Page 36 of Whispers and Wildfire

“Is he free to go?” she asked the guard.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s go, then. I’ve been waitin’ an hour.”

The pity in the glance the guard cast my direction made me want to rip his insides out.

I pretended not to notice his expression as I walked to the van's passenger side and got in. An air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror did little to mask the smell of cigarette smoke.

Mom got in and shut her door. “Well, you learned your lesson, I’m sure. You won’t hear more about it from me.”

“Thanks.”

“Your uncle Glen passed. Did I tell you that? Couple of years ago.”

“You did, yes.”

She kept talking as she pulled out of her parking spot and drove through the outer gate, droning on about neighbors and relatives. It was odd how she’d adopted a Tennessee accent. Granted, she’d lived there for about fifteen years, but adults didn’t always change their speech when they moved to a new place.

It irritated me, as did her litany of updates about people I didn’t care about.

But I kept quiet, nodding along as if I were interested. It was easier that way. Not because I felt any particular affection for her. An accident of birth didn’t mean I owed her anything, least of all some sort of emotional attachment. It simply served my purposes to stay in her good graces.

She had something I needed.

The drive to her house took several hours. Eventually, she ran out of things to talk about. We stopped for fast food, and the salty, oil-soaked fries, cheap burger, and processed cheese were so good, I almost moaned while I ate. Prison food had left a lot to be desired.

My restlessness increased as we got closer to her house. She’d kept my things, and I had no reason to believe they wouldn’t be there. She lived alone, hadn’t moved, and had no reason to get rid of what I’d asked her to store. Even if she’d gone through my belongings, she’d never know how important it was. Never know the significance of what she kept.

Finally, we arrived. Her little house looked faded—in need of fresh paint—and the grass was brown. She started talking again, but I hardly listened. I had to get to it. Had to make sure it was there.

Had to see it, hold it in my hands.

“Everything’s where you left it,” she said as we walked inside, gesturing down the hall to the spare bedroom. “Probably a bit dusty. I only go in there to vacuum once in a while.”

“That’s fine. I’ll clean it up.”

“I know you just got out and all, but they gonna help youget a job or somethin’? There must be programs out there to help guys like you.”

Guys like me. Criminals.

I lifted my eyes to meet hers. Like usual, my voice was soft. “Don’t worry about that. I won’t be staying long.”

“I’m not gonna kick you out or anythin’. I just think you should have a plan.”

“You’re right.” I resisted the urge to fidget with my hands, but the need to see it was quickly becoming too much to contain. I needed to reassure my mother so she’d leave me alone. “There are programs. They gave me all the information I need. I have a plan.”

She nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it. I’ll let you get settled.”

Finally.

Carrying the brown paper bag of useless garbage I’d brought from prison, I went to the spare room. I’d been living there when they caught me. Hiding out. Regrouping.

The air was stale, and a sheen of dust covered the furniture. The mattress was bare, and a now-obsolete computer sat on the desk right where I’d left it.

Absently, I dropped the bag and went to the closet. My heart sped up, anticipation making my blood run hot for the first time in years. Just the thought of it—of her—aroused me. Made my groin ache.

The plastic box with a lid that latched closed was exactly where I expected it to be—on the floor of the closet, buried beneath winter sweaters and a thick coat. She hadn’t touched it, didn’t know.

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