I could’ve turned back right then. Run home to the Port—the only home I knew—breathless with the thought of a shapeless monster at my heels. But the vent was so close, and I needed to touch it. Just once. To prove Trey wrong. To show him I could win. To take something away from him, the way he’d done to me.
Sideways, my body fit through the space between door and frame without touching, and I stood there for a heartbeat on the other side of the threshold, letting my eyes adjust. Once the kitchen counter took shape, I climbed up and drug my fingers along the ceiling until I felt the slats of the heater. One hard tug and it snapped free, and I slipped my hand inside, feeling for the smooth surface of the envelope. The one my mom must’ve snagged from the front desk of the Blue Bird, the cheap motel where we’d lived for a while. The motel where she’d died.
“Hide it,” she’d told me, shoving the envelope inside my backpack and pushing it against my chest. “Whatever happens, don’t let that asshole take it from you.” She hadn’t specified. Didn’t need to. There was only one asshole. “Do you hear me, Evelyn? Trey never touches this. Or you.” It scared me to see her like that—stone-cold sober. Heroin softened her, dulled the edges until she was a slurring skeleton in the bed without a care in the world. But at least I could manage her. This wasn’t my mother. She shook my shoulders so hard, I bit my cheek. “Evelyn. I need to hear you say it. Promise me.”
“Trey never touches it, but—”
“Or you.”
“Or me.”
“Ever.”
“I promise.”
She’d laughed then, at herself. “God, baby, I’m sorry. I got carried away. Your mama needs a fix, doesn’t she?” I’d almost sighed with relief. That was my mother.
I laid my palm against the thick envelope, still safe in the vent. Trey had never touched it. At least I’d kept one promise, I thought, rubbing my arm, achy from his grip. I wedged the vent closed and headed out the way I’d come. Past the swing set, through the bathroom window, and into 136, where I greeted Cheesy’s remains.
I’m not a scaredy-cat. This time I believed it. Until the front door creaked opened, and I let out a scream that could’ve awakened the dead.
“Shh. It’s me.” Cassie sauntered in, a half-eaten ice cream cone in one hand, a twenty-dollar bill in the other. “Chill.”
“Where did you get that?”
“I don’t know. Some guy.” She stepped toward me, nearly crunching Cheesy’s bones under her sneaker. “He drove by asking about you. Said he’d seen you here before.”
“What did he look like?” My heart thumped so hard in the curve of my neck, I wondered if Cassie could hear it. But she was too busy taking big bites from the melting chocolate scoop. She wiped her chin with the hem of her T-shirt before she answered.
“Like a grungy scarecrow.”
“That’s Trey. The one I told you about.”
“The evil pimp?”
I nodded. Although that was the very least of what Trey was.
“He didn’t seem so bad.” Chomping the last of the cone, she tucked the twenty inside her bra. “He said I was pretty. Too pretty to be hanging out here. And he gave me his pager number. Said I could call him anytime.”
“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes at her. “Did he buy you that ice cream?”
She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. We just drove to the Mickey D’s around the block.”
I saw myself, two years ago, the first time I met Trey. He’d lingered in the doorway of our room at the Blue Bird, flashing me a sleazy smile while my mom had rattled on about him. “He wants to take us out to dinner, baby. At the Red Lobster. His treat.”
“Cassie, that guy is trouble. Trust me. He’s trying to butter you up. Like a Thanksgiving turkey. If you let him, he’ll take a knife to you and gobble you up.”
“Geez, Evie. That’s gross. It was just an ice cream.”
“For now.” Two weeks post-lobster, my mom had started walking the streets for him. “C’mon, Arlene. Just this one time. For us.” They’d thought I was asleep.
“He’s got girls working this area. You think he’s being nice—he’s recruiting you, Cassie.”
“You’re such a worrywart. It was just—”
“I know. I know. It was just an ice cream. But be careful, okay?”
Cassie groaned the way Bobby did at school when the teacher asked him to go to the back of the line. “So, he wants the stuff you hid?” she asked.
“Did he say that?” I imagined Trey’s ear pressed to the door, my father’s knife in his hand. “That stuff belongs to me, Evelyn. You owe me.” That’s what he would’ve said.
“No.” Cassie frowned at me. “You told me. He didn’t even mention it. Just said he was worried about you and wanted to talk.”
“What did you tell him?” I whispered.
“Nothin’.”
“And he just left?”
“He said he’d be back.”
“Crap.” I made a beeline toward the door, heart scampering again. “I’ve gotta get out of here. Do you want to come back with me? To the Port? You’ll be safe there.” It wasn’t the first time I’d asked, but it was the first time I needed her to say yes.
“Heck no. They’ll make me stay. With all the other castoffs and misfits. No offense.” She lowered herself to the floor and sat cross-legged. I could barely make her out in the dark, but she looked like a little girl. Not the badass I’d gotten used to. “Can’t you hang out a little longer? He said he had to drive to Oakland to visit a friend, so…I’m sure he’s got better things to do than pester you anyway.”
“Just a few more minutes.” Only because Trey had the patience of a two-year-old, and I figured he was long gone, busy marking all the other twisted errands off his list. I joined her on the floor, pulling my legs close to my chest. We sat there, not speaking, until the quiet itself stood my hair on end.
“I got my period today,” I said, finally. “And apparently, I can get pregnant now, according to Mr. Wally.”
Cassie’s laughter came out in a whoosh—like letting go of a balloon before tying it—and once she got going, neither of us could stop. I laughed so hard my stomach cramped, and inexplicably, I started to cry.
“Welcome to the club,” Cassie said, putting her arm around me.
“What club?” I blubbered.
“You’re a hormonal mess. And a guy said stupid shit to you. Congratulations, Evie, you’ve become a woman.”
****
You can’t underestimate the devil. I saw my mistake right away. Careless and stupid—like forgetting to carry the one on the chalkboard in math class—but it was already too late. Trey pulled up alongside me, halfway back to Port in a Storm, and whistled to me out the window. Head down, I kept walking.
“Been lookin’ for you.” He tossed his lit cigarette in my direction, but it fell short, dying on the dewy sidewalk. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, Evelyn.”
I wanted to flip him off, to say every curse word I knew, to take my fingernails and make long, deep scratches on his ugly face. At the very least, to run as fast as a jackrabbit.
“You ain’t gonna look at me? Didn’t your mama teach you to respect your elders, little girl?”
I spotted the fluorescent glow of the gas station up ahead. Just beyond it—so close—the one place Trey couldn’t touch me. It was the best thing about the Port. If only I could get there.
“I’m not givin’ up, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. That money don’t belong to you. The ring neither. And don’t start gettin’ any bright ideas about takin’ off on me.”
Dumb as he looked, Trey could be cunning as a fox. And he could smell fear. I was sure of it. “That ring belonged to my dad. Just like the pocketknife you took.”
“Evie, one day you’re gonna learn that dead folks don’t have no claim to nothin’. And your daddy
is deader than a doornail. ’Sides, your mama gave me that knife as a present.” More than likely she had. And that stung. “Your mama was an Indian giver. A thief. A liar. And a whore.” Stung worse than any insult he could’ve hurled at her. “And now, she’s dead too.”
“That was her money. She earned it.”
Trey’s laugh came straight from the pit of hell. Part rasp. Part hyena. “By spreadin’ her legs. Yeah, she earned it alright.”
“She was saving it. For me.” I only hoped it was true. She’d never said it out loud. And now that I had, I barely believed it.
“More likely she was savin’ it to slam straight up her vein. You know your mama. She never could hold on to money. But think what you want if it makes you feel better. Either way, that money is rightfully mine, and I intend to collect it. The easy way or the hard way.”
Trey swerved his car toward the sidewalk, a near miss, and I flinched. Then I cursed myself for giving too much away. I kept moving, faster now.
“I guess it’s gonna be the hard way then. Your friend, the brunette. Cassie.” He made her name sound like a dirty word. “She’s older than you, ain’t she? More womanly. I’ve been thinkin’ she’s the right age to be one of my girls. She can work off the money for ya. The ring too. Shouldn’t be nothin’ to it with a bangin’ little body like hers—”
“Leave her alone. She’s not interested.”
“Is that what she told you? Because seems to me, she needs money real bad. She wants to find her daddy. And she ain’t no thief like all you Allcotts.”
“I told you I don’t know where it is. Have you checked the room at the Blue Bird? That’s the last place Mama was alive…” I stopped before I got too close to it. The thing Trey knew I had on him. Even though I couldn’t prove it. The thing I kept locked up tighter than any treasure, because I could only use it once.
“Well, there’s an idea. I’ll just mosey on over and knock on the door. I’m sure whoever’s renting that room will let me right in—hiya sir, I left five grand and a ring in here somewhere—and it’ll be sittin’ right where she left it.”
“She had a few hiding places. I could tell you where to look.” That laugh again. I would’ve rather made out with Bobby Pierce than listen to that soul-grating noise for one more second.
“Oh, you’re gonna do better than that, Evelyn. You’re gonna show me.” I looked at him for the first time that night. His eyes were black as coal. “Get in.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Butch
January 16, 2017
Monday
Monday morning, I put on my new collared shirt. The lady at the secondhand store had said the color made my eyes pop—whatever the hell that meant. Anyway, I bought it. Even though I promised myself I’d never wear prison blue again. I shave for the first time in two weeks. Heck, I even borrow some hair gel from the guy next door.
As promised, Evie had come through for me with the hookup, an 8:30 a.m. interview with her building supervisor, Gary Vinetti. And I’m not about to blow it. Plus, she’ll be there, and as boneheaded as I am, I want to impress her. Because one day soon, she’s gonna figure me out. And then she’ll never want to see me again. But at least there’s a chance she’ll remember me this way. In my eye-popping shirt and pressed khakis. He lied through his teeth, but he sure did clean up nice.
“Mornin’, Butch,” Sebastian says, grinning at me from his seat at the breakfast table. To the right of his plate, it’s that damn book again. “You look spiffy.” We’re the last two out the door today—with Mr. Richert standing by—but I’ve got too much on my mind to make small talk. So I reach for the Tribune, a handy excuse to be antisocial.
Richert clears his throat in a way that can only mean I better open my mouth and say something. “Thanks, man. Big day today. Another job interview.”
With that taken care of, I proceed with the usual morning routine. Open the cabinet. Review my choices. Cornflakes, Raisin Bran, Rice Krispies, Cheerios…Jesus! How can there be this many cereals? Shut the cabinet, overwhelmed. Feel my heart start to flutter in my throat like I swallowed a damn parakeet. Look over my shoulder. Phew. Nobody’s noticed. Gulp the lump down, and grab a banana for later.
Richert pats me on the shoulder. “Lucky number thirteen, huh?” The knot in my gut twists a little tighter. May 13, 1994. The day I killed a girl. Her. I put my eyes back on the Tribune to distract myself as Richert keeps talking. “Thirteen interviews. This is the one, Calder. I feel it.”
I nod, but I can hardly focus. Not with thirteen spinning in my brain and Trey Waters’ ugly mug on the front page of the newspaper, staring at me. Police seek person of interest in murder of teen Jane Doe. I’d nearly lost it when I saw his photo on the news Saturday night. Because sometimes you close the door to the past, and other times you nail a board over it. And I’ve hammered as many nails as I could find to keep Trey where he belonged. In. The. Past. That night, I’d had the dream again. Woke up with my sheets wound around my hand, like I’d been squeezing the life out of them.
“You okay, Calder?” Richert raises an eyebrow. “Wanna practice some interview questions?”
“Nah. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I’m more nervous to see Evie. That she’ll ask about Trey and what I remember.
“Well, you two can head over together then.”
That snaps me back to reality faster than a toupee flies in a hurricane. “Together?”
Sebastian’s already up—book in hand—and heading for the door. Like he’s known all along. He holds it open for me. “Yeah, Butch. I thought I’d mentioned it. Your interview is in the same building as my therapy group. I told Mr. Richert we could walk over together. That maybe you could give me some pointers on the free world. One lifer to another.”
“Group?” I could only manage one word at a time now, apparently.
“The group with Dr. Maddox. C’mon, I’ll tell you about it on the way.” But he doesn’t. We take the whole ten-minute walk in silence.
****
Gary Vinetti takes a long swig of coffee from a mug that reads: You don’t have to be crazy to work here. We’ll train you. He chuckles when he catches me reading it. “It’s true. Our training program is top-notch.”
Encouraged by his toothy grin, I take my chances with a little prison humor. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve had about two decades of crazy training myself. I’d say I’m an expert.”
“Touché, Mr. Calder. In all seriousness, your resume is pretty impressive. Considering.” Considering I’m a murderer. Considering I’ve spent the last twenty-three years mooching off the state.
“Thank you, sir. I tried to make good use of my time. As you can see, I took a couple of vocational courses relevant to the position. Porter and building maintenance.”
“Sure did. College too, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you don’t feel you’re overqualified? This is a custodial position. Sweeping the floors, taking out the trash, fixing what’s broken—”
“I need a job, sir. Any job is a good one. I want to support myself again. To be a productive member of society.”
“You know, you don’t have to call me sir. We’re informal here. Gary will do.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Gary. Thank you.”
Gary leans back in his chair and considers me. Like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “So, what did you do to wind up in prison, if you don’t mind my asking? Twenty-three years is a long time.”
Here we go again. “Well, sir. Gary. There’s no easy way to say this. I was a different person back then, and I—”
“On second thought, I don’t want to know. If Dr. Maddox trusts you, that’s good enough for me. In her line of work, I figure she’s got to be a pretty good judge of character.” That’s a dagger right to the heart. “I’d say she knows me about as well as anyone.” Which is to sa
y, not at all.
“Great. Can you start today?”
****
In fifteen minutes, it’s official. I’m hired and in uniform. It’s not blue, which I consider the first perk of my first job on parole. Not counting proximity to Evie, of course. Because I can’t tell yet if cleaning her floors and emptying her trash cans every day is a blessing or a curse. All I know is every time I see her, it’s like taking a long, hard look in the mirror. And after a boatload of psych evals and a whole lotta self-help mumbo jumbo, you’d think I’d be an expert in self-examination. That I’d recount every scar, bruise, and defect—all my sins—with no shame. But it doesn’t get any easier. It’s not supposed to. A parole commissioner told me that once, just before she’d laid down a five-year denial. Talking about what you did should never be easy, Mr. Calder. Remember that. Still do. Every single day.
“Did ya hear what happened over the weekend?” Gary asks as I jot my details onto an application form. Just a formality, apparently, because we’ve already shaken on it. And Gary has the handshake of man who doesn’t go back on his word. “Some sicko…” He catches himself. To him, I’ve got something in common with said sicko. It hurts how right he is. And how wrong. “Well, anyway, some of the tenants are a little on edge, as you can imagine. Could you do a check of the exterior lights? I want to make sure they’re all in working order.”
“Sure thing.”
He pats me on the back and leaves me alone in a room full of wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers. That’s a treasure trove of weapons in the joint, and I stand there for a second, waiting for him to change his mind. To tell me I’m out of bounds. That I don’t belong there. But we’re in the free world now, where men don’t spend hours whittling a toothbrush to a point, so sharp it could cut through a steak. Here, tools are just tools.
Still, I can’t shake that sticky feeling I’m doing something wrong, so I hurry. I pull on the khaki jumpsuit I’ve been issued, grab a toolbox, and step into the hallway—as uncertain and enthusiastic as a kindergartener—with the first assignment of my first job on parole. And I nearly smack heads with Evie. She goes left. I go right. She goes right. I go left. C’mon, Butchy, you clumsy ox. I stand still as a board, my face burning. And we both laugh.
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