Giddiness came over me. “Lasagna?”

  Dad gave me a wink. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  As we eased out onto the road, the inner lightness I’d felt ebbed. My gut churned, wondering what it would be like being out of prison.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to embrace what was to come . . . going home.

  Home.

  THE OLDIES STATION PLAYED LOW in the background as we drove the hour and a half to my hometown of Guin, Alabama. Air whooshed through the cab with the windows halfway rolled down. It felt like our trips we took to the wood mills for Dad’s furniture business. As the miles passed us by, Dad told me about the happenings for nearly everyone and everything in our small town. Guin was a population of less than fifteen hundred people.

  Everyone knew everything about anything of interest.

  The only subject not discussed—my ex-boyfriend, Charles. Four months after incarceration, he broke up with me.

  The memory assailed me as we passed a lake where we spent our summers swimming.

  Charles sat across from me with the plexi-glass divider between us. I missed his embrace. We loved each other and knew we’d see each other through the storm.

  A storm I caused.

  We were the real thing happily-ever-after’s were made of. Eagerly I picked up the two-way phone. “I miss you. They say in a little over a year, I’ll be eligible for minimum security. We won’t have to deal with this glass.”

  Charles gave me a bittersweet look. “That’s good news, London.”

  There was something off in his tone. I knew Charles as well as I knew myself. “What’s wrong?” My brows scrunched in concern. Was his mom, Caroline, okay? Had something happened to my best friend, Millie?

  Thrusting his hand through his blond hair, Charles looked torn, upset maybe. “Baby, I mean, London.” This was bad. My heart felt like it was stuck in my throat. “We need to break up while you’re in here.”

  I gasped. “Why? Charles, I love you.”

  “I love you, too. It’s re-election year for Dad. Our relationship is causing issues. Attention is coming back to your parents again.” The words seemed hard for him to speak as
his eyes cast down.

  Charles’ dad was a senator. I knew this would be a problem, though everyone assured me it wouldn’t.

  My lip trembled. “Is this permanent?”

  Charles eyes shot to mine. The warm chocolate seemed dulled. “No. I’ll wait for you. I’ll figure this out. After this is over, we’ll be together. We’ll get through this.”

  There seemed more to his promise than he was telling me.

  “Okay. Promise me if something changes, you’ll tell me.”

  “I promise.”

  Charles put his hand to the window. “Together, baby. You and me, like we’ve always talked about. You’ll be the only girl I’ll ever love.”

  “You and me. I love you, too.”

  I bit my lip to the point of pain as I cleared the memory. It was supposed to only be for show until I got out. At the time, I understood and wanted to make his life easier regardless of how much it hurt. Nothing had been farther from the truth.

  Lies.

  All lies.

  One month after things ended, I asked Dad if Charles was seeing anyone. By the way the blood drained from his face I knew the answer, but insisted on him telling me. Charles started dating Rachel Graves right after we broke up. Her family was well connected. We’d gone to school together. The news stung, and from that point forward, I never asked about Charles again. The loss of the love of my life was an ache that could not be soothed. Some things were better off locked away than dealt with when nothing could be done.

  Now, it was time to hear what I had avoided after all this time.

  “Does Charles still live in Guin?” I needed to be prepared if there was a chance I’d run into him.

  Dad winced. That wasn’t good. Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair. “Punkin’ . . .”

  “I know, Dad. Shoot me straight. I need to know.”

  He glanced my way for a second. “He’s still seeing Rachel. They’ve been dating all this time. From what folks say, it’s pretty serious.”

  I dug my fingernails into my right palm. The last time I saw Charles he said he would wait for me forever—he loved me. He promised to tell me himself if something ever changed. Maybe he was cheating on me all along. Buried anger bubbled to the surface and I pushed it away.