Page 54 of Call It Love (Sterling Mill #5)

Maddy

Present day

“Sign here.”

I fought to control the trembling in my fingers as I signed my name next to the “X” on the official-looking form and slid the paper back to the officer processing my release.

Sweet freedom.

The day I longed for and wondered if it would ever arrive was finally here.

“Here you go.” The bored tone in the guard’s gravelly voice, probably from too many smokes a day, suggested my big day was just another in a long string for him.

He slid a white envelope across the scratched wood counter. “That came for you a short while ago.”

I studied the front. “For Madelyn Stone” was printed in block letters on the outside.

It must be from Mr. McCloskey, my new attorney and now my new boss.

I slid my finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of notebook paper.

Immediately, I scrolled to the bottom of the page, but I didn’t need to see the signature to know who wrote it; I recognized the handwriting immediately—Charly’s.

I shoved it back at him as if it might be toxic. “I don’t want it.”

“Not my problem.” He stamped the papers in front of him and shoved one of them along with the unwanted envelope at me.

“Officer Warren will be here momentarily to escort you to the front. You can wait over there.” He gestured with a careless flick of his hand toward a row of faded orange plastic chairs that looked at least as old as I was.

I inwardly rolled my eyes, but, always the model prisoner, I held my tongue, gathered up the paperwork and the unwanted envelope, and sat and waited.

It’s funny how, in my childhood, I never realized just how many freedoms I enjoyed until every moment of my day became dictated to me: what I wore, when I ate, when I exercised, what time the lights turned off—all small things that you don’t appreciate until they’re gone.

Sweet freedom.

Growing up, it was understood that most of us wouldn’t stray too far from where we were born.

Kept up homes, new school clothes every year, college dreams—those were for the kids on the other side of the tracks.

Literally. The white-collar side of our community held the monopoly on lucky breaks.

They were the kids who could get out of small-town living if they chose.

My side sported sawmills and pawnshops and a healthy dose of “don’t fix what ain’t broke.

” Bars and sagging porches were the place of choice to remember how good it used to be, but not to make changes or upset the balance of the way things are.

I’d always tried to be respectful of everyone around me, but my family name seemed to mark me.

At an early age, I recognized the snotty tone and arrogant lift of eyebrow that accompanied comments whenever I walked down the sidewalk and passed a group of busybodies congregated for whatever reason.

The more sympathetic observers whispered behind their hands, but I could still overhear what they were saying.

“Poor child. It’s such a shame about her situation.”

“I guess she can’t help her circumstances.”

“Thank goodness her mother isn’t here to see them now.”

Others were less kind, maliciously sharing gossip and judgments as if they were popping them from a PEZ dispenser .

“Did you hear the latest about her father?”

“It won’t be long before she’ll be just like her sister.”

“I guess that’s what comes from her kind of people.”

My kind of people?

Until that comment, I had always thought everyone came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors, but I thought that made us a beautiful bouquet, like those I’d see in one of the store windows downtown.

But that day I came to realize there were weeds hidden in the flowers, and if you didn’t know what to look for, it was easy to be deceived by their appearance.

Some blooms even looked and smelled nice, but deep down they were still parasites, feeding off and trying to choke out other smaller flowers.

I knew my family was far from perfect, but why did I always have to be compared to them and their poor choices?

Whenever life got to be too much, I’d steal across the railroad tracks to a vacant field that had probably been the pride and joy of a farmer decades ago.

Losing myself in the tall grasses, I’d find solace in the shade of pine trees or pick and gather handfuls of wildflowers and imagine I was a princess rescuing their beauty from their ugly fate of living among rusty cans and abandoned cars and farm equipment.

I’d lovingly arrange them in an old mason jar and put them on the windowsill to enjoy on the days I couldn’t escape.

But one day I observed something new about those flowers.

The plants I left behind would continue to grow and blossom in their natural habitat.

But the ones in my bedroom window wilted.

Cut from their roots, their heads drooped, and their petals shriveled a little more each day until I finally had to throw them out.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so focused on separating from my own roots, I’d have noticed more lessons from Mother Nature. Maybe I’d have remembered that snakes hid in the weeds.

But I ignored her lessons and got bit in the ass, poisoning six years of my life. And the one person who could have delivered the anti-venom hadn’t.

I got out of my town all right, but not in the way I dreamed about—a murder-two conviction with a minimum eight-year sentence in a correctional facility a couple of hours away.

It would have been more, but here I was being released almost two years early, thanks in part to Virginia’s clause that allowed some prisoners to have their sentence reduced for good behavior after serving eighty percent of their time.

A door buzzed, echoing through the mostly empty room, breaking me from my trance.

An officer I’d never seen before stepped into the room and glanced around before his eyes landed on me.

He grabbed some paperwork off the counter and moved to stand in front of me.

The nameplate on his uniform indicated he was the “Warren” I’d been waiting for.

“Madelyn Stone?” His expression held all the excitement of dirty dishwater.

I confirmed with a nod.

He checked his paperwork against mine. “This way.”

Every nerve in my body buzzed until I was certain anyone looking at me would see me vibrating.

This was finally it. I breathed a little faster as we stepped through the door through which he’d just entered and walked down a maze of hallways until we reached another nondescript door.

Officer Warren punched in a code, and after a loud whir and click, he turned the handle.

Several people in the adjoining room looked up anxiously as we stepped through. Their mouths twisted in disappointment and resignation when they saw I wasn’t the one they were hoping for.

“Is anyone meeting you?” Officer Warren asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

However, I couldn’t help but study the room just in case.

I glanced around the bleak room of white walls, bare except where they were streaked with dark scuff marks.

Along the walls were more orange chairs, only a few of which were being used.

Their occupants were obviously trying their best to avoid looking at each other as if there was some unspoken pact to respect that each was there not by choice, but by an uncomfortable common link of being connected to someone incarcerated.

Some leaned their head back against the wall and closed their eyes; others picked at their fingernails or a wayward thread on their clothing.

All appeared bored, probably because cell phones were not allowed, limiting their choice of distraction.

After seeing the surprise envelope earlier, I was almost relieved there weren’t any familiar faces. Thank God, I didn’t see her, even if seeing Mr. McCloskey, my attorney and savior, would have been welcome.

One stranger stood out from the rest. I tried not to stare at him, but his appearance held my attention.

His jaw was set to one side, and his eyes were narrowed into dark slits.

One ankle rested on the knee of his other leg, and only his thumb tapping against his thigh disclosed his level of discomfort or impatience.

Even seated in an uncomfortable chair, he was obviously tall.

His dark hair was cut short in the back and along the sides.

It was longer on top where he’d brushed in straight back, but a few locks dared to ruffle the otherwise neatness of the style.

I couldn’t help but wonder how much less intimidating he might look if he gave in to the natural wave.

Unlike the other people, who dressed casually in jeans or lounge pants, he wore a charcoal suit with a lighter gray shirt and a dark purple tie.

Where I came from, most men seldom had an occasion to wear a suit, and when they did, they looked about as comfortable as being enclosed in a den of porcupines.

But this man looked as if he could have been born in a suit, and I couldn’t help but wonder how one reached such a level of confidence. Was it money? Power? Position?

Despite the stern set to his mouth, he was extremely handsome, the kind of handsome one would expect to find on the pages of a fashion magazine or a movie screen.

His suit stretched across broad shoulders, and I suspected, from the way it fit, that he had a mighty fine body underneath his clothes.

He was clean-shaven, showing off a strong jawline.

Bless me, though, he had long eyelashes and gorgeous dark eyes.

Great. Ten minutes out of the cell, and I’m already lusting after a man like a bitch in heat!

I took an awkward step backward when I realized those eyes were focused on me. His long legs uncrossed, and he stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. While I had caused a mere ripple when I entered the room, this man drew a wave of attention as he crossed the room to stand in front of me.

“Madelyn Stone?”