“Doing anything special today?” I ask after a while. “Did you get that ramen?”
“Yeah,” he says, licking dill pickle dust off his thumb. “Eddie B. was pissed. All that was left was shrimp. Everybody knows that’s the worst.”
“I’ll bet.” I’ve never had packaged ramen.
“Anyway, I’m hosting a bit of a party. I think the noodles will ensure a decent turn-out.”
“How does that look?”
“How does what look?”
“A prison party.”
He laughs a little. “Like half a dozen middle-aged guys sitting on one guy’s bed eating dry noodles out of a bag.”
“Right.”
“We’ll have reason to celebrate soon, Pieces.”
“I know.”
His appeal is coming up in three months. If it goes well, he could be walking out the front doors of the courthouse immediately after, leaving behind all that chicken ramen for Eddie B. and his prison friends. It should go well; I’ve been paying through the nose for his legal team. Not just his lawyer. His team. All of my dad’s money was confiscated when he was arrested, his assets sold to pay back some of the money he’d stolen. You’d think that would placate people, but not even close. Despite their best efforts, the FBI hasn’t been able to locate the last twenty million dollars, and the treasure hunters of the world—and more than a few lunatics—have been obsessed with it ever since. Because I’m the only Carlisle left to roam the planet, most people are convinced I have the money. Or, at the very least, if I don’t have it, I know where it is. If they knew where I lived, they’d see how stupid they are. But they can’t find me, so they’ll never know.
In the meantime, I’m funding this effort, pretending like everyone else that there’s a way out of the mess. That in three months my father’s name will be cleared and he’ll be free. That’s the tiny scrap of hope that stops me from stepping off the roof every day. Maybe, just maybe.
Because the sentencing wasn’t a surprise. My dad was guilty, after all. The first time I’d seen him after the arrest he’d told me as much. I would have sworn he was innocent until the day I died if he hadn’t whispered in my ear and made me believe.
3
IT’S NEARLY DARK WHEN I say goodbye to Hilroy and leave the prison. My car is hot and stuffy when I climb in, so I pull off the tights and toss them in the back with my coat, then grab the half-melted chocolate rabbit I’ve got stashed in the console, break off its ears, and take a big bite.
I hold the severed head in my hand as I navigate my way out of the now-empty lot and back onto the dirt road. This far outside the city you can see the stars starting to appear, the full moon already visible. I crunch through chocolate and rice crisps and turn up the radio, finding an old rock song to keep me company.
Since Doug and Denise’s failed date three nights ago, I’ve been doing my best to convince myself the reason I’d been feeling so tense and antsy had nothing to do with weeks of no human touch and everything to do with this visit. I love my dad, but I hate coming here. It’s like going to the cemetery to visit the rest of my family—a sad, unnecessary reminder. Like I’d somehow managed to forget.
I stuff the rest of the rabbit back in the box, licking melted chocolate off my fingers, unsatisfied. A quick glance in the rearview confirms I’m alone, and as I do every time, I press my foot on the gas, harder and harder, until the needle inches well past the speed limit and the car is vibrating and I have to clench the wheel with both hands. My heart is pounding when I reach down to lower the window, letting the night air flood in, whipping my hair into my face, my eyes.
I rarely let myself think about my life before the scandal, when we used to do stupid things just because we could, not because they were the only things that made us feel anything at all. I don’t think about parties and friends and clothes and cruises, how we quaked with laughter when the cork exploded out of a bottle of four thousand dollar champagne and broke a thirty thousand dollar chandelier. I don’t think about how fast that life flew by and how slowly this one moves, no matter how hard I hit the gas.
The thought brings me down and I ease my foot off the pedal. Plumes of thick dirt swallow the red of my taillights and I slump back in my seat, the thrill gone. Pathetic, but the best I can do. As always.
The truck comes out of nowhere. My headlights cut across the dark front cab when it turns in front of me, emerging from one of the narrow farm lanes that divide the crops. There are no lights, no warnings. Instinct takes over, and I scream and yank the wheel hard to the left. Tires screech their outrage, spinning out over the dirt, the spray of dust and pebbles pelting my face through the open window. The car careens across the road and rattles over a shallow irrigation ditch before stopping short of a row of what might be corn. Right now it’s just husks, brittle arms scratching against the doors in greeting.
I clutch my chest and gulp in too much air, reaching out with shaking fingers to twist the key from the ignition. I wince and close my eyes when the idiot truck driver decides to turn on his high beams, illuminating the back of my car and nearly blinding me.
“Fucking fuckhead fucker,” I mutter, undoing my seatbelt and shoving open the door. Maybe it’s the cool air or the terror still pumping through my veins, but my exposed skin pebbles with goose bumps and I wish I hadn’t thrown my tights and jacket in the back. I round the car but I’m still half-blind; the truck is right where he stopped, emerging from the invisible lane and pointed straight at me, the glaring light making it impossible to see. The silhouette of a figure starts to approach. It’s like a scene from every alien abduction movie, and I’m the newest test subject.
“What the fuck?” I demand, shouting into the night. I use a shaky hand to shield my eyes, but it makes no difference. As the figure nears, I realize it’s a man, tall and broad. My already pounding heart picks up the pace. I keep my keys clenched in my palm, as though they’ll make an effective weapon, should he decide to attack. Should I decide to fight back.
“You know how fast you were going?” he counters, stopping at the edge of the road, maybe ten feet away. I can’t make out more than his outline, and I shift to the side to take away some of the burn of his headlights.
“I had my lights on,” I snap, gesturing around us. “How the fuck did you not see?”
He ignores that. “Are you hurt?”
The flash flood of adrenaline is easing, making my limbs weak, and I want to slump down into the grass, another unsatisfactory ending to another unsatisfactory day. All the build-up and none of the payoff. I should have gone to that hotel room. I should have let whatever was going to happen, happen.
“I’m not hurt,” I mutter finally. “Turn off your lights. They’re blinding me.”
“I thought you wanted them on.”
“That’s the law, genius.”
I run a hand through my hair and turn back to my car so I can leave this miserable field.
“Do I know you?”
I stop mid-stride. I’m only halfway turned around, that precipitous moment where I can climb into my car and drive away, or turn back and have this conversation. Yes, I’m Reese Carlisle. Yes, I was at the prison visiting my criminal father. No, I don’t know where the money is. No, I didn’t kill my brother.