Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  As she walked into her hallway, she heard Richard say, “Carrots still look good. Oranges, too. Goodness, when was the last time you had an orange, Braden?”

  “Oooh,” Braden crowed. “She has Cheerios.”

  Ashlee smiled in spite of everything.

  The small pleasures of life.

  “Hey,” she called, “if you see any rotten eggs, save them for me.”

  “Why?” Braden asked.

  “So I can egg David’s house,” she said. “Oh, and grab my stash of chocolate. Upper cabinet, next to the sink.” With everything happening, she was going to need chocolate. Every last bit of it.

  While they raided her fridge, she raided her bathroom. Grabbing a travel bag under the sink, she shoved in lipstick, makeup, shampoo, hairbrushes, a loofa, every razor she owned, and her beloved toothbrush.

  As she turned to leave, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror. A woman she hardly recognized stared back at her. Her blonde hair was a disaster: ratty, frizzy ends, with dark roots showing through her platinum blonde. She looked thinner, which wasn’t all bad. She rubbed her cheeks and the skin under her eyes. Her skin had grown tan—another benefit. Leaning forward, she spotted a smudge of dirt on her forehead. Strangely, she didn’t mind that either. In fact, she looked stronger than had before—maybe even a little wild—and she liked it.

  But not enough to leave her beauty supplies behind.

  She rushed into her room to grab clothes next but stopped. Someone had opened her drawers and strewn things about. Half the drawers still hung open.

  David! she growled.

  He’d been digging through her clothes. What did he think he’d find?

  Pervert.

  Or maybe he thought he’d find a map to her secret hideout. She dug through what was left and picked a few favorite outfits.

  By the time she came back to the kitchen, Richard and Braden were hunched over deli sandwiches.

  “Men,” she said, shaking her head. “Offer them a shower, and they turn it down. But offer them food…”

  “Sorry,” Richard said, mid-chew. “It’s very good. Would you like one?”

  She laughed. “No.”

  As they snarfed down what they could, she shuffled through the things on her counter. Like her clothing, her mail was also scattered across the counter. David had done quite a bit of searching, trying to find her. Good. She reached over to check her answering machine.

  No messages there.

  Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad, she thought bitterly. Did they have any idea she was missing at all?

  “Don’t you want to be careful moving things around?” Braden said in between bites. “Jamansky will know you were here.”

  “This is my house!” she snapped. “I hope he knows I came home. Maybe I should leave him a note. Tell him he can go to…”

  Her voice trailed as her eye caught hold of something. In her moving things around, a letter had slipped out between the rest of her mail. It looked like the usual, official, boring drivel she received, except it had been addressed to her in a man’s handwriting, and he had misspelled her name.

  Ashley Lion.

  It was the misspelling that caught her eye. Nothing official was ever misspelled. They always sent everything through a computer, linking it to her citizenship record.

  Curious, she pulled the letter out of the pile. Then she gasped. In the upper left corner it said, “Joliet State Penitentiary.”

  JSP.

  Her eyes widened. “You guys, come look! Hurry. I think this is from Oliver.”

  She nearly squealed as she opened it.

  To Ashley Lion,

  I’m writing for a friend. Well, he’s kind of a friend. He’s my cellie (that’s code for cellmate), but he’s not allowed to send letters, so I’m sending this for him. We’re not even sure if you’ll get this, so he asked me to be vague. He’s kind of a nervous guy, which I’m sure you know.

  I apologize if this is lengthy. We don’t get a lot of social interaction here, so I’m going to take my time and enjoy writing to a gorgeous babe. (Technically, I don’t know if you’re gorgeous. My buddy won’t tell me what you look like. But based on how he was acting, I’m guessing he thinks you’re totally hot. In fact, you should send us pictures.)

  “What in the world?” Richard said, reading over her shoulder.

  “It doesn’t even make sense,” Braden said.

  Braden was right. This guy couldn’t be talking about Oliver because, even if quiet, reserved Oliver Simmons thought she was attractive—which was a huge if—he wouldn’t use the word hot to describe her or any other woman. Not without dropping dead first.

  Even more curious, she kept reading.

  So, hey. How are ya? My friend seems sad, but that’s to be expected. He’s learning the ropes here, and I’m keeping an eye out for him. (You’re welcome.) But he’s really, really, REALLY worried about you, so I’m supposed to ask:

  Are you okay? Are you hurt?

  He wouldn’t tell me why, but he said he put you in some kind of danger. “Grave danger.” Because of that, he said to tell you to beware of certain things and certain people because those certain people know certain things about some certain project you and he were working on.

  Ashlee stopped.

  But David already knew about their project because he’d squeezed the information out of her. Would David have arrested Oliver if it wasn’t for her? How much had David known about Oliver’s illegal doings before she squealed like the coward she was?

  Guilt flooded her veins.

  Richard gave her a strange look. “What project?”

  She stared at the words. “Oliver and I were trying to nail down David Jamansky’s illegal activity, trying to prove it on paper. David and the mayor have been embezzling money for years. They sell most of what we acquire on the black market. But it’s not exactly like the black market gives receipts. So Oliver and I were trying to prove it from our end, showing everything that had come into the office, and then prove that only a third of it—or less—had been reported back to the government.”

  Braden’s eyes widened. “Cool.”

  Even more desperate, Ashlee kept reading.

  If you’re able, my friend has a file of itemized logs in his house that should help prove things. His spare key is in his garage under the rock. (He said “the rock” which makes me think there’s only one.) The file is in his file cabinet under the false heading of “Mileage.” He’s hoping you can send it in for him. Just make sure to put his name on it, and he’ll take all the blame. He was adamant that you LEAVE YOUR NAME OFF. (He told me underline and put that in capital letters.)

  Hopefully that all makes sense to you. Like I said, he’s pretty worried about you.

  But enough about that. Let me tell you about me. I have dark hair, perfect eyes, and a killer body. I work out all the time in here to stay sane. I’ve been in JSP for fifteen years, serving one and a half life sentences, but I’d give it all up for just one glimpse of you. *wink, wink

  I think you should send us a nice long letter in return. In it, confess that you’re madly in love with both of us, and it’s not fair that we’re making you choose between us. In fact, you’re completely torn up over the decision.

  A guard is tapping on the glass. I’m out of time, sweetheart. Hope I remembered everything. Hugs and big wet kisses from your two favorite inmates.

  Reef and You Know Who

  PS) Don’t forget to send a picture.

  PPS) I know you can’t send a letter—or picture. They don’t allow any letters to come in, so I guess you’ll just have to come visit us me.

  “What does it all mean?” Braden said.

  “I…I don’t know,” Ashlee said.

  “Look.” Richard grabbed another envelope from the stack. “I think this is another one.”

  Sure enough, one more buried envelope had the guy’s same handwriting—and misspelling of her name. When she pulled out the next letter, it was a third of the le
ngth and written in a scrawled, hurried script.

  Dear Miss Lion,

  Forget everything I said before. Your boyfriend (I didn’t realize you had a boyfriend; that would have been nice to know) visited my buddy and threatened him bad. Now my friend wants you to forget everything and hide. Yep. Hide. He says to hide somewhere your boyfriend can’t find you since he threatened to kill you and some chick named Carrie. I guess the feds already got ahold of whatever you had in that file. They put your boyfriend and the mayor on probation, and now he’s out for blood.

  “Probation?” Ashlee repeated. “David’s on probation?”

  I told my friend that you need to go to the cops, but apparently, that’s a bad idea. Now we’re both super stressed that it’s too late and you won’t get this letter in time. If you get this, please find a place to disappear.

  Reef and You Know Who

  Ashlee put a hand on her cheek, reading it all over again. Then her jaw clenched tight. She threw both letters down on the counter.

  “Are there any others?” she asked, digging through her mail.

  But Richard had already sorted through the rest. “No, that’s it.”

  She turned on her heel. “Then I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?” Richard asked.

  “To Oliver’s house. I have to find that file.”

  “But he said to forget it,” Braden said. “Jamansky threatened you and Carrie.”

  “Carrie’s in prison, and I’m already hidden,” Ashlee said. “David can’t touch either of us, so I say let him hang.” She put a hand on her hip. “Are you guys coming or not?”

  forty-six

  THERE WAS INDEED ONLY ONE rock in Oliver’s garage, with a key underneath. Still, Ashlee felt weird breaking into Oliver’s home—even with his permission. It felt too private. She didn’t know him that well. But the three of them entered his back door. Darkness filled his home. She flipped on a few lights.

  Even though his house was identical to hers, it looked different. Oliver had very little furniture, and no pictures. Not even cozy curtains. Just lonely, closed blinds.

  Walking around, she made little kissy noises.

  “What are you doing?” Richard said.

  “Seeing if he has a cat.” At Richard’s strange look, she said, “Oliver seems like a cat guy, don’t you think? You never know.”

  But no cat came. Probably because it had starved to death.

  Poor kitty.

  Ashlee still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t paid much attention to Oliver Simmons before. They lived a few streets apart and had worked in the same precinct for years. But he was the kind of guy who became invisible to others.

  She found his small desk in his office. She opened the bottom drawer and crouched down. Not only had he organized his files perfectly, with tiny, uniform, handwritten titles, but they were alphabetized.

  Oliver.

  She had no problem finding the one titled “Mileage,” and flipped it open. Oliver had placed several small papers inside, paper-clipped into sections. Some were logs from the Kane County official registers. Others were small notes Oliver had written.

  She held up one.

  “Hey,” she said to the others, “look at this one.”

  “Investigate Ferris raid, two years ago, October.”

  Braden nodded. “Weird coincidence. Do all those papers mean anything to you?”

  “Yes. It means a lot of work, unfortunately.”

  Every time she came across a handwritten note, she paused, reading his notes, guessing his thoughts. One was a note to himself to check boxes in the back shed—something he’d never had time to get to because she’d spilled everything. She had told David everything, and now Oliver was serving a life sentence in prison because of her.

  Her throat clogged.

  Of all the people in the world who deserved incarceration, Oliver Simmons was the last. He was too sweet and quiet and kind.

  She looked up at Braden and Richard. “I know you’re in a hurry to see Amber and Zach, but I have to send these in. I have to finish what Oliver started, and it’s going to take me some time. I’m not even sure what all he has here. I’m sorry to bail on you, Braden, but Richard should be able to get in and visit—maybe. I’ll try to catch up with you. Somehow.”

  Richard looked at Braden.

  For a long time, Braden Ziegler just stared at the file. Then his shoulders lowered. Looking around, he found a chair and pulled it up beside her. “If we help, you can go faster.”

  She smiled a slow smile. “Good. Look around and find some envelopes.”

  * * * * *

  Amber lay on her blue cot, staring at the ceiling twenty feet above. The pain was bearable. The humiliation, tolerable. But the defeat was paralyzing, even more than her broken leg.

  Tears leaked down the sides of her face.

  “I’m supposed to help you get to lunch,” a girl said beside her. “Do you know how to use your crutches?”

  She was younger than Amber.

  Intrusive.

  Inconsequential.

  Amber remained on her cot, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I can help you with the crutches if you need,” the girl said. “I had a cast once, too.”

  She waited for Amber to respond or move, but Amber did neither.

  “Stupid mute,” the girl muttered. “I don’t know why they bother with you.”

  Neither did Amber.

  The girl left the communal room. Her retreating footsteps mocked Amber’s ability to get up and leave. Her leg throbbed so badly tears flowed endlessly down her hot cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut, hating herself for being so stupid.

  Her plan had failed on many levels: height, yard guards, fence. How had she not noticed the fence? And now she was a cripple. She’d heard the bone crack in her leg when she hit the ground. Even if she hadn’t busted her leg, the yard guards had reached her before she could attempt to stand.

  I’ll have to stop eating, she decided. But that would be ten times harder than not speaking because she loved food, especially the variety they gave the girls there.

  “Miss Ashworth?”

  A different voice approached her, adult, soon to be intrusive, and yet still inconsequential.

  Just leave me alone! Amber wanted to yell.

  “Miss Ashworth?” Mrs. Karlsson repeated, hovering until Amber looked at her. “Natalia informed us that you’re perfectly capable of speaking, so speak.”

  “Why? So you can kill me?” The words felt strange in her throat after so much silence.

  “Ah,” Mrs. Karlsson said. “Good. Now we won’t have to force the words out of you.”

  As if they could.

  Clasping her hands tightly, the headmistress said, “All this behavior since your arrival has convinced me of your former status. You weren’t just any illegal, were you, Miss Ashworth? You belonged to a rebel group.”

  Amber laughed darkly. “Yep. That’s me. The rebel.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Mrs. Karlsson motioned to a man who had come in behind her. “Go ahead. Use whatever means you need to get the information.”

  Information?

  Amber jerked around. The move jarred her leg, shooting pain up and down her.

  A man sat beside her bed. He looked like a nerdy librarian, sweater vest and all. He even had a pocket protector with several pens. He grabbed one out and tapped a small notebook.

  “How’s the leg?” he asked, almost sounding like he cared.

  “Drop dead,” she said back.

  Rolling away from him, she pulled the scratchy blanket up and over her head.

  “Well, this should be fun,” the man said. “Let me explain how this works, Miss Ashworth. Mrs. Karlsson told me you hate working the floor. Perhaps with this injury you’d like a break from your work duties? I can give that to you—or rather, you can give that to yourself. Every name you give me gets you time off for good behavior.”

  Names.

  They wanted
names of rebels they thought she knew.

  Amber panicked.

  She flipped over, facing him. “Wait. I’m not a rebel. Not really. My clan was peaceful. I don’t even know anyone in the rebellion.”

  He smiled condescendingly. “Sure. Sure. Tell you what. You obviously don’t like pain, and I don’t like inflicting it.” In a flash, he reached out and grabbed her cast, twisting it just enough to make her yelp. “So…let’s make this easy. Start with ten names. Just ten. That shouldn’t be too hard. And if you’d rather give me places instead…” He twisted a little harder.

  “Ow!” Amber cried.

  “Places work, too.”

  * * * * *

  Greg crouched behind Carrie’s flower shop, Buds ‘N Roses, unable to take his eyes off the patrol car parked down the street, the one with “Chief of Patrols” painted across the side. Carrie had been inside that same car not long ago. Where did Jamansky have her now?

  Oliver’s tribunal was still a week away. Supposedly Jamansky would return Carrie then, after Greg testified, but Greg couldn’t even trust that anymore.

  Jamansky was holding Carrie hostage.

  If Greg confronted him, attacked, or even threatened the patrol chief, he could lose the chance to find Carrie. There had to be another way that wouldn’t jeopardize her safety more than it already was.

  Frantic, he kept going over every incident from the past: Jamansky attacking him, attacking Ashlee, attacking Oliver. But the worst attack made Greg’s vision swim with fury. The guy had pulled a gun on Greg’s injured, aged mom without flinching a bit. “Looks like I’d be doing her a favor,” he had taunted.

  Greg squeezed his eyes shut and refocused. The Chief of Patrols might have stashed Carrie in one of the precinct’s holding cells, but that didn’t seem his style. Jamansky would keep her out of sight—from more than just Greg.