Then both Max and the police would have real ammunition to take his daughter from him. How long did he have? Noon? Two o’clock? Maybe they’d break the story just in time to headline the five o’clock cycle. That would score them ratings. Some news anchorman would see his star soar.
And Jason… How in the world would he ever say goodbye to his daughter?
Worse, what would happen to her? Her mother gone, now dragged away from the only father she had ever known… Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…
He had to think. He had to move.
Sandy was pregnant.
He needed to do something.
Couldn’t access his computer. Couldn’t confront Ethan Hastings. Couldn’t run. What to do? What to do?
It came to him, shortly after two A.M.: his last course of action.
It would involve leaving his daughter, sleeping alone upstairs. In four years, he’d never done such a thing. What if she woke up? Found the house once again empty and started screaming hysterically?
Or what if there was someone else out there, someone lurking in the shadows, waiting for Jason to make his first mistake so he could swoop in and grab Ree? She knew something more about Wednesday night. D.D. believed it; he did, too. If someone had abducted Sandy, and if that same someone knew Ree had been a witness…
D.D. had sworn the cops were watching his house. A promise or a threat. He had to hope it was a little of both.
Jason went upstairs, changing into black jeans and a black sweatshirt. He paused outside Ree’s door, straining his ears for any sound of movement. Then, when the silence unnerved him, he had to crack the door open to reassure himself that his four-year-old daughter was still alive.
She slept in a rounded huddle, one arm thrown over her face, Mr. Smith tucked into the curve of her knees.
And Jason remembered clearly then, vividly, the moment he’d first watched her slide into the world. How wrinkly and small and blue. The flail of her fists. The tight, screwed-up pucker of her wailing mouth. The way he instantaneously, absolutely fell in love with every square inch of her. His daughter. His lone miracle.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
Sandy was pregnant.
“I will keep you safe.”
Sandy was pregnant.
“I will keep you all safe.”
He left his daughter and jogged down the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
You know the thing that takes you the longest to get used to in prison? The sound. The sheer, unrelenting noise of men, 24/7. Men grunting, men farting, men snoring, men fucking, men screaming. Inmates muttering away in their own delusional world. Convicted felons, talking, talking, talking even as they’re sitting on the john, as if shitting in plain sight is somehow easier if they talk through the entire freaking event.
First month in the system, I didn’t sleep a wink. I was too overwhelmed by the smells, the sights, but mostly the unrelenting sound that never shuts up, never gives you even thirty seconds to escape to some far corner of your mind where you can pretend you aren’t nineteen years old and this didn’t just happen to you.
I got jumped week three. Knew that by the sound of soft-soled shoes suddenly rushing up behind me. Then came other time-honored prison sounds-the wet thump of one man’s fist connecting against another man’s kidney, the crack of a skull against the cinder-block wall, the excited cries of the other zoo animals as I lay in a stunned heap, my orange suit somewhere around my ankles as one, two, three-hell, maybe half a dozen guys went at it.
No one goes to prison and comes home a virgin. No sirree, Bob.
Jerry visited me week four. Only visitor I ever had. My stepdad sat across from me, took in my bruised face, shell-shocked eyes, and started to laugh.
“Toldya you wouldn’t last a fucking month, you prissy little piece of shit.”
Then my stepfather left.
He’s the one who turned me in. He found my stash of letters, the ones I’d written to “Rachel.” So he called the cops, but not before ambushing me the instant I walked in from school. He caught me above the eye with the metal locker I’d used to store my few personal possessions. Then he’d gone after me with his fists.
Jerry was six two and two hundred and twenty pounds. Used to be a star high school football player, back in the day, then worked the lobster boats before he lost two fingers and figured out he liked sponging off women instead. My mom had been act one. But after she died when I was seven, he’d found several replacements. I was just along for the ride after that, no more family, just the little blond-haired kid Jerry used to pick up chicks. Wasn’t even his kid, I tried to tell them, but the women didn’t care. Apparently, widowers are sexy, even ones with enormous beer guts and only eight remaining digits.
Jerry hit like a Mack truck, and I was done after the first blow. He landed twenty more, just to be thorough about things. Then, when I was curled up, coughing up blood, he called the cops to come take out the trash.
Cops didn’t say boo when they walked through the door. Just nodded at Jerry, gazed down at my sorry ass.
“He’s the one?”
“Yes suh. And she’s only fourteen. I’m telling you, he’s one sick sonuvabitch.”
Cops dragged me to my feet. I was still coughing blood, swaying in the wind, eye swelling shut.
Then Rachel appeared. Came up the walkway, fresh off the bus from junior high, lost in her own thoughts. Then slowly but surely, she realized the front door was already open, that a whole cluster of blue suits were standing there. We all watched the comprehension wash over her face.
Then, gazing at my smashed-in nose and rapidly swelling eye, she started to scream and scream and scream.
I wanted to tell her I’d be okay.
I wanted to tell her I was sorry.
I wanted to tell her I loved her and it had been worth it. The pain, everything. I loved her that much.
But I never got to say anything. I blacked out. By the time I regained consciousness, I was in county lockup and I never saw Rachel again.
I pled guilty for her, spared her the trauma of the trial just like the DA asked me to. I gave up my freedom. I gave up my future.
But the courts will tell you it wasn’t true love.
I know what I gotta do tonight, and it has me all pissed off. The pretty cop lady is gonna come back. She has that look about her. A dog with a bone. And the guys at the garage are gonna come over, too. Except they’re gonna bring baseball bats, and rolls of quarters in their fists. They got that look about them, too-you know, the overexcited drool of muscle heads armed with pitchforks.
Even Wendell called me this afternoon, the fucking flasher from group therapy. None of us is supposed to have each other’s personal info, but Wendell no doubt bribed some flunky just so he could grill me for the inside skinny. He’d watched the press conference on the missing woman and wanted to hear all about it. Not that he thought I was innocent, mind you. Not that he was calling to offer support. No, he wanted details. Exactly what Sandra Jones looked like, exactly what she sounded like, exactly what she felt like when I squeezed out her last breath. Wendell has no doubt that I killed her. And he doesn’t care. He just wants me to share the glory so he has something fresh to fantasize about while whacking off.
Everyone’s got an opinion about me, and I’m just plain fucking sick of it.
So I hit the liquor store. Screw my probation. I’m already gonna get arrested and I haven’t done anything wrong. So following the time-honored tradition that I might as well commit the crime, since apparently I’m serving the time, I’m getting liquored up. No beer for me. I’m gonna do this the right away.
Maker’s Mark whiskey. That’s what my stepdad always bought. I used it the first night I seduced Rachel. Poured us giant shots mixed with lemonade. What are a couple bored kids gonna do after school but steal from the liquor cabinet?