Path of Destruction

by Cara Dee

  Just like that, my heart started hammering. Panic rose with each red light I passed. Mother of Christ, oh shit, what had I done? A raspy, choked noise filled the SUV. What the hell was it—nothing wrong with the engine, was there? No. Everything looked fine on the dash. I heard it again.

  It's you.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and accidentally swerved the vehicle. Get it together, I growled internally. I shook my head quickly and refocused on the road. The hotel was only a few minutes away now. I'd see her soon. I wanted her smile, her invisible piano tinkering, and her nose scrunch.

  I'm just gonna say goodbye.

  Part II

  Chapter 22

  Lincoln Hayes

  2008

  "Are you kidding me with this shit?" I picked up the book from Kid's bed he must've borrowed at the library today. Crime and Punishment. "It's like adding to your sentence."

  He flushed the toilet, a confused look on his face, and went to wash his hands. "What? I was told it's good."

  "Sure, if you're into depression and getting fucked in the ass by Russian names." Flipping the book over, I read the description and then tossed it back on his mattress. "If you're really interested in torturing yourself, after some foreplay with Dostoyevsky, I recommend War and Peace."

  He chuckled and sat down on his bed. "I heard that book's huge."

  I nodded. "More lethal than a shank." I jerked my chin at the door. "Let's work out." He wasn’t the only one who'd been to the library. These days, I was spending most of my free time there, reading reports and helpful crap about parole.

  "Dude," Kid complained. "I have one hour before my dinner shift. I want to read."

  I rolled my eyes and left him behind, knowing I was riding his ass a bit too much lately. Counting trivial shit didn’t work anymore. I needed to be on the move constantly.

  *

  Another day passed with no mail.

  I went over the hearing in my head a lot, wondering how—where and when—I'd fucked it up. I hadn't minimized the crime; I'd shown empathy and an improved mind-set…right? I wasn’t the same person. They had to fucking see that.

  There was one thing I'd wanted to bring up. The fact that no one knew what'd happened to Ade's mother. She'd driven off in her white SUV—toward Mexico, Ade had guessed—and my lawyers had done their best to work that angle. Stating I could've possibly, accidentally, killed a cold-blooded murderer. 'Cause Kane had been driving the mother's car in Detroit, and even to this day, no one knew if something had happened to her.

  Then again, the angle hadn't worked at the trial, so it was probably best I'd kept quiet about it. With my luck, the Board would've called that minimizing the severity of my crime.

  Running a hand through my hair, I counted the seconds it took for Pop to accept the call, usually ending up at around five.

  "Yellow. Everything all right, son?"

  I grinned faintly at the familiar greeting. "I'm okay. You?"

  "I'm learning that I'm impatient as fuck," he said bluntly. "No mail today, I assume?"

  "Nope."

  He sighed. "Well, I'm comin' to see you anyway. Adeline invited me to Thanksgiving dinner next week."

  "How nice of her." I ignored the stab of envy. This year, it was damn near impossible to avoid the holidays. "You two talk a lot now, huh?"

  "We do." He seemed to like that. "Plus, how else is she gonna get updates on you? It ain't like you're in the habit of dialing her number."

  I scratched my jaw. "There's no reason for her to give a shit."

  "But she does," he replied firmly, "and I've been asked to tell you she wants to visit."

  I groaned. Goddammit. "What the hell for?"

  "I don’t know. Let the girl visit, son. You're gonna need all the friends you can get."

  Stifling a curse, I glared at the floor and kept my argument to myself. "When?"

  "As soon as possible, she said," Pop answered. "I'll tell her your schedule's clear for tomorrow."

  Funny, funny prick.

  *

  "I'm losing my fucking mind." I paced the cell and tugged at my hair.

  "I think that happened a while ago," Kid mentioned. "There's only so many times you can say you're losing your mind before you've lost it."

  Little shit.

  He looked up from his book and smiled crookedly. "Be nice to that hair. It's already going gray. No need to yank it out, too."

  "You're asking for a beating," I told him.

  He snickered and flipped a page. "I don’t think you need to add a ticket to your jacket while you're up for parole."

  I ignored that and walked over to the steel plate attached to the wall. A prison version of a mirror that hung above the toilet. Turning my head, I inspected my hair and grimaced. The motherfucker was right. My temples were shifting in shades of brown and a bit of gray.

  I used to be young.

  "Visitation hours have started, Lincoln."

  I know, I was just hoping…fucking mail call. "All right, I'll see you later."

  *

  Did she have to be so goddamn gorgeous?

  She smiled politely as I approached what was turning into our usual table.

  "Hi."

  "Hey." I sat down across from her and rested my forearms on the table.

  She pointed at the vending machines on the other side of the room. "Can I get you anything?"

  I shrugged. "I won't say no to coffee."

  She nodded and rose from the table, giving me the first glimpse of her ass in ten years. Mother of Christ. The jeans she wore hugged her fantastic ass perfectly, and I averted my eyes. For maybe a fucking second. Her long-sleeved T-shirt was modest enough, but I still saw her new curves. Her hair was gathered in some messy bun, leaving her neck exposed.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed her, and I had to rein in my temper.

  By the time she returned, I'd counted to eighty-three.

  She brought more than coffee. There were a couple candy bars and a bag of chips, too.

  "Are you allowed to bring this back in with you?" she asked, pushing them toward me.

  I shook my head. "I can help you eat them, though."

  "I don’t want any. Knock yourself out." She stirred some sugar into her coffee, and I saw my cup had been tampered with. My forehead creased. What was in that thing? Ade grinned. "Just drink it, Lincoln."

  I eyed her suspiciously and took a sip. What the…? I frowned and took another swig. Fuck—hot. And ten times better than what I was used to.

  Ade leaned over the table slightly and lowered her voice. "I smuggled in a packet of insta-cappuccino."

  I pressed my lips together. Was she for fucking real? My mouth twitched as amusement trickled in. The girl seemed proud of herself and her deviant scheming to bring me coffee. Cute.

  "You're a nut," I told her.

  She merely grinned and drank from her own coffee, which didn’t look to taste as good.

  "Where did you hide it?" I smirked.

  Fuck if she didn’t blush.

  This was too damn strange for me. Seeing her, talking to her, making…fucking chitchat, after everything that'd happened. I still couldn’t make up my mind about her. Did I hate her or miss her? We had a lot hanging over our heads, and now, ten years later, it was like pretending everything was peachy—like standing next to a nuclear blast test site and cracking jokes. Sooner or later, we were gonna blow.

  "Anyway…" She cleared her throat and opened the bag of chips. "I think I have some good news."

  "What's that?" I accepted the little bag and stuck a handful of chips into my mouth.

  She shifted in her seat. "A parole officer came by Martha's a few days ago."

  My eyebrows lifted.

  "That has to mean something, right?" She looked at me imploringly. "If they weren't going to approve your parole, why look into your housing arrangements?"

  Good question.

  Damn. Fuck. How the hell was I gonna keep my hopes from getting up again? What she said
made sense to me. My future meant jack shit if my present wasn’t good enough for a release. This was government bullshit. They wouldn’t go through all the extra work of doing a background check on that Martha lady if I wasn’t getting out.

  "Did they say anything else?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "All I know is that a guy was there. Martha said it's standard procedure for agents to visit the home of a parolee."

  We fell silent, and I finished my coffee as the same thought ran on a loop in my head. Why would they bother unless I was being released?

  Ade came all the way from Detroit to tell me this in person.

  "Are you trying to be friends with me?" I narrowed my eyes at her.

  "I wouldn’t dare." She took a sip, a wry, teasing glint in her eye. "Honestly, Lincoln." Her expression gentled, and she set down her cup. "I know you don’t want me in your life. I wouldn’t impose. Just…let me help out a little right when you get out—for your sake and your dad's—and then you won't have to see me much. Okay?"

  I didn’t reply. What could I say? I didn’t know how I felt or what I wanted. Except, "I know you don't want me in your life" packed one hell of a punch, and not a single word of it rang true. I was a weak-ass motherfucker who needed to protect himself from a five-foot nothin' little girl. Or however tall she was.

  I stared at the table, wondering how long it'd take for me to get my shit together. Probably never. I kept hiding, suppressing, and avoiding. Pussy. If this was how I dealt with issues, maybe I didn’t deserve to get paroled.

  "Do you know how to make a pot roast?" I asked.

  It was the only thing I could think of to say as a roundabout way of thanking her for the help. By accepting it and appreciating it.

  She smiled curiously. "Sure."

  I nodded once. "That would be a nice meal to come home to. With mashed potatoes," I added quickly. "And no skimping on the butter."

  Her smile widened a little. "Lots of butter. Noted."

  *

  "I'm out." Kid scowled and threw his cards on the table.

  "Me, too," I said.

  Nunez and a couple others continued playing. It was his game. I didn’t like the tables that took up the space in the middle of our block. Surrounded by two floors of cells, I felt exposed as hell here. But Nunez and his other buddies called this table theirs, and they'd invited us to a game when I needed another distraction.

  "Why you gotta keep raisin', man?" Filipe bitched. "I'm losing the last of my flavor packets."

  He probably shouldn’t advertise we were playing for goods from the canteen.

  "Lower your goddamn voice," Nunez replied. "It's to call you on your pathetic bluff." He turned to me. "You might wanna get outta here, ese."

  "Yeah, good call." I stood up and jerked my chin at Kid. "Let's go." The guards didn’t need to see me involved in gambling.

  "Mail call!"

  Yeah, and let's push my pulse through the roof.

  I looked over my shoulder, toward the CO who'd announced it was mail delivery time. Inmates who worked in the mail room handed out letters all the time, but a CO always accompanied them when there was mail from any government institution.

  Kid and I made our way upstairs to our cell, and I waited impatiently in the doorway. Could today be the day? I bit my thumbnail, frustrated, and prayed my call to Pop later wouldn’t go as it tended to these days.

  "You're making me nervous, too." Kid fidgeted with his beanie.

  "It'll be your turn a year from now." I rubbed my jaw, counting the cells before ours. One inmate and one CO walked up the metal stairs, stopping wherever a letter was to be delivered. Eight…seven…six. Five…four cells.

  The CO glanced over to our corner and met my gaze, something akin to "I know what you're waiting for" flashing across his features. And then the fucker quirked his lips and held up a letter.

  "That for me?" I folded my arms.

  "Is the suspense killing you yet, Hayes?" he chuckled. "Yeah, it's for you."

  "Thank fuck." I blew out a breath and walked over to retrieve the letter. He gave it to me, and I muttered a thanks before returning to my cell. Kid perked up and joined me at my side as I yanked out the folded pieces of paper. Three pages. "Come on, come on, come on." Goddamn paper cut. I hissed and sucked the edge of my thumb.

  "Here." Kid kept the letters from trembling, then breathed out, "Oh my God, Lincoln."

  Parole Board Notice of Decision. Inmate copy… Michigan Department of Corrections… I made sure I spotted my name and MDOC number before I allowed my gaze to drop to the next paragraph. The Michigan Parole Board, having conducted a review of the above prisoner's case, has determined the following: Parole approved by the majority of the—

  "Holy shit," I whispered. "Holy shit, Kid."

  I lost the strength to stand upright and sat down on his bed. In the meantime, he snatched up the letters for me and kept reading. Because I fucking couldn’t. He read faster than me, anyway.

  I'm getting out.

  "Your parole plan is in here, too." He lifted the first page. "Lincoln, you're being released soon."

  I swallowed dryly, trying to process. "When?"

  He grinned at the letter, and I was pretty sure his eyes were glassy. "December fifteenth." He looked down at me. "You'll be home for Christmas."

  A choked little chuckle escaped me, and I shook my head dazedly 'cause this was un-fucking-believable. I couldn’t imagine it. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I could feel my eyes burn, and the emotions threatened to spill over at any moment. Incomprehensible.

  Apparently…in three weeks, I was walking out of here.

  "I'm really fucking happy for you." He sat down next to me and gave my knee a squeeze. "Ten years is a long time. Make sure you never end up in here again."

  Fuck no.

  I exhaled heavily, drained and wondering if my bones had turned to jelly. I couldn’t fucking move, I was so tired.

  "I can't visit you," I said quietly.

  "I know." His smile was forced. "It's okay. I'll harass you on the phone."

  "You fucking better." I was serious about that. "There're special cases where parolees are granted rights to visit prisons. I'll apply for it when the dust's settled, all right?"

  "Please don’t think about that now." He eyed the letters again, his smile softening a bit. More genuine. "Twenty-four months parole isn't too bad."

  It really wasn’t. "Any special requirements?"

  He nodded. "They've decided, because of your history with drugs and alcohol, that you won't be allowed to renew your driver's license during this time. You'll have a curfew, too. That sucks."

  I shrugged. Maybe I'd be privileged enough to curse over that one day, but right now, I couldn’t care less.

  "Mandatory counseling and anger management, too," he finished.

  All I heard was, you're going home.

  *

  Prison had a way of robbing people of pleasure and happiness. Even with the upcoming parole, I couldn’t be too excited. Paranoia seeped into the daze I walked in a couple days later, and I grew suspicious of everyone who came near me. I trusted Kid and Nunez; the rest, I gave a wide berth.

  Don't get me in trouble.

  Don't push me.

  After work, I attended a daily class in the library, and class was probably a strong word for it. I was given material to read up on, I talked to the prison counselor, and I was granted a special pass to make calls that were related to my parole. I did everything I could to look like a model inmate.

  I didn’t play cards anymore. I avoided the CO who used to smuggle in smokes for me. No pocketing apples or rolls in the cafeteria to eat later. Free time was spent reading, hanging with Kid, and minding my own business.

  I'd stopped calling Pop every day, too. Now that I was getting out, it was impossible to hold the fucker back. He may be old, traditional, and almost as rough around the edges as I was, but he was also a sentimental fool, not to mention a romantic. He had shit planned out, from wha
t was gonna happen next month to what house I might buy back home that was conveniently big enough to start a family.

  It was overwhelming as fuck, and at the end of each day, I was wrung out and ready blow a fuse.

  "Are you okay?" Kid asked when lights went out.

  "Yeah." I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Yeah, I'm fine."

  Except, the sickening feeling of being stuck in a somersault wouldn’t go away. It sat like a rock in my stomach and chest.

  *

  "Lincoln." Kid poked his head into our cell where I was doing absolutely nothing but overthinking and overanalyzing. "Come on."

  "What's up?"

  "Just come with me."

  I didn’t question him further. Any distraction was welcome. Following him out of the cell and down to the first floor, I did my best to clear my head. It was filled with doubt and irrational fears, and I didn’t know how the hell to get past them.

  I'd gone through three weeks of preparations. A medical exam so they could ship me off with a clean bill of health, another few counseling sessions, final arrangements with everyone from Mack to my parole officer. I'd had my pop transfer money to Kid's account, I'd spoken briefly to Ade about some practical shit, and I'd read and reread the list of violations a parolee could commit.

  Parole wasn’t freedom. It was a fucking minefield.

  "In here." Kid came to a stop, making me realize we were outside the room used for church services. I frowned at him, and he smiled hesitantly. "Give it a shot. I'm no more religious than you are, but it's kinda peaceful in here."

  The door was open, and they were about to start. The pews were filled, the lights dimmed low.

  Fuck it.

  I trailed after him, and we found two spots in the back.

  "Don't become a bible thumper when I leave." My joke fell flat.

  Kid bumped his knee to mine, his voice low. "Nothing wrong with going to church."

  Of course there wasn’t, but Kid didn’t believe in God. "You're not serious, are you?"

  "I am." He slipped off his beanie and kept it in his lap. "Maybe you don't need faith in a higher power, Lincoln. Maybe you need to have some faith in yourself."

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  As the chaplain started the Sunday service, I listened without really registering the words. Instead, I got stuck on what Kid had said. I guess ten years in lockup had stripped me of that. Believing in myself—I didn’t know where to begin.