The Me I Used to Be
Page 1
Dedication
For those who have lost everything . . . may you have
the courage to reinvent yourself and, like Evangeline,
discover you have more within than you ever lost.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
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
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Praise
Also by Jennifer Ryan
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Evangeline Austen walked into the small room with an inmate number—not her name—on her shirt. The one she’d been given four years and twenty-seven days ago. Her canvas shoes—no laces, for safety reasons—squeaked on the worn linoleum during the short trek from the door to the single chair in front of the panel’s long table. She kept her hands clasped together, but that didn’t keep the handcuffs connected by chains to the shackles on her ankles from clanking with her every step. Before she sat, she looked each of the three people seated at the table in front of her in the eye.
The parole board held her future—and quite possibly her life—in their hands.
She wanted them to see her. Not as some number or case, but as a real person who had served far more time than she deserved and had paid a higher price than she owed.
She’d done it, if not happily, then without complaint.
She’d learned her lesson, just not the one that came with a six-year prison sentence. No, the lessons she learned were for life: You are the only person you can truly trust and count on. Everyone else will disappoint you. Some will even sell you out.
Evangeline tuned out the litany of preliminary protocols they needed on the record to begin the hearing.
“Miss Austen?”
She met the parole examiner’s gaze.
“You pled guilty to the charges I’ve just listed.”
Not a question, but if the Patrick Stewart—Professor Xavier from X-Men—look-alike without the British charm, accent, or superpowers wanted an answer, she’d give him one. “Yes.”
“Please tell us what happened the night you were arrested for driving a vehicle carrying stolen goods.”
At the time, one seemed to have nothing to do with the other. She’d been completely in the dark and young and naïve enough to believe nothing bad would ever happen to her. She thought she was just helping out, doing her part. She’d done it a hundred times.
No big deal.
Or so she thought.
“I was making a delivery when a cop flashed his lights and pulled me over.” Not just any police officer. No, her ex-boyfriend’s best friend had busted her. He’d made it clear from the word go he didn’t like her. That night, Corporal Chris Chambers turned ruthless to earn his promotion to sergeant.
Up until that point, she’d lived a good life. She’d never been in trouble, gotten a speeding ticket, or had an argument that couldn’t be forgotten with an I’m sorry. Two weeks from turning twenty, she’d thought she had her whole, wonderful life ahead of her.
Stupid girl.
She could see it all so clearly now. That night, she hadn’t known what hit her. “The officer searched the truck and trailer”—Like he knew he’d find something—“and discovered several cases of stolen wine”—Thirty-two total, four of which contained high-priced, rare-vintage bottles—“hidden inside the stacks of hay I was hauling.”
“Wine stolen from Campi Verde Winery,” the soccer-mom-blond parole examiner stated, like Evangeline had stolen her favorite white and red stress relievers that helped her recover from those raucous after-school playdates. Soccer Mom didn’t know what it was like to walk into a place like this and have someone look at your pretty face and want to cut it just to make you as ugly as they were on the inside. They wanted to take you down because there was no going up in a jungle like this without earning your stripes by causing others pain.
Survival of the fittest.
Fight or die.
Only the strong survive.
She’d had to find a strength she never thought she possessed or needed in her previous life. Those early months, when others wanted to take their shot at her, she’d tapped into something primal. They’d left her bruised, battered, bloody, and scarred in body and soul, but they hadn’t destroyed her.
They’d transformed her.
They’d taken that stupid girl and turned her into an emotionless badass Evangeline didn’t recognize.
If they let her out, she wondered if she’d be able to shed the 2.0 version and upgrade to something better, because she didn’t much like herself these days. Always looking over her shoulder. Always ready for a fight. Never one to smile or be kind. Not if she wanted to be left alone.
And she did, because when you were alone no one could hurt you.
Soccer Mom waited for an answer.
“Yes, someone stole the wine from the winery warehouse.”
“You weren’t charged with stealing the wine, only transporting stolen goods with the intent to sell.”
They couldn’t prove she’d been the one to break into the winery and steal the cases.
Because I didn’t do it.
She didn’t profess her innocence now, or spew some sob story about how she was set up. They didn’t want to hear that bullshit. So she stuck to the script and gave them what they wanted.
“Yes, that’s right. I was driving the vehicle with the stolen goods.” Nothing more. Nothing less. She’d broken the law—guilty even if she didn’t know it when she climbed behind the wheel and drove off.
“You never gave the names of your accomplices.” Surly Patrick Stewart Look-Alike held her gaze, asking another nonquestion.
“I took responsibility for what I had done and have served my time as a model prisoner these past four years.” And twenty-seven days.
Soccer Mom leaned forward. “You were denied parole at your last hearing because of a fight that resulted in serious injury to another inmate.”
That bitch had it coming. She came after me.
And Evangeline wasn’t anyone’s victim anymore.
She hated Soccer Mom for bringing up the incident and making her relive the nightmare that nearly cost her her life. It cost her another eighteen months behind bars waiting for this second chance for parole. “That inmate attacked me first.” She barely contained the urge to reach up and trace the scar along her neck and shoulder. “I defended myself. Nothing more. When the guards subdued the other inmate, I surrendered immediately.
” That didn’t mean one of the guards didn’t take advantage and kick her while she lay facedown on the ground with her hands on the back of her head. He got a couple good rib shots in because she didn’t want to play nice with him and exchange favors for better treatment and extra privileges. Other women did, but not her.
She spent four days in the infirmary nursing two cracked ribs and over a hundred stitches on her face and down her neck and across her shoulder, and then a week in solitary for a fight she didn’t start. If that fight cost her parole again, she didn’t know what she’d do, because every day in this place stripped away another piece of her soul, joy, and hope.
Soon she’d have nothing left. In the first few months inside, she’d been down that dark hole thinking she had no reason to live. It was hell fighting her way out. She didn’t have it in her to do it again.
Not when each new little thing seemed to take a bigger piece.
She couldn’t take it anymore.
She needed out.
Quiet Parole Examiner Number Three kept a steady eye on her. Evangeline usually hid her desperation to get out of here well, but not today. He saw something in her that made him catch his breath and sit back and study her harder. The gnawing need to get out of this place felt like acid eating away her insides. It bunched her muscles and made her want to jump up and make a run for it.
Not that she’d get any farther than the locked door across the room.
Even if they agreed to release her on parole, it would take weeks for the final decision and her release papers to be processed.
But just knowing it was coming would give her something to hold on to until that day. Because she really had nothing else inside or outside this place.
“You will face adversity if released. Are you prepared to handle confrontation in a productive way?”
She answered in a way Soccer Mom understood. “I prefer to use my words to solve my problems. I don’t blame others for what happened to me. I pled guilty so I could take full responsibility. I’m sorry about what I did. I regret my actions and wish I’d made a better choice that night.”
Not that I was given a choice at all.
“I’ve spent the last four years completing my college education. If you give me a chance, I will be able to make a living and be a productive, law-abiding citizen again.”
They’d probably heard a version of that spiel a dozen different ways a thousand times in this room that echoed with the desperation of all those who came before her. She hoped it was enough to convince them to recommend her release.
Patrick Stewart Look-Alike held up a paper. “The prison reports that you are a quiet, respectful, hardworking inmate who prefers to read and study.”
Did he even know how to ask a question? “I’ve worked hard to better myself and use the resources available to me.” Because she’d squandered her days on campus before she was arrested.
“If you are granted parole, what will you do to be a part of the community you wronged?” It seemed like Soccer Mom wanted reparations for the wine she somehow thought got stolen from her.
If Evangeline thought it would work, she’d promise Soccer Mom a whole case of wine to let her out of here.
She tried to find a real answer to that question, because it seemed her whole community, including her entire family, had turned their backs on her when she made a single mistake. She’d had blind faith in someone who’d loved her and wanted the best for her.
Or so she thought.
Never again.
She opened her mouth to spew another bullshit line that sounded good but didn’t really mean anything. She didn’t get the words out because the door next to the parole examiners’ table opened and her worst nightmare walked in.
Lieutenant Chris Chambers, in full sheriff’s department uniform. That’s right, he’d gotten another promotion while she sat in stasis in an eight-by-ten cell.
Her mouth snapped shut and her jaw locked tight. Her whole body went hot with rage and fear.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face.
He stared long and hard at her, his gaze fierce and unyielding. He dismissed her like he’d done when she refused to answer any of his questions the night he arrested her, then he walked to the table, leaned down, and spoke into Patrick Stewart Look-Alike’s ear. He set a folded piece of paper on the table and jabbed his finger down on it.
Panic seized her lungs, clogged her throat, and made her heart jackhammer in her chest.
He couldn’t do this to her. He’d arrested her, slapped on the cuffs, and thrown her behind bars like it was his mission in life to take her down.
Well, not this time. She’d worked hard, taken a lot of crap from other inmates, and held her tongue when she wanted to lash out at the heartless guards. She’d earned her release. He couldn’t walk in here and ruin it for her.
But the reality was, one word from him could keep her here for the rest of her sentence.
The jackhammering of her heart kicked into hummingbird speed.
“Excuse me. What is going on?”
Chris gave her a side-eyed glance, then went back to his covert conversation, indicating he wanted her to shut up and wait.
Well, she’d been doing that for the past four years and twenty-seven days. This was supposed to be her chance to speak on her own behalf.
Parole Examiner Number Three turned to Chris. “We are in the middle of a hearing. If you are here to testify against the release of this prisoner, please state your case to the entire panel.”
Soccer-Mom Blonde kept her eyes glued to Chris’s wide shoulders and chest.
Evangeline avoided another stare-down with his emerald-green eyes. It had been a long time since she’d seen grass that green. Or anyone from home. Even if it was someone who hated her. He was at least familiar, when nothing and no one in this place was even close to what she’d known.
Chris stood to his full height and held up the paper he’d brought in. He spoke directly to her, though he answered Parole Examiner Number Three. “I’m here today to request the immediate release of Evangeline Austen.”
Her heart slammed to a dead stop.
Wait. What?
She couldn’t possibly have heard him right. She’d expected him to spew all kinds of reasons why releasing her into his county would only prove she was a menace to society and a thorn in his side. Not true, but she’d expected him to want her to serve every single day of her sentence for the sheer obstinacy she’d shown him in the interrogation room he’d locked her in for hours, hammering her with questions and accusations.
“Due to a family situation, she is immediately needed at home. I have a judge’s order advocating for her release.”
She didn’t move. She could barely speak. She hadn’t heard from or seen anyone in her family since she was arrested. She’d refused contact. If something happened . . . she didn’t know what she’d do. “What family situation?”
Chris stared down at her, sympathy and pity softening his gaze, and said the awful truth. “Your father died last night.” He waited her out to see if she said anything or reacted.
Tears pricked behind her eyes and constricted her throat. It was all she could do to hold them back as a wave of numbness washed over her.
Self-preservation.
She’d gotten good at hiding her emotions. In here, you didn’t want anyone to see you cared about anything. But the overwhelming sadness nearly exploded through the façade. It hurt more to contain her wild emotions than to let the overwhelming grief burst out of her on a sob.
The gut punch made her feel sick. Every beat of her heart felt like a monumental effort.
“Evangeline.” Her name came out softly from his lips. “I’m so sorry to tell you like this.” Uncommon sincerity filled his words.
She didn’t want to believe him. This was some cruel joke. Any second he’d take it back and tell the board that she didn’t deserve to get out.
It couldn’t be real. She was supposed to get out and go
home, so that everything would go back to the way it used to be.
Stupid girl. Nothing will ever be what it used to be. Not now. Not ever.
Four years and twenty-seven days she’d refused to see her father—the only member of her family who had tried to contact her or visit. Now it was too late.
Numbed. Shocked. She did what she’d learned to do in here and tried to get through the next minute without completely falling apart. “What happens next?” The tremble in her voice revealed her hidden emotions.
Soccer-Mom Blonde pursed her lips. “You are being released for the funeral. Your final parole papers will be expedited. But if you truly want to atone, you’ll agree to the terms set forth by Lieutenant Chambers.”
Her stomach dropped like a stone. She eyed Chris. “Terms?”
Nothing came easy or free.
“Someone’s still stealing and counterfeiting wine. I think you can help me catch them. If you agree to help me, not only will you get your parole today, but if your help leads to an arrest, your record will be expunged.”
She jolted with that stunning news. She’d come to terms with the fact that this would follow her the rest of her life. But here was a chance to wipe the slate clean.
On paper.
But not with her family.
That would never be.
“How can I possibly help you when I don’t know anything?” She didn’t talk when he arrested her or when her lawyer told her it would keep her out of jail. Chris said she had the right to remain silent, and she’d lived by that these last years.
For good reason.
She didn’t get to unload.
Not without hurting the people closest to her.
Chris closed the distance between them and pinned her in his green gaze. “You know more than you think. Sign this and you’re free.”
She snatched the paper from his hand and read the terms, then glared up at him. “Free,” she scoffed. “I’m under your thumb.”
“Better than behind bars.” He cocked one eyebrow in challenge.
“We’ll see.” She took the pen he held out to her, and instead of stabbing it into his black heart, she signed the paper.
He took it, folded the paper, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Come with me. I’ll get you processed out of here.”