Page 30

~ SAM ~

Thank God I still had connections with the prison, and contacts inside .

I wasn’t going to break the rules. But I definitely knew where and how to get them bent in my direction. By eight the next morning I was almost finished the over-an-hour drive to the State penitentiary. And I had a counseling appointment with none other than Gordon Reynolds himself.

The cool part was that I could take my normal car because, since I still did this for work, the Feds wouldn’t think it was odd that I was headed there.

I just had to pray they wouldn’t be checking logs to see who I visited.

I was nervous as I got out of the car. Coming here after I got out had always made me a little tense, even when I hadn’t had pending charges. Once you’d lived as a prisoner there was always a part of your body convinced that when those doors clanged shut behind you they’d never open up again.

But I had to do this.

Because I was an ordained minister and Gordon was immuno-compromised, we’d get a private room if there was one available. I hoped by meeting him early, we could dodge any potential clashes. The prison only had half a dozen of those rooms .

I had to sign in and walk deeper and deeper into the facility, my hackles rising higher every time another door slammed and locked behind me. I had to be frisked, and sign a security disclaimer—yes, they’d have officers in the hallway and a window-view of us. But they weren’t liable if he throttled me before the guards could get to the room.

It didn’t say that, but that’s what it meant.

By the time I made it to the room I was sweating. It hadn’t been more than a few days since I’d been there, but between my tensions about Bridget and the subconscious impact of knowing I could end up back here in a few months… God, my stomach was churning.

I nervously scratched at the wooden tabletop while I waited, praying that I’d keep it together—and that he’d be calm too.

Gordon Reynolds and I had never had a beef, and neither of us had been aligned with people who hated the other. But we weren’t friends or allies either. We’d existed in different spheres when I was here.

From his side of the table I understood that speaking to someone who was a former inmate made it easier in some ways—they understood what you were going through. But sometimes all it did was slap you in the face with the cage you were still locked in. After all, here was someone who’d been inside. And now they were in the same room as you smelling of fresh air and gasoline. And when you were done, they got to leave.

But I also knew that Gordon Reynolds had expressed skepticism about my reformation in prison. As one of the Old Guys, he’d made it known at some point that the changes in me were just a ruse to get myself paroled earlier. He didn’t care. But he didn’t trust me, either.

Let him be desperate enough to be honest.

Or sick enough to not care about lying anymore.

Please.

Then the door opened and he shuffled in.

There was a surreal moment where the images in my mind and the one in front of me just didn’t match. I’d known him several years earlier, before he became ill. Then I’d spent most of the night before looking at pictures of him twenty years earlier—when he had more hair, and it was still mostly dark like Bridget’s. But now, just past sixty, he was smokey gray all over, white at the temples. And his body was weak. His prison scrubs hung off his narrow shoulders like he’d been given a size too big. He had the droopy jowls of a man who’d lost a lot of weight quickly.

Cancer treatment would do that to you, I supposed.

I stood up when he shuffled in, but I wasn’t supposed to cross the table or to other side of the room once he was there. So, I just nodded to him and told the guards to take off his cuffs.

I saw his eyes flash at that. He thought I was trying to get on his good side. Actually, I was just trying to get him as comfortable as possible.

When the guards left the room with a warning that we had an hour, I nodded and waved, but Gordon turned slowly to face me, then walked to the chair with the rolling gait of a man much older than his early sixties.

He sat down in the chair stiffly and took a moment to get comfortable before sitting back in the chair and looking me right in the eye.

“Good morning, Gordon.”

His expression didn’t change. “Sam. You here about my girl, or because you’re a snitch too?”

The words my girl set my teeth and made the skin on my spine crawl, but I stretched my neck and didn’t comment.

“I came to ask you some questions, if you’ll let me.”

Gordon’s eyes were cloudy and his lower lids sagged a little, leaving those pink spots in the corners that spoke of old age and a bad liver.

He raised his brows. “So polite. I suppose you god guys have to do that, right?”

“I mean, it’s recommended.” I tried to smile, but I didn’t have it in me.

“I know they said I’m dying, but if you’re here to try and convert me, you can forget it. I’ve had all the talks. If god wanted to talk to me, he should have done it a lot earlier before everything fucked up.”

I swallowed and nodded like I was thinking, but inside it grated.

So many of these men completely denied God, then blamed him when they were arrested and locked up .

“So, I’m guessing this isn’t a social visit.”

“No.”

“I can’t talk about the things that happened. You’re not getting a story from me. My case is still on appeal.”

I had to stop myself rolling my eyes. “Honestly, I’m a lot more interested in what’s happened since then.”

He tipped his head. “You’re the one they’re accusing of trying to kill her.”

“They’re wrong.”

He huffed. “Sure they are.”

“They are. And I suspect you know that.”

His eyes got keen then. Until that moment I’d been talking to a tired, old man. But at that statement his eyes snapped to meet mine and I saw the predator that had always existed behind this man’s facade.

That was okay. I had one too. And right now, one on one, I’d bet on mine to win if it came to that.

His lips pulled very slightly towards a smile like he knew what I was thinking.

“Prisoner turned priest,” he muttered.

“I’m not a priest, I’m a—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve had the sermon. I don’t care. Why are you here, Sam. I only said yes because I’m curious. You’ve had years of chances to talk to me. Why now?”

“Because of Bridget.”

“What the fuck would I know about Bridget? I haven’t seen her since she was twelve.”

“I think you have.”

“What you think means exactly jack shit to me. They’re saying you tried to kill her. Why the fuck do you think I’d help you?”

“Because I think you know I didn’t.”

He nodded slowly, not to agree with me, but like I’d affirmed something for him. I sat back in my chair and made the call not to hide anything.

“I read the letter,” I said bluntly.

He didn’t react at all. “The one she never answered?”

I nodded. “She’s scared. Because of you. And now she’s run away. I need to know where she might have gone. Any of the places you took her, or things that might have happened along the way that might be… significant.”

He frowned. “How the fuck should I know?”

“You were there when everything happened that makes her scared at this time of year.”

“So? It was twenty years ago. She hasn’t talked to me since she was a kid. I wouldn’t have a fucking clue where she goes when she’s on the run.”

I leaned my elbows on the table and sat forward with my hands clasped so he knew I wasn’t a threat. “Was the letter real?”

“You read it. Did it feel fucking real?”

“I meant were the things you said about wanting to apologize real? And the remorse? Or were they just words on paper to get something you wanted?”

He stared at me coldly for a moment and I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he mirrored me, leaning forward on his elbows at his side of the table, and clasping his hands.

“Tell me, something Sam… does your god think shotgun weddings in Las Vegas are real? I mean, it’s just words on paper, right?”

I almost fell over backwards, adrenaline flooding my system as everything I’d wondered and everything I’d feared was confirmed in the same moment.

He knew. He fucking knew. Which meant he probably knew where Bridget was too. But also… he fucking knew.

He could blow this entire case, everything we were working for, right out of the water. And now he was smiling, which meant he knew he’d shocked me.

I didn’t respond for a minute, making myself breathe deeper and slower, praying for fucking wisdom because this was so precarious.

And then it hit me: He’d chosen his words very carefully. He knew, as I did, that we were being recorded right now. And he hadn’t told anyone that I’d married her.

I swallowed hard, my heart racing, but hope rising behind it.

“My God recognizes it any time someone makes a commitment they mean. And He’s got some pretty choice words for people who use false commitments to manipulate people,” I said as calmly as I could. “So… which was it?”

Gordon sat back, but his eyes hadn’t left mine. A challenge.

“You think I put shit like that in writing without meaning it?”

“C’mon, Gordon. We’ve all said stuff in here to get us what we wanted. Sometimes it feels like the easiest way.”

He sneered. “I don’t need a god to make me tell my daughter the truth. So is this just reconnaissance? She tell you to come?”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t know I’m here. She’s going to be angry with me for talking to you.”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. “Sounds like you’re an idiot then.”

I huffed. “I’m here because I’m worried about her. She’s disappeared and I need to find out where she is.”

“Isn’t that her business?”

“It would be, except sometimes people need more help than they know. She’s been pretty open with me, so it’s a surprise that she took off. I think something scared her. But my point is, I’m here for her, not for you.”

“What a hero.”

I looked at him flatly. “Look, let’s cut the bullshit. Either you meant the things in that letter and you want to help her like you said. Or you didn’t and it was just a way to get her to show up. I’m guessing by now you’ve realized she’s not coming. So don’t waste my time and I won’t waste yours.”

He opened his hands, leaving them on the table like two gray spiders. His skin had age marks, and the skin looked thin—much older than his years.

“Why should I give two shits about you and your questions? She’s the one I wrote the letter for.”

I leaned closer. “You should care because you were her dad, and you broke her. You broke her when she was way too little to understand it was all your fault, not hers. She couldn’t cope. You said you understood that. That you did wrong by her. If you mean it, it’s good that you can see that. And if you want to help her heal, that’s good too. But I’m not going to play some stupid game with you. If you want to help her, you’ll help me. If you don’t, fine.” When he didn’t respond I sighed. “Which is it, Gordon?”

His eyes narrowed and he leaned in too. “Yeah, I meant it. I mean a lot of things. Including this: You better get to your fucking point because I’m losing patience.”