Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
The Sheriff made a sound, it shook me out of my recollections and brought me back to the bare interrogation room. Suddenly, another thought even more horrifying than that old memory hit me. If she only remembered up to two days before her parents died, then what had happened to her memories of me? Of us? Had her mind erased me too? It seemed too incredible to believe.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“In the hospital, sedated. They will keep her under observation for a few days more.” He shrugged. “Thanks to you she has nowhere to go, anyway.”
I blinked. We had a plan. It was a good plan, but we didn’t foresee this part.
“Why don’t you just confess. The law will be much kinder to you if you do.”
I squared my shoulders. I had to stick to the plan.
“Look, Einstein, you even left your footprints around the house. And there is a trace of blood on your pants. We’ll DNA the hell out of that and I’ll bet that the results we get back are a positive match so you might as well co-operate now, and the judge will go easier on you.”
My whole world had just fallen apart, but I looked at him expressionlessly. In my head a little voice was saying again, and again.
“He doesn’t know. No one will ever know, but you did good, Caleb. You did good.”
That same voice spoke to me as my mother, who was already drunk at ten in the morning, came to see me.
“How could you? How could you?” she cried furiously. “Everybody in town is going to hate us now.”
I let her carry on in that vein. All her ranting and raving mattered not one bit to me. All I wanted was more information about Willow. As if to punish me, Sheriff Winters refused to speak about her anymore.
“How is Willow?” I asked, when it appeared she had blown off some of that steam.
She jerked her head violently with surprise that I had spoken. Then her eyes filled with rage again. “She’s in hospital. Why are you asking?”
I shrugged. “Would you be able to go and see her?”
Her eyes bulged so hard they almost fell out of her face. “Me? Go and see her in hospital? Are you mad? Have you heard a word I’ve said? We are pariahs in this town now. I can’t go anywhere without people spitting and snarling in my face.”
“They did that before this,” I reminded dryly.
She got so mad, her whole face became an ugly red. She forgot the camera in the ceiling, and swung her hand out. Her blows were always easy to avoid, unlike my stepfather’s, and I could have ducked, if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t. I let her hit me. That would be good evidence in court.
I shouldn’t have bothered.
Despite my age, and in spite of the five people who testified about the horrible abuse I’d endured at my stepfather’s hands from the time I was a kid, the jury threw the book at me. The people of Redburn were God-fearing folk, and I had done something unforgivable. I’d killed a representative of God. If they didn’t punish me suitably they would burn in hell.
So, in good conscience, they handed me the maximum they could give to a minor. Twenty fucking years.
“You’ll be out sooner with good behavior,” my court appointed lawyer mumbled carelessly, before he hurried off to lunch.
Not that I cared. That voice in my head had just grown stronger.
“You did good, Caleb. You did good.”
2
Caleb
Twelve years later
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GYt6mzQ3Xo
I pulled her watch out of the box and nostalgia hit me like a physical punch in the gut.
The years had done nothing to dull or sully the girlish, bright pink accessory. Across the strap was printed, ‘the power puff girls’ and on the face were the three superhero characters.
My hand closed around it, as heavy waves of emotions washed over me. Longing burned in the pit of my stomach, and fear filled my chest.
“Is it all there?” the correctional officer asked.
I tucked the dead watch into my pocket, but didn’t even bother to look into the other bag. It held the possessions I’d brought with me into the prison twelve years earlier. A pair of jeans and a faded grey t-shirt, the edge of its collar stained with ink.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Sign here, Wolfe,” he said, pushing a clipboard with a form attached to it towards me.
I did as I was told, but in my heart, I swore it would be the last time anyone told me what to do. I was never coming back here or being at the mercy of such brutes again.
“So,” he said with a smirk. “You came in with nothing. Fifteen-years old and wet behind the ears, but word is ya fell in with the in-crowd and became quite the mogul in there. You’re one lucky bastard, aren’t ya?”