by Amelia Gates
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Elly
STAY CONNECTED
Chapter 1
I’d been away from home for far too long. The truck stop which doubled as a bus station had been repainted; the dull, sad blue replaced by a dull, sad salmon. Across the street, Schultz’s Diner had been bought out by a chain which hadn’t bothered to sandblast the stenciled letters off the sidewalk.
I counted the benches as I stepped off the bus. There used to be three; two for general use, and one on the end that old Raff called home. Raff’s bench was gone—only a dark patch of concrete and four broken bolts showed where it used to be.
He’s probably dead. Six years is a long time for an old man to live outside. The unwanted thought settled on my mind, heavier than the rucksack over my shoulder. I shifted both to make them easier to bear. Raff probably won the lottery and moved into a retirement home. I’d gotten real good at believing my own lies. Hell, some of them even came true; like, they’ll figure out I didn’t do it and lift my sentence. If that turned out to be true, why shouldn’t this?
“Hey! Hey, you!”
First things first. I had a voucher in my pocket for a week at the motel—I should get myself a room before I did anything else. But my feet had a mind of their own and I found myself bypassing the motel entirely, heading up the road to the little grocery store on the corner. No reason I shouldn’t quench my thirst before setting up, I reasoned.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.”
My path was blocked, and so I stopped. I stared down at the rough work boots in front of me for a moment and sucked in a long, deep breath. The fact that home wasn’t home – not that it had ever been – was about to become incredibly clear. I could just feel it, the impending truth of just how unwanted I was around here.
“Prison make you deaf, boy?”
I raised my head slowly, to look the owner of the boots in the eyes. Bruce Rigget glared down at me, all two hundred muscled pounds of him twisted in disgust.
“You could’a said my name,” I said, keeping both my face and my attitude calm.
Rigget curled his lip at me and sneered. “Scum like you don’t deserve a name. You know my girl was set on marrying Hunter. She ain’t forgot. How’s that feel, boy? Knowing you broke a girl’s heart. She ain’t never gonna be the same.”
Hunter’s name sliced open the wound in my soul, stiffening my muscles with a rage born of loss. Just like it always did. Just like it always will. I shook my head. Can’t get in a brawl my first day back in town, the quiet, rational part of my brain whispered. Hard as it was, I kept my lips pressed together as I rolled the tension out of my shoulders and nodded.
“My condolences.”
“You son of a--!”
I ducked under his fist and kept moving down the street.
“Yeah, you better run!”
His shouts were drawing attention to me. Wide-eyed women ducked inside buildings and stared with bulging eyes as I passed. Men postured threateningly. My friends and neighbors, I thought bitterly. I can’t say this was the welcome home I was expecting, but then again, I never quite thought about what it would be like to come back.
Paint wasn’t the only thing that had changed in this godforsaken place. There were a surprising number of people out and about, and they all seemed to know exactly who I was. It was almost comical, like a play they were putting on for one another’s benefit. I couldn’t believe any of them were actually afraid of me—but they’d be damned if they couldn’t brag to one another about their near-miss with the town killer.
The newspaper stand in front of the grocery store confirmed my suspicions. There, on the front page, was my mug shot. Beside it, Hunter’s senior photo. His eyes haunted me. Deep as the sea, even on newspaper, just like his sister’s—but with a determined glint I’d never seen in hers.
“Determined to get yourself killed,” I murmured as I touched my fingers to the scratched plastic window on the stand. “Never could keep your mouth shut.”
“So the man talked shit and ya killed him for it?” An obnoxious cackle punctuated the erroneous remark, and I glanced over my shoulder to see a rickety old man. He wore a filthy apron over his filthy clothes and he was pushing dirt around with an ancient broom. “That’s the way to do it, boy. That’s how a man earns respect!”
Disgust churned in my gut, but I kept my face blank. Can’t give them the satisfaction of knowing you feel a damn thing. “That ain’t how it happened, Mick.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you gotta say to keep your freedom, right? So, just between me and you, how’d you do it, huh? What’s the get outta jail free card, jus’ in case I need it someday.” Drool seeped between the gaps in his rotten teeth as he grinned up at me. I suppressed a shudder and turned away and took a few unnoticeable steps back. I could still smell him from here, though and my skin still ran cold at the thought of what the stench could be related to.
“Simple,” I said. “Don’t kill anybody.”
“All right, I hear ya. Keep your secrets to yourself then. But if I’m ever in a jam, I’m gonna give you a call.”
“Don’t bother,” I told him and turned to walk away for good, adamant on putting as much space between him and me as possible. His grating laugh followed me into the store, though he remained outside.
The old-fashioned lemonade shop still sat in the front corner as it always had, still as blindingly yellow as ever. I’d dreamed about these drinks when I was locked up, even though I’d always thought they were a little too sweet before. I guess they saying is true – you don’t know what the hell it is you’ve got till it’s gone.
My stomach growled as I stepped in line, surprising me that the stench of old Mick didn’t completely kill my appetite. I spun around and eyed the small selection of pastries and snacks. Shrugging, I decided the lemonade would be sweet enough to combine with a little something salty. I grabbed a corn dog with the tongs stationed beside the display and shoved one into a paper bag. Beat down and stale as they looked, they couldn’t possibly be any worse than prison food.
“Welcome to Country Corner, can I take your—ohhh!” The goth teenager behind the counter interrupted herself with a wide-eyed stare before quickly forcing that trademark boredom back in place. “Well, well, well—Kash Lawson. As hot as ever, I see.”
I blinked, then squinted. Nope, not a clue. She would have been nine, maybe as old as eleven or twelve when I was arrested. I didn’t make a habit of checking out kids and thick as the eyeliner was around her eyes, I wasn’t going to make a habit of checking her out now. “Large lemonade and a corn dog,” I said.
“Is that all you want?” She dropped her voice suggestively and ran her black-rimmed eyes over my body. Jesus H. Christ, what has this town come to?
“Yup.”
“Oh come on, Kash—I heard that men get all kinds of horny when
they’re in the big house.” She bit her lips at me and winked.
“The big house, huh?”
She nodded earnestly. “Oh, yeah. And all that sexual tension has to go somewhere, right? Let me throw you a bone. Or—” She bit her lip and giggled. “Vice versa.”
I kept my face blank and stared at her. She was damn persistent—it took an entire thirteen seconds for her to get the hint. She jabbed a black-clawed finger at the register, punctuating her anger with a snarl.
“$9.95,” she said sourly.
I winced. Inflation’s a bitch. But I paid her the money and she snatched it from me, then scribbled on my receipt before handing it to me.
“Have a terrible day,” she said.
“You too.”
She moved on to her next customer without another word, but kept shooting burning glances in my direction. I looked down at the receipt and rolled my eyes. Her handwriting was round and cute, like every preppy little girl in high school. You’re toxic and I love it. Call me.
Hunter would have. He would call and take her out and show her a nice time and tell her that she deserved better. He’d run a whole therapy session on her and have her broken down crying and screaming affirmations into the wind by the end of it. Then he’d drop her off at home and forget all about her.
I was never good at that crap. If someone wanted to ride the danger wave, sure, I’d help them. But I wouldn’t ride it with them, and I wouldn’t talk them out of it. I didn’t figure it was any of my business, just like she wasn’t any of my business now. Girls like that were damaged ever since the day they were born and it didn’t take a damaged man like me to fix them. Hell, even therapy didn’t have a chance.
I took my food outside. Not just for the novelty—prison wasn’t well-known for picnic lunches—but for the vantage point. There was a single exception to my “don’t get involved” rule, and there was a good chance she’d pass by this way. At least I hoped the chances were good. She hadn’t answered any of my letters or phone calls, but I imagined it would have taken her at least this long to scrape the cash together to leave this dump.
Shadows lengthened in the dull afternoon as I sat watching the town go by. Occasionally someone would try to strike up a conversation with me, but I brushed them all off. It didn’t matter to me whether they wanted to fight or congratulate me for getting away with murder. I was bored of the conversation and there was only one person left in the whole world whose opinion of me mattered.
Prison had given me the gift of patience, something I’d never developed before. Evening fell soft and purple as the storefront lights flickered on, and still I sat dawdling over my warmed lemonade. The corndog was long gone, but that head-sized bucket of too-sweet lemonade had at least another hour of dawdling left in it. The church across town rang its bell six times and my muscles grew more and more tired with each ring. Waiting out here, despite the lack of exertion, was getting exhausting. I took another sip of my drink and rubbed at my eyes. So many thoughts pounded my mind. So many things that didn’t need to sit. That didn’t need to become bigger than the burdens I was already carrying. Of course, they were all things I would have to approach one way or the other. Questions like – where do I go from here? What does life have in store for me? Is starting over even possible? Hard questions.
A lone figure stepped onto the sidewalk down the road from me, coming from the unpaved, disorganized collection of quarter-acre lots at the back end of town. The distraction was just what I needed to pull my mind away from my wayward thoughts. Though, if I were to be honest with myself, she was the biggest and the most important question I had. At least it felt that way.
I allowed my eyes to follow her, to take her in, examine what I could see of her from head to toe. She was taller and thinner than I remembered, but she moved the same way. That rippling sway from shoulder to hip, like she was born dancing and had to remember how to walk without twirling. Her straight, silky brown hair was up in a crazy bun that stuck out in fourteen directions, and she was still wearing the same pair of baby blue skater shoes she’d worn all through high school.
Daisy.
I adjusted my shoulders, rolling the tension away from them. Less threatening, more open, that’s how I needed to be.
I pushed my hood off my head. See my face? I’m still me. That’s what the gesture was supposed to see. Just like I couldn’t miss her in a crowd of a million people, for some reason, I expected she wouldn’t be able to miss me. Especially not when I was sitting all to my lonesome. But she didn’t even look my way. She had an absent sort of scowl on her face, the kind people get when they’re staging an argument in their heads. Maybe I should have just sat there. I probably should have left, walked in the opposite direction. Stayed out of her way. But I had waited six long years to finally be able to talk to her again. There was no way I was going to wait any longer.
I draped my backpack onto my shoulders and started after her, following her into the store. Surprisingly enough, she was already at the register when I made my entrance. Apparently her life didn’t allow for wasting time scanning shelves or pondering what to buy and what not to buy. She came in, knew what she wanted, and when she had it, made moves to get the hell out. The cashier had other plans for her though, chatting her up like they’d been long lost friends.
“Dang, Daisy! Another case already? What’re you doing out there, throwing frat parties?”
“You know me, Douggie. Gotta get my drink on.” Her tone was light-hearted and playful, but I knew her well enough to know it was forced. Looked to me like her dad had taken his habit to the next level. Why she insisted on protecting his reputation I would never understand.
Douggie laughed. “The drunk librarian, huh? Sounds like the name of a song.”
“You should write it,” she said with a grin that didn’t meet her eyes. She handed over the money—exact change, damn she did do this a lot—and sent her good-byes to Douggie over her shoulder. She was looking down at the floor in front of her. Oblivious to the world around her, she still hadn’t seen me.
“Can I help you with that?” I asked.
She stopped short, every muscle tightening as the blood rushed out of her face. When she looked up at me, her eyes were deep wells of sorrow and rage. She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed her lips together in a thin, angry line and pushed past me.
I followed her out. Matching her step for step.
“You got a long way to go carrying that case,” I pointed out. “Let me help you with it. I’ll take it halfway, ease some of the burden for you.”
Daisy kept walking, not answering, trying to pretend that I wasn’t next to her. I must admit, she was doing quite a fine job in the ignoring department too. But her arms were starting to shake. When the bottles in the box started clanking together, threatening to break, I took the box from her.
“Woah, woah! That’s a lot of money gone if you drop it. I got it, it’s okay. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
I turned and took a couple steps, but didn’t hear her come with me. I turned around to find her still standing there, trembling and glaring at me like I’d just stepped out of a Stephen King movie.
“No.” She almost spat the word.
“What?”
She stormed up to me and snatched the case back out of my hands “I said no. You listen and you listen good, Kash Lawson. You stay away from me and what’s left of my family or so help me god I will put you in the ground with Hunter.”
She walked away and didn’t look back. A detached numbness washed over me, coating my insides before my heart shattered.
She thought I killed him.
Chapter 2
I barely made it out of sight before I broke down.
How dare he show his face here?
How dare he try to talk to me?
How dare he act like he can just pick up where he dropped off?
Years of silence and now he just casually walks up and tries to help me?
I was shaking too hard,
my hands practically vibrating. If I held on any longer, I was going to drop the case and Kash would be right, I’d spent too much money to end up losing it all on the pavement. I stopped, catching my breath as I set the case down on a stump next to the gravel road and curled my body into a ball. Don’t scream, don’t scream. He hadn’t followed me, but he would hear it if I screamed.
A river of tears ran down my face and soon enough, I found that I couldn’t catch my breath. It was like a fist made of fire had captured my chest and was squeezing, squeezing so hard I could feel my heart push against my throat.
Kash. His name sliced through my skull and I shut my eyes tighter against the pain. I shoved a fist against my mouth, smothering the sounds of agony that threatened to echo through the night.
I’d given him every chance to redeem himself in my eyes. I’d made excuses for him. Rationalized all the evidence away. He couldn’t have done that. Not my Kash. He wouldn’t have killed my brother, that was insane. He wouldn’t have killed his best friend. Not Kash. I knew him better than that. He loved Hunter too much to have done it. Deep in the marrow of my bones, I knew it. So much so that I had sent him letters while he was in prison. And what a sight that was, the sister of the deceased writing love notes to the man who murdered her brother. Except I was sure. Surer than sure. Because Kash, there was no way he was responsible.
Dozens and dozens of letters, I’d penned. Letters marked in tears and holding the pain of not just tired, worn out fingers, but also a broken and battered heart. Dozens and dozens of letters that all went unanswered. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. He froze me out. Kash, the one I would have put my neck on the chopping block for. Kash, the person I was sure didn’t do what everyone else thought he did – my father, the cops and the judge included. The longer I went without hearing from him, the more my doubts mounted. If he wasn’t guilty, then why the hell wouldn’t he have written back?
