His sarcasm makes me sick. I’ve only wanted to kill a person one other time in my life.
“I need that to call my son.” For some reason, I don’t trust them with the truth.
I don’t know why they’re doing this, and all I can think of is Deputy Blank’s disgust at me walking around on parole. She hates me.
“I told you,” she steps between the officers and me. “You should’ve thought of your son before you started dealing drugs.” Deputy Blank circles around to the door, her hands on her hips. “We got a tip this morning you’ve violated your parole. You went to South Carolina without prior authorization. Authorization I already denied.”
Fucking Becky. It’s interesting how easily murder takes up residence in your mind. I now want to kill two people.
“I wasn’t running. I’m not a flight risk.” Struggling strains my voice, but I do my best to hide my rage.
“Tell it to the judge.” She nods to the door. “Take him to the car. You’re going back to prison. This time for good.”
The men lift and shove me into the hall, not even caring that my phone is on the floor broken and stomped on. I look over my shoulder at my whole world lying there in pieces.
If Hope comes back, I’ll be gone, and she won’t be able to reach me. If the landlord comes, he’ll think I’ve skipped town and have the apartment cleaned.
They’ll throw my broken phone in the trash. My last chance at freedom will be swept away with the garbage. Anger like an iron fist surges in my chest as the door slams. It can’t happen…
I’m still struggling as they muscle me to the car. It can’t end this way.
Hope
As I walk through the open space of the original Pancake Paradise, I can tell I’ve changed.
When everything shut down, when it was clear I would lose the business, I couldn’t come here anymore.
The thought of entering this big, empty space after our gigantic grand opening celebration, after a weekend of smiles on people’s faces, happiness and laughter, photographs on Instagram, group photos on Facebook, sharing and eating and so many pancake creations…
I walked away and never came back.
My manager handled the online auction, where we sold all the kitchen equipment, tables, chairs, flatware, napkins… anything anybody wanted to buy.
I used the money to pay my employees one week’s salary, which left almost nothing for me—and is why I was selling Dad’s precious Impala.
If I had opened the restaurant and absolutely sucked at it; if I’d been irresponsible or made bad business decisions, and it had simply flopped, that would’ve been difficult.
Correction, that would have been devastating, but I could have lifted my chin, and said I tried. It wasn’t meant to be, but you never know until you try. Right?
This was something entirely different.
This felt like some cruel, invisible hand, smacking me from behind. I’d worked hard. I’d planned and consulted advisers. I’d done everything right. It wasn’t my fault…
Which is why it’s coming back now with benefits. JR and I are both getting a second chance, and we’ve found each other. I’m so sure, all the way to my bones, it’s meant to be and it’s going to be better than what we’d originally planned.
I spent the morning loading the industrial-sized bags of flour, sugar, and cinnamon no one wanted into the back of the car. Dry ingredients keep for a while if they’re kept cool. I also discovered a mop and a step ladder stuck in a back closet. I guess they’re mine like all the rest of it.
So I have four bags of dry ingredients, a mop, and a step ladder. They’ll go with me to the new Pancake Paradise, and like the Brazilian Crush, they’ll be my omens of something better to come… Now I just have to figure out where.
I stroll out onto the Embarcadero, down to Pier 39 where the sea lions live. Tourists love to come here and gaze at the giant mammals lying in the sun, but it smells like raw fish and the air is stuffy. Wrinkling my nose, I continue up Fisherman’s Wharf.
The sky is blue, and it’s slightly warmer, but the crowds are thin. I wander past the carousel, towards the giant metal crab, wondering if it’s too soon to call him.
Last night was so amazing. The last thing I expected was for him to appear at my house in the foggy darkness. Then he kissed me.
My stomach tingles as the memories rush into my mind. All of it was so amazing and hot and thrilling. He’s so possessive. He’s so perfect.
I’m craving his touch when my phone goes off in my bag. I dig it out quickly, hoping it’s him. I want to spend the rest of this beautiful day together. Maybe we can hold hands and walk along the beach.
I don’t recognize the number. It’s a strange area code, and I’m about to dismiss it, when I get a feeling, almost like something’s wrong.
“Hope, thank God.” It’s a voice I haven’t heard in weeks—and it’s different, no longer laid-back and teasing.
“Scout?” My heart beats faster. “Why are you calling me? What’s wrong?”
“JR’s been arrested. Somehow they found out he violated his parole.”
“But…” I’m walking fast, heading to where I parked my car. “I don’t understand. If he’s cleared of the charges, won’t that mean he didn’t violate parole?”
“He never talked to his lawyer. He said he was trying to call when the cops showed up.” Scout’s speaking fast, and I grab my keys.
“He called you?” I hate feeling jealous, but I can’t help it. I want to be the one he calls when he needs help.
“He called Jesse. He wanted to tell him he wouldn’t be home as soon as he said.”
“Oh…” Tears fill my eyes. “He must be devastated.”
“It’s going to be okay.” Scout’s voice is determined. “I told Jesse we were going to get his dad home. I’m flying to San Francisco tonight.”
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I nod quickly. “How can I help?”
“I need you to go to JR’s apartment and get inside. Find that phone.” He’s moving quickly in the background. “We’ve got to get it to a lawyer. This time we’ll be there for him.”
Scout texts me the number of the apartment, but when I arrive, the door is locked.
Standing in the hall, I look all around trying to figure out how I’m going to get into a second-floor apartment with no key.
“He’s not here.” A raspy voice comes through the door across the hall, and I clutch my neck to stop a squeal.
My heart beats faster as I face the closed door. “Hello? Are you talking to me?”
“If you’re looking for the guy in 213, they took him away this morning.” I can’t tell if the person is really old or really sick.
Hesitating, I decide to take a chance. “I’m a friend of his. He asked me to come here…”
The door flies open, and I jump back with a little yip. A very small, very old woman with frizzy gray hair and a mask with a smiling sloth on it appears.
She can’t be taller than four-foot-eleven, and she squints one eye at me. “Are you selling encyclopedias?”