Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Don’t you dare move!” I shine my flashlight on their faces as I close the distance.
The three girls freeze like deer caught in headlights.
“What do you think you’re doing out here?” I whisper-shout, acutely aware of the music blaring from the apartment above the garage.
They exchange glances, searching for an excuse in their alcohol-soaked brains.
I would bet a hundred bucks that Holly instigated this entire spectacle. She’s unfettered, facing no consequences at home, with a mother who claims she doesn’t want to crush her spirit with too much discipline and a father too busy making money to parent.
“We were just, uh …” Isla falters, stumbling over her lie.
Whatever bullshit answer she was about to feed me dies as heavy footfalls pound down the stairs inside the garage.
My pulse speeds up unexpectedly as decades of waiting for this moment collide with reality.
This is happening tonight.
Right now.
I swallow hard. “Well, now you’ve done it. You girls wanted to meet him so badly …”
A floodlight ignites overhead and then the barn-style door flies open.
Chapter 7
Logan
Password must be eight characters in length including a lowercase letter, an uppercase letter, a number, and a special character.
“What the fuck.” I scowl at the red error line on the computer screen. I had an email address. I’ve long since forgotten it, but I’m positive it wasn’t this hard to set up.
When I went inside, we were using modems that dialed into the internet through our phone lines. That’s the last time I ever used the internet. The prison library had computers but no access to the outside world, so all I know about the way things have changed is from my mother’s letters, the revolving door of inmates serving time, and cable TV.
It’s going to take me more than an evening to catch up.
Orange flames cast a soothing glow as the woodstove pumps out heat. I didn’t need to jam in those two extra logs, but I was so excited about starting a fire that I wasn’t thinking straight. Now I’m down to my boxers, with beads of sweat rolling down my neck. Hell, I could be buck naked if I wanted. It’s an oven in here.
I tap at the keyboard with my two index fingers, retyping the password I came up with but adding an exclamation mark to the end this time.
Finally, it works. After four attempts, I have an email address that I will forget by tomorrow.
Grabbing a pen, I jot the information into my notebook, and with an odd sense of accomplishment, I check off one box on the to-do list my mother spent weeks making for me. One checkmark on pages’ worth of tasks required to rejoin society.
Will everything be this hard? I eye the phone still in its box, taunting me. I think I’ll wait for a lesson from my twelve-year-old nephew before I tackle that. Today’s been a long, overwhelming day, and right now, I need something familiar.
Anything that might anchor me in this new world.
Like the box of CDs on the floor. Jay and I had a decent collection back in the day, and I was pleasantly surprised to find it sitting here when I came in, and even happier that the stereo we used to play music on still works. I don’t need a twelve-year-old’s guidance for that.
We were allowed MP3 players in prison. It’s the first thing I bought from the canteen, along with prison-approved headphones and songs, to be listened to only during certain hours. Every aspect of my life for the past twenty years has had to be reviewed and approved—even the music I could listen to and how I could listen to it.
Fishing out my favorite albums from back in the day, I load the five-disc carousel, crank the volume dial, and sink into my chair, closing my eyes as the music drowns out the noise in my head.
I smile as nostalgia rushes forward.
Emery and I would spend hours in here with this album playing on repeat. Sometimes we’d talk nonstop, about anything and everything—things as shallow as who said what at school, and as deep as where our future selves would land. Other times, we didn’t say a word, content in each other’s company while the lyrics filled the void.
She was my best friend.
She was the only girl I’ve ever loved.
And despite the fact that I’ve spent years dwelling on the moment I’d see her again, I have no idea what I’ll say when it finally happens. What does she even look like now? The last picture I saw of her was from fourteen years ago. Based on the offside comment my cousin’s boyfriend made, I’d say she still looks good.
Glass shattering startles me back to reality. Something lands on the wood plank floor with a thud and rolls to settle next to my feet.