Conviction (Wated Series Book 2)

by Lance, Amanda

  But he already had, they just didn’t realize how, and I didn’t understand why.

  “You people don’t know anything.” I threw the pillow at Adam, if nothing else to wipe that smirk off his face. Prideful, as if he had been the one to hurt Charlie, his daydreams come true.

  Prisoner Attempts to Start Race Riot

  Article by Horton Smith/The Express-Times

  Five individuals were detained this evening after brutal fighting between gang members. Recently arrested terrorist Charles Hays was moved to Beth Israel Hospital, suffering the worst of the injuries in what some believe was a staged attempt to start a riot within Northern State Prison. Anonymous sources within the prison say that many have been trying to get in touch with Hays and the riot was actually an assassination attempt.

  As a result of the prisoner’s injuries, sentencing has been delayed until further notice.

  I didn’t wake up until late the next afternoon, and then only because the sounds of epic water-pistol wars were going on across the street. There was a brief second that I smiled at the sound of laughing, the light on the window pane. Save for Dad called my name, and I remembered that it was all still true.

  “Addie?” The soft rapping on the door was all Dad, cautious and authoritative at the same time.

  “Yeah?”

  “You have a phone call.”

  “Phone?”

  I jumped out of my bed, though it was more like a flop than anything else. Could it have been Charlie? Was there even the slightest even remote possible chance? Or Elise? Yuri? Polo? Hell, I would have been happy to hear from Reid at that point.

  “Hello?” My voice croaked from the crying. I pulled the phone away, coughed, and tried again. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Addie, hey.”

  The wind had been knocked from me yet again. Even Dad looked like he had been through the hurricane a little himself. I tried to keep my lip from trembling.

  “Hi, Melinda. H-how are you?”

  “How am I? Are you nuts?”

  I smiled and backed into my room. Dad seemed okay with this even as I closed the door, Melinda’s voice was one he recognized and trusted enough to leave me with.

  “What’s up, Melinda?”

  “What’s up? What’s up? How can you be so casual?”

  “The same way you can answer questions with questions, I guess.”

  I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The reporters were gone for now, seeking new victims to irritate.

  “Battes, this is some intenseness.”

  “Yeah,” I said. But it wasn’t me who said it, just my voice.

  “Media people have been calling me.”

  “Sorry.” I wasn’t, but it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.

  “Don’t be. This is an opportunity performers dream of. I don’t want to do anything though without your okay.”

  She stopped talking, like she expected me to break in, and though I heard her tapping against something impatiently, I had nothing to say. Charlie was in a hospital bed not too far from here, unconscious and hurting. Was he thinking of me at all? Was any part of him still awake enough to know that I couldn’t stand being away from him?

  “Hey?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  It was the first time I had been honest when someone asked me the question. In the last week I had forgotten what okay even was, and if Charlie died, I knew that I would forget the word altogether.

  “I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I’m a pretty crappy friend.”

  “No,” my voice said. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  I didn’t know if it was true or not, but it didn’t matter.

  “I wanted your permission to talk to a journalist and I didn’t even check on you first.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I could picture her sitting at a mirrored vanity in her bedroom. She probably had twice as many bins of makeup and boxes of jewelry than she had in our dorm. It reminded me that I never returned the earrings she lent me, and I felt irrevocably guilty.

  “I’m not okay. And the only thing that can make me better is in Beth Israel.”

  “W-what? I thought they caught the guy, didn’t they?”

  “That’s why I’m not okay.”

  Silence. Even her finger tapping stopped and I imagined her looking away from the mirror, to face something far less glamorous. “I don’t get it.”

  I was ready to spill my guts, literally or figuratively, with the worst case Charlie dead or dying, and the best case him being in protective custody for the rest of his life. Our secret was irrelevant.

  “Nevermind. Uh—why did you call again?”

  “A couple of reporters have called me; one especially wants to interview me.”

  “About what?”

  I thought I heard her giggle. “You, obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people are interested in you.”

  “So?”

  “The media is a learning tool. Take advantage where and when you can.”

  Again I closed my eyes. Though Melinda had a point, when I wanted to know more about Charlie than the FBI would tell me, what did I do? Straight to the internet. When we had first met, Charlie had ample opportunities to know me through the news alone.

  Ideas came then, hard but flighty, like most wonderful and dangerous ideas do.

  “Melinda, I have to go.”

  “Wait, is it okay?”

  “It’s better than okay. Talk to whoever you want. J-just as long as you’re honest, I guess.”

  “Really? Cool.”

  “Melinda?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  Kidnapping Victim Speaks Out

  NEWARK (KRB17)

  In an exclusive interview with KRB, Adeline Battes, who was kidnapped from a rest stop last August, denied the charges against suspect Charles Hays, saying, “I identified Martin Wallace and gave very detailed descriptions for the FBI. I’ve seen several photographs of Charles Hays and he was not one of them.”

  Miss Battes says that she has reiterated this fact for both the local police and the FBI, despite continued questioning leaning toward Hays being the perpetrator. “It’s as though they aren’t even looking for other suspects.”

  In lieu of this new information, local human rights groups have begun protesting by way of petitions in order to have charges against Hays reinvestigated.

  “We have insurmountable evidence against Hays, including his confession,” State Trooper Aaron Chilton says.

  Miss Battes, however, is skeptical. “I’m sorry that I can’t give everyone the answers they want. Above all, I’m sorry that he (Hays) may lose his life because of a case of mistaken identity.”

  When asked for comment, local FBI declined.

  To watch the entire interview, click HERE.

  I barricaded myself into my room for the first three days or so, tripped up by the gag order now placed on me and the hospital. So the reporters didn’t bother to come back, retreating instead to other tragedies. I was lost in a world of imagination, stuck with visions of a perfect nose being kicked in, my favorite arms being broken and punches being thrown for no reason.

  The horrifying fact of the matter was that it was my fault, because even if Charlie hadn’t turned himself in to protect me, my failing to make him feel confident about our relationship increased his jealousy. I thought of all the ways I could have talked him through the Adam situation, how much more time I could have devoted to making him feel better about us. If I had only told him about my plan to introduce him to Dad and Robbie…if I had only used a different name to lie to Melinda…

  What if his envy went so far as to make him want to prove himself?

  I didn’t think that scenario was likely, but I felt guilty just the same, guilty that Charlie’s love for me had made him do something as stupid as threat
en Adam. What was the sentence for threatening a federal agent? Would it even matter with all the other charges? Why would Charlie antagonize a gang when he was so drastically outnumbered? I knew he wasn’t racist. He got along well enough with anyone who could tell a good joke or play cards…the only thing that kept coming back to me was that he wanted to get into a fight, that he wanted to hurt someone.

  Just as frustrating was that there was no real way of knowing whether or not my intrusion did any good or not, I still had not had any contact with Elise nor would I have any opportunities with my communications being monitored 24 hours a day.

  The people who ran Dad’s country club were nice enough to give me a summer job, though like Dad, the manager couldn’t understand why I would want to work in the kitchen instead of waitressing. For less money and more work, it seemed like a silly request. When asked, I told Dad that I wanted to get better acquainted with the Spanish language and he seemed to find this acceptable. The manager seemed disappointed at first, but maybe he realized I was no longer capable of smiling, and that the shallow bags under my eyes would only deter customers instead of invite.

  For me, working in the back was a most welcome distraction. Other than the vulgar jokes, there was little to remind me of the boys and still less to remind me of Charlie. I was well-liked within a matter of days for my quietness and work-ethic, always taking out the trash before it overflowed, and being the first volunteer to clean the bathrooms at closing.

  The fact was that I very much liked bussing. I liked watching the flies buzz around the picked over cucumber-sandwiches that already too-skinny women hadn’t touched. There was a certain validation in watching my fingernails break as I scrubbed floors and garbage cans. In the evenings, I relished in the hurt that came with tripping over vacuum cords and wet floors. And though they were often spotless, I would occasionally mop them again, in the hopes of an aching shoulder.

  Menial labor gave me tangible pain that I could focus on. I thrived on stubbed toes and fingers caught in doors. And if I was really having a good day, there would be a splash of grease from the deep fryer, a knick from knife washing.

  At night, when the sleep wouldn’t come willingly and the guilt came crashing down, I’d rely on the broken skin on my hands. I never moisturized anymore, and washing dishes for hours on end with harsh chemicals would crack the ends of my fingertips, making them bleed softly on the pillowcase beside me. Often, I’d watch the little dots as they collected. Sometimes I’d even make patterns of the constellations, but the stars reminded me of the first time my lips touched Charlie’s, and I’d have to stop.

  On days I wasn’t working I’d take Robbie’s car to Beth Israel and walk around the entire building over and over, trying to pick out which room was Charlie’s, whether he was kept in the basement somehow like a dungeon. I’d spend hours there, seeing the occasional family come and go through the emergency room, paramedics tidying their ambulances, doctors taking smoke breaks; I tried to imagine that they knew Charlie somehow, had interacted with him just moments before even, but as the days passed, it became more difficult to daydream even that.

  Desperate, I even tried calling the number from the whiteboard again, only to find it disconnected. When I wasn’t working or at Beth Israel trying to find information and being turned away, I was on hold with the local FBI office, trying to walk a fine line between a caring citizen and curious advocate, doing my best not to sound desperate, or threaten All I ever heard though was the gossip. Rumors varied that Charlie was in a coma, being held in Guantanamo Bay, that scientists were experimenting on him to better understand sociopathic behavior, that he was already dead.

  The nights, however, were all the same.

  They consisted of a standard over-the-counter sleeping remedy, but because I used them every night, within a month I was doubling the dose and eventually transferred to the “extra strength” before changing to a different brand altogether.

  I hid them in my hollowed out ethics textbook.

  Sometimes though, it felt better to lay there, pretend that I too, was comatose. Why should I get to have a life if Charlie wasn’t allowed to have one? Even if he did live, recovered completely, he’d most likely spend his life in solitary confinement for his own protection, a cruelty I couldn’t even begin to imagine. If that was how he was supposed to spend the rest of his days, then why shouldn’t I have any better? Charlie had opened up my entire world, made me feel things I had only read about in books. And despite any issues we may have had, I loved him so entirely that living the rest of my life without him seemed impossible.

  As I shut down, I told myself that it was what Charlie was going through, that he was sucked into the nothingness and feeling sweet oblivion.

  Chapter 14

  Two Saturdays before THE END, Dad caught me on my way out of the house.

  “Hey, Addie!”

  I cringed, I had almost been safe.

  When I turned I saw him shaking his phone excitedly, eager, it seemed, to get my attention.

  “Your brother is on the phone!” he yelled. “It’s Robbie!”

  As if I had another brother.

  I slowly walked back up the front yard, stopping to pull a weed. I had only talked to Robbie once since the summer started and though it was only for a few seconds, his first question after “What’s up?” was “What in the hell in wrong with you?” followed by a comment asking about my dog being shot. Dad was easier to conceal things from, but Robbie was a different breed altogether. He didn’t shy from the nitty-gritty of life (including feminine issues), and had no trouble going up to someone and speaking his mind plainly.

  Still, I had to admit, it was nice to see Dad smiling so hard.

  “H-hello?”

  “Hey, beautiful!”

  Wind whipped at me from another world away, someone whistled, catcalled.

  “It’s just my sister, perverts!” he called.

  “Addie?”

  I listened to the weather on the other side of the world. I wondered what the desert would be like, how it would feel to be in a place where nothing could grow.

  “Addie?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Did the Old Man tell you I got leave coming up?”

  “Uh no, he didn’t mention it.”

  “Yeah, I thought we could have a late birthday-slash-4th of July celebration while I’m there.”

  “Yeah, sure. Uh—listen, Robbie, I have to go, work and stuff.”

  “Right on.”

  I handed the phone back to Dad and hurried over to the car, hoping to be clear before Dad even realized I was gone, but he must have hung up just as I said good-bye to Robbie, because he was on my heels a second later.

  “Isn’t that great news?”

  “Yep.”

  “Addie, you’re not going to that hospital again, are you?”

  I nodded.

  He sighed. “Listen, I was all about supporting you on this thing, and I think it’s sweet that you want to stick up for this guy or whatever, but this is getting weird.”

  “I know its cliché for teenagers to say this, Dad…” I sighed and scratched at a mosquito bite./ “But you don’t understand.”

  “With your Mom, it was different. We loved her, but this—it’s kind of obsessive, isn’t it?”

  Loved. As in past tense. I knew Dad didn’t mean to, but he had offended me deeply. We all still loved Mom and always would, just like I would love Charlie even if he wasn’t with me anymore.

  “I’m sorry that’s how you see it, Dad. I-I need to see this through, no matter what it takes.”

  He nodded. “Well, I called ahead and looked into moving our timeslot at the shore-house. We’re going to go at the end of the month instead of in August.”

  “Why?”

  “I—I think you should get away for awhile.”

  I despaired at the thought of Charlie without me, even though we were already apart. Standing outside the building where he may or may not have been did make m
e feel better than I wanted to admit. But how could I explain that to Dad without sounding completely insane?

  “Yeah, I think I need to be the grown-up and make a decision here.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I’m too worried about you not to.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “It’s only for a couple of days, and you will go, and you will try to have a decent time.” His expression softened when he looked at mine, not defiant but despairing. “Then you can come back and fret all you want.”

  When I stayed silent he quickly changed the subject. “Hey, look on the bright side: with all the hours you’re working, you’ll be able to afford a car of your own before the summer is over.”

  I looked at Robbie’s car then back at Dad.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I got in and pulled away. I didn’t bother to try and smile. A car? Cars were for the living. I was easily spending fifteen hours a week at the hospital alone. The fact of the matter was that in my mind, the future did not exist. It was a concept that I had memorized once but never really learned. I’d often overhear people at the club discussing their futures as if it was something expansive, enjoyable even. Yet the black parasites allowed me to be disassociated from it so that phrases like, “going to” and “will be” were muted. There was only the present, a ceaseless stream of moments that would continue until the nothingness decided it would have me permanently.

  I hoped that it would be sooner rather than later, because parasites had swallowed me up and I didn’t want to be free. Still, my practicality came through and I knew that though I hadn’t bothered to register for the fall semester, the people in my life would still expect me to eventually do something with myself.

  Nine days before THE END Robbie came home.

  I’ll confess, it was nice, more than nice, to have Dad distracted from my infinite doom. He set to work buying Robbie’s favorite foods, stuffing the pantries and refrigerator with beef jerky and gummy worms; he rented video games, and even left me alone to clean the house. I overheard him bragging about his son over the phone, and for the first time in weeks, I was nearly glad about something. The disappointment that had been my homecoming could be corrected with Robbie.