Page 60 of Judas (The Lito Duet #2)

Chapter thirty

Babalon

I sent Kace to get me another coffee, and something for Sadie to snack on when we came back inside. She picked out a few goodies, like we don’t have anything to eat back up in the apartment. Spoiler alert: we do. I handed them over for him to add to our coffee order and took Sadie upstairs.

We cling to one another like dryer sheets, probably just the stress and trauma of nearly being burned at the stake.

The mom in me hopes it’s because she recognizes me and sees I’m not a true stranger to her.

Even if our relationship is unconventional and severely delayed.

There wasn’t a day that went by without me thinking of her, praying the parole board would hear me out long enough to plead my case.

The prosecution and media raked me through hot coals; the subsequent coverage by leeches like Warren, and the ones who were just curious and using my trial for attention, put pressure on the judge.

He had to give me a stiff sentence for the assault on Kace.

I’m just happy he shortened the punishment for shooting Lucien and the drug charges—could have been much worse.

Still though, after the statute of limitations passed I started pressuring the board and they refused to give in.

The last time I tried, one of them was brutally honest as to why they didn’t approve any of my attempts prior.

They were making an example of me, over and over again.

Saying the days where correctional officers have relationships with inmates will come to an end.

And if anyone was going to set that precedence, it was going to be my case. Broke my heart but I managed.

I wrote to Sadie every week at first. Only sending the letters once a month to save on postage.

Although funds never seemed to be an issue.

Ironically, my commissary was always full and we know how guilty that made me feel.

Birdie told me to take it as a sign that someone was looking out for me, even if I had done shitty things in the past. After that, I slowed down on how often I was writing to her.

Especially when I wasn’t getting any response, limiting the letters to every few months.

Regardless, I’d always send her one right before her birthday.

Before my Bluitt family would put on their show of celebration for me.

It took a long time for me to come to terms with the fact that she might not want anything to do with me—perhaps she was embarrassed.

Those thoughts were rough, self-depreciating, and at times I convinced myself it was justified.

Seeing the way she’s clinging to me now?

How she won’t let me go or leave my sight for more than a handful of minutes has me thinking the complete opposite.

It’s filling my heart with so much love.

Love I never thought existed, nor a kind I’d be able to accept and return in favor.

The little voice is still nagging in the back of my head, wanting to ask why she never tried to contact me in return.

Did I do something wrong?

Was the content too painful?

Were her adoptive parents so critical of me that they made her think I would make her like me?

There’s a million questions running through my head now.

A lot of the same ones I asked myself when I would see other inmates sit down with their families and glimpse the faces of their loved ones.

The very people that gave them a home and lifted their spirits no matter the boundary of chainlink fences and cinderblock walls.

Some of them watched their parents age through glass, others would sing the ABC’s with their growing babies.

One time, I watched sisters talk about everything that came to mind and never argued or fought.

It never occurred to me, the bond between siblings, until I watched theirs.

I felt like I was further robbed by my parents for not giving me more.

One thousand, six hundred and fifty three prisoners and prison is the loneliest place I’ve ever been.

Holding her hand, we take the stairs up to the apartment in silence. This is what she prefers, I’ve noted. Her big curious eyes watch everything around her, even some of the more uncomfortable scenes that people shy away from.

For example, when we were sitting on the patio, there was a parent and child outside in a deep discussion about manners that I didn’t choose to watch.

Memories and all. But she did; then she also watched a couple sitting off to my left break up—water works, the whole thing.

Instead of giving people privacy, Sadie watched like she was dissecting their behavior.

Her dad—fuck me, that sounds surreal, Kace didn’t notice her shift in body language when he joined us but I did.

When we actually started talking and weren’t bickering, she unfolded her arms from around her legs and let them down.

At one point she was so engrossed in the way he was positioned that she mimicked him.

Currently, she’s leading the way up to the landing so I take the time to look her over.

She’s in a pair of leggings and a shirt so big it’s almost reaching her knees, hair pulled up in a ponytail sitting idly between her shoulder blades.

At her other side, her hand and arm hang straight as a board, so unnatural.

Then the realization kicks in and she begins to gently swing them again but awkwardly. Is she forcing it?

“Sadie,” I call to get her attention.

She stalls and turns around, her face is blank and emotionless.

My brows pinch together in confusion, about to open up and ask her if something is wrong but then I see the mask slide down and her eyes soften.

Giving me the most heart shattering smile.

I’m not a psychologist by any means but she’s simulating what and how she thinks people should act. Camouflaging herself into society.

“Yeah?”

Damnit, what do I say now? Lie?

Wing it, bitch.

“When we get in there, go straight to the room. Don’t stop to look at Lucien, okay?”

“He creeps me out. What are they going to do with him?”

Grateful for her interaction, I still don’t know how to answer because I’ve been left in the dark. Not complaining about that; I couldn't care less what Kace does with him but if she’s curious I suppose I can find out for her.

“No idea, I’ll ask your dad when he comes up with our drinks. When we get in the room I can kick him out and it can be just us if you want.”

“Yeah, do any of the TV’s have Netflix?”

“What’s that?” Asking as I take an extra step up where we are closer to being eye to eye—old prison dominance habits die hard. Speaking of, I need to give the girls a call when I can. They wanted an update and, well, we’ve been busy.

“It’s like Blockbuster but comes to your TV without needing to go to a store.”

“Oh. Well, you know I have no clue. I don’t think Ra would mind if you bought a movie though.”

Sadie smirks and shakes her head, looking down at her hands she gives me a squeeze and proceeds up to the landing while explaining this Netflix in greater detail.

“You don’t have to buy a movie. It’s a subscription service with movies, TV shows, and things already programmed into it. It’s a digital library of movies.”

“I see. Just a bit rusty with technology. I’m sure I’ll pick it up soon.”

“Because of being in prison?” The question is heavy, feels loaded, but I’m not going to hide anything from her. Secrets don’t belong around me anymore.

“Yes. You can ask me anything you want about it too. I… uhm, I wrote to you while I was locked up. A lot, actually. Hundreds of letters, I—“

She cuts me off. “I know.”

At the door, we open it and step inside.

Babel is standing behind Lucien with a glass tumbler in his hand, sloshing around familiar amber liquid.

When he looks our way, he lifts the glass and practically cheers us.

Lucien's head dangles forward, the black strands of his hair shrouding his face in a greasy curtain. He doesn’t stir at our arrival so I can only assume Babel beat him into unconsciousness again.

Truthfully, it makes me worry for Sadie—having to see someone in that sort of predicament.

“Ladies.”

Still not quite sure about him, call it mother’s intuition—or trauma. Definitely trauma.

Lifting the glass to his mouth, he continues to watch us while we walk through the living room.

I don’t know if it’s because he wants to make sure we get to the room without diversion, or if he isn’t sure about us either.

If I were in his shoes, standing behind a downright psychopath, sharing an apartment with two convicts and a teenage girl who’s supposed to be in therapy, wouldn’t make me feel comfortable either.

Going with the former, I nod at him before closing the door and blocking out the madness that is this situation.

Sadie goes straight for the remote and turns on the screen that’s sitting opposite of the footboard.

Taking a moment to toe off my boots and shrug off my jacket I watch what she’s doing.

Might as well learn something while I’m here, right?

A bright red image with Netflix in the center comes up on the TV—which is huge, did I say that?

“Do you care what I pick?”

“Nah, put on whatever you want. I didn’t have a TV in my room growing up, nor in my apartment. When I was in prison, we had one TV in the common areas but they usually replayed old movies and sometimes we would get to watch Days of Our Lives .”

“Isn’t that the one that has Jensen Ackles in it?”

Arching a brow, I drop down on the made bed, propping a few pillows against the headboard for back support while we watch whatever it is she’s about to put on.

“What do you know about Jensen Ackles?”

“Only that he’s been making waves over the past ten years. Movies, new TV series, he sings, a typical panelist at comic conventions.”