by R. D. Brady
Declan handed him the pack. “Here, take this.”
Steve took the bag, jiggling it. “What’s in here?”
Declan shrugged. “Some changes of clothes, a few books, a cell phone. My cell number, your brother’s, and your grandmother’s are already programmed in, and I downloaded a couple good songs onto it. Just your basic get-started bag.”
Steve looked at the bag, touched by Declan’s thoughtfulness. He still couldn’t believe Declan had stayed in touch with him the entire time he’d been locked up. And he knew that part of the reason Heath had looked out for him was because of Declan.
Declan had been on his side ever since this whole madness had begun. He’d visited every week, helped look out for his grandmother when he was back in town, and basically made sure Steve stayed connected to the world.
A few weeks after going in, Steve had begun to resent Declan. He’d thought there must have been something Declan could have done to keep him from being convicted. After all, Declan was state police, and both of them knew Steve hadn’t committed the crime. They just hadn’t been able to prove it.
He shook his head. He’d been a stupid, sixteen-year-old kid.
Over time though, Steve had come to realize that Declan had actually gone out on a limb for him. As a state policeman, he’d muscled his way into the case and tried to get more lines of investigation opened. Declan had put it all on the line to try and help him. Steve appreciated how much Declan had risked to try to prove his innocence. And now that Steve was older, he knew that just because you were right didn’t mean the world was going to treat you fairly.
“Thanks, Declan.” Steve held up the pack. “I appreciate this. And everything else.”
Declan extended his hand. “I’m really glad you’re going home.” His voice softened. “You have a chance here, Steve. Take advantage of it.”
Some of Steve’s old anger boiled up. “Is that what I have—a chance? Because if I recall correctly, the whole town was pretty happy to see me go. Not sure they’re going to be so happy to see me back.”
Declan looked like he was about to disagree with him but then changed his mind. “You’re right. It’s not going to be easy. But it is a chance nonetheless. You’ve got your brother, your grandmother, me. We’re all in your corner. We’ll help you get through.”
Steve saw people lining up for the bus. He studied each face. He didn’t recognize any of them.
And he realized, with a start, that perhaps no one would even recognize him. Until he went away, he’d spent his whole life in Millners Kill. But now he’d changed so much.
The thought was both freeing and incredibly sad. What did it say about a person that the only people who really knew what he looked like these days were the involuntary guests of the state of New York?
Steve met Declan’s eyes and saw the faith he had in him—as well as the fear. And he swallowed his sadness, hiding it the way Declan was hiding his concerns. “I know,” he said. “And I’ll make it work. Somehow.”
Some of the tension left Declan’s face. He blew out a breath. “That’s good. I’ll be in town later. I’ll stop by.”
“Um, I’m supposed to start my job tomorrow.”
“At Mel’s?”
Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”
He’d worked at Mel’s Diner before he’d been incarcerated. Every parolee needed to have a job as one of the conditions of their parole. Steve had been surprised when his brother told him Mel had offered him a position. Surprised and grateful.
“What are you coming to town for?” Steve asked.
Declan pointed at the gray sky above. “There’s a storm moving in. It’s supposed to be pretty ferocious. And as state liaison, it’s my job to help with some of the prep.” Declan looked over at him. “You know, there might be some things you could do to help.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” The bus pulled up to the curb. As Steve started to head toward it, Declan’s words resonated. He turned back. “How bad a storm is it supposed to be?”
“Pretty bad. They’re worried about the bridge. It’s not holding up well. And it got really battered last summer with all that flooding. If there’s another bad flood, the whole thing could go.”
Steve knew that would be disastrous. The bridge was the only thing connecting the town to the mainland. With the bridge, they could pretend Millners Kill was a peninsula, surrounded by water. But the truth was, Millners Kill was a small island in Lake Ontario between Rochester and Oswego, connected to the mainland only by that manmade structure of steel girders. If the bridge went, they’d be in serious trouble.
“Any chance they might evacuate?” Steve asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Steve pictured all the citizens of Millners Creek crammed into some school gym on the mainland—and Steve standing in the middle of them.
His stomach plummeted. Just what he needed. He wanted to slip back into town quietly and get himself set up before anyone really knew he was back.
Better yet, he wanted no one to even know he had been there until after he had already left. Because that was his real plan: to get a job somewhere away from Millners Kill. Somewhere he could really start over.
But if the storm was as bad as Declan was suggesting, he might be crammed into a small space with the whole town staring daggers at him—if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, they’d be throwing the daggers. Great.
He didn’t share any of his concerns with Declan, though. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. “See you.”
And for the first time, Steve was glad he was going back to Millners Kill. He didn’t want his grandmother facing the storm of the century alone.
Of course, she wouldn’t be completely alone. His brother Jack would be there to help her out. Just like he had been ever since Steve had been incarcerated. But now it was Steve’s turn to shoulder some of the responsibilities.
He hiked the backpack onto his shoulder. He had no doubt Declan had also tucked some money into it somewhere. He promised himself that he would pay back every dime.
Steve got in line for the bus behind an older couple. The sign in the window read Millners Kill.
And even though fears and doubts crowded his mind, a little kernel of joy was also building. I’m going home. I’m really going home.
CHAPTER 3
Steve stepped off the bus in front of Millners Kill City Hall. Millners Kill—population five thousand, although that ballooned to close to twenty thousand during the summer season. A sleepy little town in upstate New York where nothing ever happened.
Except for me, Steve thought as he stepped past as couple who embraced as soon as the woman got off the bus. Steve averted his eyes, but he recognized the woman—Mildred Pierce, the town librarian. Before prison, Steve had visited the library every week since he was eleven. In the summers, he and Julie had gone there two or three times a week. Mrs. Pierce had been a constant in his childhood. Not overly friendly, not mean, just someone who was always around. Steve turned his head and walked away quickly. He wasn’t sure how Mrs. Pierce would react to him now.
He pulled up the hood of his gray sweatshirt, not knowing if it made him more conspicuous or less. With his height, he tended to stand out in a crowd. In prison, he’d used that height to his advantage, but now he found himself hunching his shoulders to make himself shorter, trying to blend in, or, better yet, not be noticed at all.
He kept his eyes low, not making eye contact, but watching everyone out of the corner of his eye. But no one seemed interested in him.
Hefting his backpack higher onto his shoulder, he skirted around the crowd that was waiting to get on the bus. It had turned a little colder. The fall air cut through his jeans and sweatshirt.
A woman dropped her pocketbook right in front of him. Its contents spilled across the sidewalk. Steve didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.
As he passed, though, he realized that he should have helped. He shook his head. Crap. Life on the outside was different. Helpi
ng didn’t make you look weak—didn’t make you a target. He sighed. Apparently it would take a little longer than a few hours for him to shake off ten years of institutional life.
Steve crossed the street. He noticed the large puddle too late, his attention focused on the people around him. His gray Converses and the legs of his pants were soaked. Damn it, he cursed, but he kept his expression unchanged.
As he passed McCann’s Drugstore, he stared at the ground, praying no one he knew walked by. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
The wind tugged at his hood, trying to shove it down. Steve tucked in his chin. The wind had picked up a lot since he’d left Declan.
He made his way down four blocks, noting that the town had changed little. There were still only about two dozen shops strung along Main Street. True, the old card store had been replaced by a trendy little coffee shop, and the Blockbuster was now a Payless, but other than that all the old stores remained. The hardware store was up on the right, the supermarket on the left.
The bus had passed Mel’s Diner on the way in. The thought of Mel made Steve smile. Steve had bussed tables for him for three summers, and Mel had taught him how to play poker, how to box, how to drive—all activities he had been banned from mentioning to his grandmother.
The smile faded as he realized that Mel would not be happy to see him now. He wasn’t sure why Mel had agreed to hire him.
Feeling colder, he picked up his pace as he turned onto his grandmother’s street. He could see her picket fence ten houses down, and his heart tripped a little.
A handful of kids were playing soccer in the street. A soccer ball came soaring toward Steve, and he quickly trapped it with his feet.
A kid, no more than six, bundled in a red fleece jacket and hat, ran down the sidewalk. The kid came to a halt when he caught sight of Steve with the ball. “Pass it back.”
Steve shifted the ball from his left foot to his right, then kicked it back using the inside of his foot. The kid stopped it with both feet, although Steve could tell it was pure luck and not talent that had allowed him to do so.
“Thanks!” The kid smiled and waved. Grabbing the ball, he turned and rejoined the other kids, all older and bigger.
Steve continued past them, but he watched them out of the corner of his eye. One kid, who looked too much like the red fleece boy not to be his brother, yelled, “Hurry up, slowpoke.”
The other kids laughed. The red fleece kid passed the ball back. Then he went and sat on the stoop. Steve shook his head—the dynamics of brotherhood, consistent throughout time.
The red fleece boy waved at him again, but the others paid Steve no notice, too interested in their game. Without thinking, Steve gave a little wave back. The boy beamed at him.
Steve turned away, but the boy’s smile stayed with him. There was a lot of joy in that little face.
Four houses down from the boys’ soccer game, Steve stopped. He stood at the white picket fence and looked at the yellow two-story house with the big white porch. It looked like it had gotten a recent paint job, but otherwise it hadn’t changed.
He’d lived the first decade of his life one block over. When Steve was only ten, though, his father had gone missing, and Steve had moved into his grandmother’s house—this house—along with his brother and mom. Only a few years after that, his mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d fought it, but she eventually lost the battle. That was only a year before Steve’s arrest.
Steve knew his brother had made sure their grandmother had whatever help she needed to maintain the house. Guilt nagged at Steve. He should have been here to help her as well, instead of locked away.
Jack was now a county district attorney. His job took him all over the county, but he kept an apartment in town to be close to their grandmother. And if Steve was considered the town demon, Jack was the town angel. He was always donating his time to help out, and donating his money, too, when needed.
Steve should probably have felt jealousy toward his brother, but Jack had been just as good to him, too. He’d written him every week, visited at least once every two weeks. He’d kept Steve going. Honestly, compared to a lot of other inmates, Steve had had a full-fledged support team behind him. And he was grateful.
Steve breathed in deep. He called up a few of the words dispensed in his required therapy sessions—some of the only words that had actually resonated with him: You can’t do anything about yesterday, but today is all up to you.
He pushed open the gate and walked up the porch steps. He hesitated at the door. Should he just walk in, or ring the doorbell? He couldn’t in all his life ever remember ringing the doorbell. But like a lot of things, times had changed.
He rang the bell.
He heard the shuffling steps of his grandmother, and his heart picked up its pace. “Coming,” a voice called.
The locks turned and the door pulled wide. A woman stood framed by the doorway. She had light brown hair that had only started to gray, and brown eyes just like Steve’s. Those eyes registered confusion for just a moment before a smile burst across her face.
“You’re early!” Bess Davidson threw open her arms and dragged him into a hug. Steve’s arms wrapped around her. She smelled like cinnamon.
Memories, good ones, from his childhood assaulted him. The tightness in his chest eased, and his grip on his grandmother increased.
I’m home. I’m really home.
CHAPTER 4
He walked down the street, watching the preparations for the storm. Most of the stores had plastic or wood covering their windows. The coffee bar owner pulled in the placard that displayed the daily quote. Today’s read: “Never put off for tomorrow what you can do today.”
He smiled. Excellent advice.
People hurried past, a sense of excitement in the air. Everyone was getting ready for the latest storm of the century.
He turned in to the park, nodding as he passed a family he knew from church, and walked over to where Lake Ontario rushed by. Normally the lake was calm, but the storm had worked it up.
He’d always loved the water, but never more so than when it stormed. The wind tugged at his coat, trying to wrestle it off of him.
He breathed in the power in the air. It felt like the whole world was on the edge of violence.
He smiled. And how true that is.
Whitecaps crashed angrily against the rocks along the shore, sending a spray into the air. Even the water had a palpable anger and power to it right now.
Anticipation built inside him, and he clenched his fists, trying to hold in the laugh.
Steve was out.
And a storm was coming.
He couldn’t have planned it better. He smiled even wider, rubbing his hands.
Time to play.
CHAPTER 5
Declan pulled into the parking lot of the Millners Kill Police Department. The squat, brown brick building stood at the end of Main Street; a flight of cement stairs and a winding handicap ramp dominated the front, along with a flagpole. The town employed four full-time officers and five part-time, along with another half a dozen volunteers.
Declan had debated stopping by Bess’s house just to see if Steve had arrived all right, but he knew Steve wouldn’t have appreciated it. It was hard, though. Even though Steve was a man now, Declan still thought of him as the little boy who’d lived a few houses down from him. Or the terrified boy who had been led away from the courtroom.
But Steve was grown up now. And Declan had seen the hardness in him that prison had created. But he’d also seen signs of that young boy he’d known. Prison hadn’t been able to stamp that boy out completely.
With a sigh, Declan pulled the key from the ignition and watched the flag ripple in the wind. He took a minute to try and figure out what he was going to say. He was the liaison with the state police, so he could probably make it seem like he was here about storm business. But the chief would see through that flimsy reason in a second.
Of course, he thought,
watching a deputy walk up the steps and disappear through the double doors, the chief wasn’t exactly a Mensa candidate. Chief Keith Hodgkins was the same guy he’d been in high school—a bruiser. He’d made all state for football in his junior year. Declan and his friends had joked that he’d taken one too many hits to the head.
Declan clenched his fist, remembering Keith shoving him into a locker after holding him down while his friends wrote “fag” on his forehead—in permanent marker. Now that same Neanderthal was the chief—for four terms already, and a lock for a fifth.
Declan shook his head. After high school, Keith had washed out of Florida State’s football program. Yet he’d come back to Millners Kill with his ego unharmed. Two years at the local community college, and he’d signed on as a deputy. Eight years later, he ran and won for Chief. And he’d remained chief for sixteen years now. Even with the complete clusterfuck that was the Granger case.
Grabbing the square box from the passenger seat, Declan opened the car door and steeled himself to face the jackass. No, the chief, he warned himself, trying to tamp down his old resentment. But those high school wounds felt awfully close to the surface whenever he ran into Keith.
Declan walked up the steps and held the door open for an older woman who was heading out. “Ma’am.”
She gave him a small smile. “Nice to see manners haven’t died.”
“Yes ma’am,” Declan said before stepping through the door.
Dee Pearson, who’d manned the reception desk almost since the station’s inception, was under siege. The phone was ringing, and Declan could see all the hold buttons were lit up. Three people were standing in front of the desk arguing. Dee was ignoring all of it.
She caught sight of Declan and gave him a sour look. Declan didn’t take it personally. On her best day, Dee wore the same look.
