I sit on the ATV, hearing bits and pieces of her conversation. She’s upset when she hangs up. “Everything okay?”
She swallows hard. “No, everything’s definitely not okay. Jon—the man who kidnapped me—is up for parole again on Monday. It looks like I’ll have to cancel our pool day. I need to prepare.”
“What do you mean, you need to prepare?”
“I go to his parole hearings every time he has one. I write down my thoughts, my terrifying experience with him, and read it at the hearing. But this time, I’ve got more skin in the game. I have Vivian. What if he gets out and terrorizes us? I can’t let him do that to my daughter. He’s a convict. A killer. People like him shouldn’t be allowed loose in society, let alone around children. I plan on spending the next few days drafting a convincing letter saying as much.”
My throat is dry. If she only knew who she was talking to.
“Can we do the pool thing next weekend?” she asks. “After all this madness is over?”
“Sure. Go—do your letter thing.”
She pulls me in for a hug. “Thanks. You’re a real friend, Devyn.”
I’m stiff, still not used to being hugged by women. Where I come from, being hugged by a woman meant they owned you. I hop on the ATV and start down the trail to the lodge. When the pressure behind my eyes builds, I pull off the trail, find a tree, and collapse into sobs on the ground, remembering just why we can never be friends.
“Guilty.”
Even a week later, at my sentencing hearing, the word rings in my head. I know it’s true. But Mr. Craddick was sure the judge would be sympathetic. It’s why he talked me into waiving the right to a jury trial. I kept telling him the influence of Ed, my de facto father, ran far and wide, but he just told me to keep my chin up. A few times, he even had me believing I would get off with probation.
The punishment has to fit the crime. It’s the way I was raised. If I took an extra cookie, I missed dinner. If I missed curfew, my mother made me stay up all night writing an essay on why curfews are good for teenagers. When I got caught stealing a candy bar when I was seven years old, I was forced to return it and then sweep floors at the convenience store. Even the owner was against it, but my mother stood over me as blisters formed on my small hands.
At least my lawyer was right about the judge. He called Mr. Craddick and the prosecutor into his chambers last week before giving his verdict and told them he wasn’t going to find me guilty of manslaughter and send me to prison. He encouraged them to agree on a lesser charge. I think he’s a different party affiliation from Ed, which worked in my favor. Although my charge was reduced to criminally negligent homicide, he hands down the maximum sentence—two years in a state jail for the class four felony. My drug charges were also lowered to a class C misdemeanor, resulting in a five-hundred-dollar fine.
Mr. Craddick gathers papers, puts them in a file folder, and stuffs them into his briefcase. “Could have been a lot worse. I doubt you could have worked out a plea for less. Two years is nothing. You’ll be out before you’re twenty-two, with your whole life ahead of you.”
What he doesn’t know is that my whole life doesn’t matter now. I’d been facing twenty years in prison. I was prepared for that. Even if I’d gotten out when I was forty-one, there would still be one less person on this earth because of me. What kind of life can I have knowing that?
“Stand up,” a guard says. “Put your hands behind your back.”
I’m handcuffed and led out of the courtroom.
“Good luck, Ms. DeMaggio,” Mr. Craddick says, as if I’m going to a job interview and not a dungeon.
The transfer process from the county jail to the state jail is a blur. The bus ride is longer than I expected. A woman two rows up keeps looking back at me. I don’t like the way she’s staring.
The lady shackled in the seat next to me asks, “Are you even old enough to be on this bus?”
I nod.
“Well, damn. You’re the kind of new meat that will make people like her salivate. Keep your head down. This ain’t the same as county jail. Even though it’s minimum security, it ain’t the fuckin’ Ritz. Things you could get away with on the outside can literally get you killed where we’re goin’. You’re nothing and nobody. Your life is worth less than a candy bar. Your days will start at four a.m., and being a first timer, you’ll get a shitty job like kitchen cleanup or yard crew. That’s after you spend up to two weeks in intake.”
“Two weeks?”
“They’re gonna poke you, prod you, make you squat and cough. Test you for all kinds of shit. They don’t want you bringin’ anything in from the outside. You’ll be assigned a caseworker. They head-shrink you, too. You get evaluated by some lame-o with a community college degree who gets to decide what custody level you get and who you bunk with. If you’re lucky, you’ll get general population. But don’t think that’s an easy ride. Someone as pretty as you will have loads of inmates wantin’ you with them. My advice, find other loners—people not in groups. But don’t talk to no one until you see their true colors. Talking can get you into trouble. Do your job well, and maybe in a few months, you can get reassigned to laundry—it’s my favorite. You get to walk around and make deliveries. Recreation duty is good, too. Not that you’ll get paid a fuckin’ penny. Texas is one of the few states that don’t pay inmates.”
She shakes her head. “When I get out, I swear I’m moving to Oklahoma. Maybe Colorado. Weed is legal there, did you know that? Plus, it’s too damn hot here. Best buy yourself a fan pronto. You got money, right?”
I think of the measly two hundred fifty dollars I had left after paying the fine. It’s all I’ll have in my inmate account for two years. I know it won’t last long. There won’t be any family or friends bringing me more. “And get a TV if you can. They’re small and get terrible reception, but it’s better than fighting with sixty other crazy chicks in the rec hall over what to watch.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I was you three years ago. Spent a year here back then. Got out. Did more stupid shit, and now I’m back for another stint—eighteen months this time. It could be worse. Could be the big house. Probably will be next time. How long you here for?”
“Two years.”
She makes a face. “Damn, that’s tough for your first time. What’d you do? Lemme guess. You fucked your boss, the wife caught you and made him fire you, so you stole her car and smashed it up good.”
I gaze out the window.
“It’s all good. You don’t need to tell me. I’ll find out. Sooner or later, everyone will. Sooner or later, everyone in here’ll know all your business.”
Slumped against a tree, I wonder if the same goes for Devil’s Horn Ranch. Will everyone know my business? And if so, what will happen then?
Chapter Twenty-one
Aaron
“I’m glad to see we’re getting more bookings. You’re doing a great job.” Lora puts away her iPad and leans on the desk, her blouse opening slightly to reveal cleavage as she bends toward me. “We’re doing a great job.”