“Interesting you’d say that. What kind of evidence should we expect from you there?”
“Finger prints, hair samples, basic DNA stuff,” I say. “We were there for a solid three hours attaching the plaques to different park benches. We petted a few dogs, had a picnic, watched the sun set before we headed back to my place.”
“Did you work in any of the gardens?”
“Then or anytime?” I want to be clear I understand what I’m being asked.
Detective Spikes doesn’t reply. Nothing on his face changes. Not a flicker of a lash, not a quirk of his lips, not a pulsing vein in his cheeks. He’s a rock, solid, firm, just as cold.
I can’t seem to get a good read on him.
“We did not carry shovels with us to bury bodies, if that is what you are attempting to pull out of me,” my sarcasm is real, and I’ve no doubt my eyes did roll right then.
“Do you always deflect when you’re asked a question?”
“Do I--” I halt the rest of the words about to tumble out. “If they were under staffed or late on a project, there were times Donny or Alexius would ask me to put in some extra hours to help.”
“Did you at the Brown’s pond?”
I scramble in haste as I go through my memories. “Sure, I think…” I say, trying to remember distinctly if I had or not. I probably had.
“You don’t remember?” I can hear the are-you-kidding-me in his voice.
“If I’m hands deep in dirt, it’s usually after a full day in the office and it’s usually not just one location I visit, but a few at a time. Alexius doesn’t trust me much when it comes to her plants, so she doesn’t have me doing much beyond digging and filling.”
He writes this down. “Filling what? Holes?”
“The beds with mulch or stone. I don’t dig much either, for the record. She’ll leave potted plants in sections she wants a hole dug. I dig the size of the container and drop it in, water and leave. That’s it.”
He’s still writing the information down. “Ever fill in a hole where a dead body had been left?”
“No.”
“How would you know?”
“Never seen a dead body, human or animal, in any hole I’ve filled with a plant or shrub.”
Detective Spikes pauses for a moment. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve done landscaping before, haven’t you?”
I nod. I was on the grounds team at the prison. I always figured that came into play when Donny first hired me.
“Ever killed anyone before?”
I snort. “You’ve read my file.” Not quite the answer he’s looking for but, oh well.
Spikes gaze remains on the paper in front of him. “But you would know how to dispose of a body, if it became necessary, correct?”
I lean back in my chair and plop my hands down on the table, my palms creating a slight slapping sound.
“Spend as much time as I have in prison," sarcasm tumbles out of my mouth with truth I know I shouldn't be admitting to, "with roommates full of interesting histories and you can figure out just about anything.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’m painting myself into a corner.
I push my lips tightly together and swallow.
What have I done?
7
It'll Be Different This Time...Promise
13 MONTHS AGO
The electronic whirl of the closing gates sent a shudder that tiptoed along my entire body, and when those gates clicked, an electric jolt of energy pushed me forward, away from the steel barriers, from the place I’d called home for the past four years.
To a home I never wanted to return.
I couldn't get away fast enough. The push was everything I needed to leave my past behind.
I was determined to never return. Life would be different. I would be different.
The day was gorgeous. Brilliant sun with a gentle breeze that teased my split-ends. The exit process hadn’t taken too long and this time, my exit counselor was there to say goodbye, a first for me.
The long road ahead of me was busy. I wasn’t the only inmate being released. A few trees lined the pavement, but not many. To the right was a parking lot full of old Ford’s and Chevy’s. A few new ones were in the mix, probably belonging to lawyers. It felt...surreal to be out here, looking back at the gate, the yard, the bar covered windows. Surreal and almost...wrong.
It only felt that way because I normally looked out the other way, through the window, past the bars, the yard, to the gate and vehicles beyond.
To the left of where I stood was a guard stand. A crowd was gathered there, but I only cared about one person who waited for me.
Mom.
“Starla, baby,” Mom gushed as she pulled me in for a long mama-bear hug. She smelled of vanilla and rosemary, fresh baked bread and Lysol wipes. She smelled of home and my eyes filled with tears I didn’t want to shed.
They fell anyway.
She leaned away, her own eyes sparkling and gave me a full body stare down, shaking her head. “Too skinny, like always. Let’s go eat,” she said, “you need a good meal, a long shower and soft bed.”
We had a release day routine. Meal at a local diner with the best milkshakes, followed by some me-time. Mom and I would spend the evening curled up on her couch and caught up on movies before I headed to bed.
I didn't say anything as we walked to her truck, I just reached out and held her hand, tight, like a small child in need of reassurance.
She squeezed back, letting me know I wasn't alone anymore.
Mom filled the void of silence between us during the drive with small talk, filling me in on the latest gossip around town.
It wasn’t until we were seated in the seen-better-days diner, our butts in the cracked vinyl booth, milkshake in front of us both, that she heaved a very long, tiresome sigh that told me more than I’d wanted to know.
“It’ll be different this time,” I said before she opened her mouth.
I read the disappointment on her face. It was in the lines around her eyes, the way her smile faltered, the sudden drop of her shoulders as she leaned forward.
“You said that last time, Starla.”
It was all there in her tone.
She didn’t owe me a thing, but I owed her everything. Everything and more. My incarceration had taken a toll on her. She looked older, more tired, more…just more. It hurt, the knowledge I was the cause of all those lines, the weariness, the grey hair.
“How long will it take this time for you to be mixed in with the wrong crowd? To be lured in? You never could turn away from a promising target.”
She might as well have inserted a knife into my heart with a twist. Damn, that hurt. But she was right...I always got lured right back in. The idea of a risk and reward was something I never seemed able to resist.
“I’m clean. I’m making changes. I swear.” I needed her to believe me. I wasn’t going back to prison. I wasn’t going to be played again. I wasn’t going to take another job that promised rainbows and instead offered concrete. I'd been promised a lot of money and a contract list, but what I ended up with was slops and prison wear.
I had a whole list of ‘I wasn’t going to do this again’ and I meant it all too.