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)
A moment passes and then he flips the page over. “Exemplary inmate for years, until the day Travis Dorsey stabbed you. Here—” He taps his own body. “What was that about?”
“Can’t remember,” I lie.
By Glen’s fleeting smirk, he knows it. “I used to work out of Sudbury. I remember Dorsey. He’s what we called a frequent flyer. Brief stints, in and out, until he ended up doing real time. Something about the name Murphy rang a bell, so I checked Dorsey’s old files and saw the no-contact restriction with a Hank Murphy. He’s the brother of the deceased Ian Murphy. What a coincidence.” His deadpan tone suggests otherwise. The man has done his homework on me. “So, you knew Dorsey?”
“Not until I went inside,” I answer truthfully.
“What’d he have beef with you over? Or was it the other way around?”
“He came after me. It was self-defense.”
“Self-defense,” he echoes. “Severe concussion with brain swelling, broken jaw, internal bleeding, partial permanent paralysis …” He reads out loud the details I’m well acquainted with. “Guess you don’t like getting stabbed.”
It had nothing to do with getting stabbed and everything to do with the threats Travis Dorsey uttered after he drove the shiv into my body. “Does anyone?”
“If there is, I haven’t met them yet.” Glen closes the file folder—he’s already read it front to back, many times over, likely—and reaches for another one. “Well, you arrived on time for your initial reporting appointment, so that’s a good start.” He scribbles something on a page. “My job today is to go over the terms of your release as well as your correctional plan and make sure you understand them both so you don’t end up back in custody. At the end of each meeting, I will file a report laying out everything we’ve discussed with the Offender Management System, which is accessible to the Parole Board of Canada. Any questions so far? Good,” he goes on without waiting for my answer. “The terms of your release are pretty basic. Report to me every other week, get a job, no drugs or alcohol. You’ll fill one of these before you leave today—” He holds up a medical plastic bag with a piss cup inside before tossing it onto the desk in front of me. “And every visit until I decide we don’t need to. It doesn’t look like you had any addictions before you went in and there’s nothing to suggest you developed one while on the inside, so I honestly don’t give a shit if you have the odd beer, ’kay? Just don’t be stupid about it, like ordering at the bar where everyone’s a witness. You know I’m gonna make you piss in a cup every two weeks, so let’s make sure your test comes back clean, got it?”
I nod.
“But drugs? Those are a no-go. Don’t touch ’em. What else …” He returns his attention to his folder. “No traveling outside of Canada, and you need to be on your property between ten p.m. and six a.m. every day unless you have prior written permission from me, and it better be for a good reason. A ski trip to Banff is not a good reason. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Says here you’re living with your parents. Holt and Annie Landry.”
“That’s right.”
“In their home?”
“In an apartment above a detached garage.”
“Okay.” More scribbles. “The Landrys … I’ve heard of ’em. Great farmer’s market. They’re bison ranchers. Any guns on the premises?”
“Yeah, of course. They have to deal with wolves.” It’s a regular problem, especially with the calves.
“They can deal with them. You can’t. The guns are locked up and not accessible to you?”
“In a safe. Not accessible to me.”
“Good. Your sentence prohibits you from owning or handling a firearm for life. If you so much as sneeze on one and I hear about it, you’ll be back behind bars before you can sneeze a second time. Is that understood?”
I study my open palm for a beat, remembering when Jay and I used to shoot empty cans off the fence with the .22. We’d spend all day out in the field, laughing and burning through pellets.
Now, the idea of holding a gun makes my body break out in a cold sweat.
“No worries there.”
“Good. And my guess is you came home to work on their ranch? In the market?”
“On the ranch, yeah. Not the market.”
“No?” His eyebrows arch. “A paycheck’s a paycheck.”
“I’m not dealing with customers.” People will come in there knowing my history. Or, more likely, not come in anymore because they know my history. Who suffers then? My family. Not a chance I’ll allow that. I shake my head to punctuate my refusal. “Give me a quiet field and a fence to mend any day.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of fences to mend.” He closes the folder, tosses it aside, and I can’t help but hear the double meaning in his words. “Now, while there aren’t any no-contact terms, I strongly suggest you stay far away from Jessica Whitley and her children.”