CHAPTER ONE
Tess—
I can’t believe I’m here.
I stare through the passenger window at the imposing institutional building—intimidating, as it is meant to be. Rutledge State Prison.
I can’t believe I’m here to visit a man I don’t give a damn about.
My mother pulls into a visitor parking spot, jams the gearshift in park, and twists toward me. Her face gives away no emotion, but she repeatedly flicks the ashes of her cigarette out the cracked window.
“Well, come on,” I say.
“I’m not going in,” she replies matter-of-factly, like she didn’t just drop a bomb on me.
“What?”
“You do it.”
“Me?” I practically shriek. Has she lost her friggin’ mind?
“Sorry, honey. I can’t go in there.”
“Damn your fucking anxiety, Mother. You have to. I’m not going by myself.”
“It’s not the anxiety. I’m not allowed in. He took me off the visitor list.”
“What? Why?”
“We had a fight.”
“Oh, for the love of Christ. The two of you are something else, you know that? I thought I was just here for moral support, Mother. But you knew all along… and you didn’t say shit.”
“Would you have come?” she bites out.
Not a chance in hell. I fold my arms. “I’m not doing it.”
“You have to, Tess. I need that money.”
Fucking hell. She digs a hole, and once again I’m supposed to pull her out of it. And the hell of it is, she knows I’ll cave. I blow out a long breath. “What do I do?”
“You go in that door. Just follow the others.”
“And then what?”
She pulls a bunch of sweaty singles from her bra and holds them out to me. “Here. Use these for the vending machines. Get him some snacks and drinks. And only take your drivers license. Leave everything else with me. They won’t let you bring anything else in anyway.”
Great, so if she doesn’t come back, I’m stranded.
I stare at her, pissed this is all being pushed onto me. My mother is in the predicament she’s in all of her own doing, or as my late grandparents often said, because of that no-account bum she ran off with—that no-account bum being my dirt-bag biker father.
“You really think he’ll tell me?” I stare out the window, dreading climbing out of the cool air-conditioned car into the hot South Georgia heat.
“Baby, I’m counting on you.” She reaches over and takes my hand.
I glance at our entwined fingers. My mother has rarely been maternal, but I know in her own way she does love me. I remember as a young child she would crawl in bed with me and sing me lullabies until I fell asleep. That was before the drugs and alcohol became more important.
She’s counting on me now. When could I ever count on her? I wish I had it in me to tell her to fuck off, to tell her to fix this on her own, to tell her I don’t give a damn. But I do give a damn. Still. After everything, I still love her. Sometimes I hate that I do. It would be so much easier if I could just cut her from my life.
Now with my father in prison, doing a forty-year sentence on drug charges, maybe there’s a chance for us. Maybe without his influence, I can pull her back from her addictions, and we can be family again. After all, with her parents passed on and Growler in prison, all we have is each other.
I huff out a breath and jerk the door handle, shoving it with my shoulder. Her car is old. We should have taken mine, but I didn’t want her to drive it. She sucks at driving, even on a good day, but especially if she’s been hitting the wine early—something I can’t trust her not to do.
I would have driven, but unfortunately my driving privileges have been suspended for three months due to my proclivity to speed. I have a lead foot, as they say. I can’t help it; I’m an impatient person.
I look back at her, frowning. “You’ll be here in two hours, right?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Do not go back to the motel room and start drinking. You do, I swear you’re on your own.”
“I promise.”
“Mother…”
“I won’t drink.”
“No pills either.”
“You really are a stick in the mud, aren’t you? Grams sure did her job well with you.”
“Leave her out of this. I loved her, and I don’t want to hear any of your misplaced hatred, understand?”
“Okay. Okay. Jesus Christ.”
I climb out of the car and slam the door. I brush a hand over my jeans and stare up at the building. The blouse with the tiny rosebuds was the only one I could find that looked halfway decent and wasn’t too revealing. Mom had warned me there were a lot of rules about what you can wear when visiting a prisoner. We both had dressed appropriately. Her outfit was just a ruse, apparently.
I see a woman carrying a baby and follow her to the entrance. I hear mom backing out, and when I step up on the sidewalk and look back, she’s already heading down the long drive off the prison grounds. If she doesn’t return for me, it’s going to be a long walk to the nearest bus stop. I head inside through one small building, then outside again through a walkway surrounded by fencing and barbed wire. It’s like walking down a tunnel to my doom.
I’m out of the hot sun and humidity, but inside the next larger building is hardly what I’d call cool.
There’s a desk, and I just do what the others ahead of me do. I sign in and wait until my name is called.
I take the chair next to the woman with the baby that I followed in.
“She’s adorable,” I tell her, smiling at the infant in the pink onesie.
“Thank you. Lord knows she’s a blessing.”
“I’m Tess,” I say.
“Nessa,” she returns, studying me. “I haven’t seen you here before. First time?”
I nod.
She pats my knee. “Don’t let the guards frighten you. They can be mean and snappy, but they’re just doin’ their job. Don’t take it personal. Just do what they say.”
“Thanks.”
“You bring any money for the vending machines?” she asks.
“Yes. My mother gave me some ones before she dropped me off.”
“When you get to the visitation room, get what you want out of the machines straight off, ‘cause they run out quick.”
“Thanks. Who are you here to see?”
“My man. He’s been in here six months. Missed the birth of little Riana, here.”
“How often do you come visit?”
“I try to come at least every other week, but it’s hard. I can’t always get the time off in my work schedule. Then I’ve got to have gas money to drive up here. It’s rough.”
“I’ll bet.”
“This is the second place they’ve moved him to, and it’s farther away.”
“Do they do that often? Move them around to different prisons?”
“Sometimes.”
A guard calls my name. I stand and move to him. He asks to see my driver’s license and tells me I have to fill out a form since I’ve never visited before.