Chapter 1 Wren #2
The man looks much older than Robert’s forty-two years, with weathered skin and wrinkles surrounding his eyes and covering his forehead. He has a thick beard, peppered with white streaks, and his blue eyes are assessing as they trail over me, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Bozhe moy,” he whispers so quietly I’m not sure he even meant to say it out loud. But I still catch the Russian words, my goodness.
“Wren, come over here, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Robert beckons me forward, and I stop several feet away from them both.
“Ivan, I’d like you to meet my sister, Wren.”
I offer him a curtsy out of respect, as I’ve been taught, as I wait for him to respond.
“My dear, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He offers his hand for me to shake. Yep, his accent is definitely Russian. I wonder what sort of business Robert does with him.
I reach out, planning to offer a quick shake in greeting, but he clasps his other hand over mine, sandwiching it between both as he takes a small step closer.
Don’t cringe, don’t back away, just stay calm.
My hackles rise, feeling nervous and unsure about what he’s doing. My eyes bounce to Robert in worry, but he just smiles, giving me a small nod, telling me that Ivan is safe.
“The pleasure is all mine.” I offer the formal greeting that’s been ingrained in me from a young age.
“Wren,” Robert says, stepping closer as Ivan finally releases my hands. I move them behind my back, my fingers twisting together to stop me from wiping them or fidgeting with my dress, a nervous habit of mine that Robert hates. “This is Ivan Sokolov, he’s a close friend of mine, from Russia.”
Close friend? Why had I never heard of him before?
“And now, a friend of yours,” he adds before taking a sip of his whiskey. I realize Ivan doesn’t have a drink yet and gasp with worry at not doing my duty.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr. Sokolov, I should have offered you a drink straight away. Can I get you something? Whiskey? Wine? Water?”
He chuckles, sounding delighted. “Call me Ivan, please. And a whiskey would be fine. Neat, three fingers.”
“I’ll get that right away.” I rush over to the sidebar where we keep the alcohol and glasses and prepare his drink.
“She’s delightful,” Ivan whispers to my brother.
“I told you,” Robert replies, sounding pleased. I try not to preen, but knowing I’m making my brother happy by putting on a good impression for his friend makes me feel like I’m not a failure, like I actually have worth to him.
I pass Ivan his whiskey, and he takes a small sip before asking, “No drink for yourself, Wren?”
“No, I don’t drink alcohol, that’s only for men.
” That was a rule I’d love to break one day.
I was curious about a lot of things, but my need to follow the rules Robert has laid out for me is more important than my curiosity.
A shiver rolls down my spine when my mind flashes to the last time I purposely broke one of his rules.
It was about ten years ago now, but the memory still lingers sometimes.
“Hmm.” Ivan looks amused as his eyes bounce to Robert.
“Why don’t you tell him a bit about yourself?” Robert suggests.
I try not to show my surprise. He wants me to talk about myself? Usually, he doesn’t want me speaking to his business associates at all. When I finally respond, I try to force myself to sound polished, even though my nerves want to make me trip over every word. “What would you like to know, Ivan?”
My fingers twist painfully together behind my back as I resist the urge to flee. Something about this man screams danger.
“You’re twenty-six, yes?”
“Almost. My birthday is in a few days.”
He nods, as if my age meets his approval. “And what do you like to do?” I resist the urge to glance at Robert, knowing my eyes should remain on the man talking to me, instead of seeking my brother’s approval of the subject matter.
“I enjoy cooking and reading. I like to do cross-stitch and play the piano.”
Liar! You hate that crap!
“And she’s quite good at ballet and can speak several languages,” Robert adds. I risk a look at him, and he smiles, seeming at ease with the way the conversation is going. I’ve never had to speak about myself before, and it feels strange.
Chin up, Wren, shoulders back, I remind myself.
“Oh, really? Ty govorish po-russki?” Ivan asks eagerly if I speak Russian.
“Da,” I say with what I hope is an appropriate smile and nod of my head.
“Mozhet, odnazhdy ty stantsuyesh dlya menya?”
“Perhaps,” I reply in English to his question about me dancing for him one day. I actually hate ballet; it feels too structured and rigid, like the rest of my life. And it isn’t something I’d ever performed for anyone before.
“Wren, why don’t you play the song you’ve been working on for us?” Robert gestures to the piano, and I perk up, looking for a reason to get away from this intimidating man.
“Of course.” Glad to get a breather from Ivan, I quickly move to the grand piano in the corner of the room and get myself settled at the keys.
Once I’m ready, I start playing. The song, called ‘Dark Eyes,’ flows smoothly, almost romantically.
I let my body sway a little as I play, and when I press the final note, a huge smile fills my face.
I nailed it.
I turn to the two men and realize Ivan is standing right beside the piano now, looking at me with something burning in his eyes. I’m not sure what it is; it reminds me of the way Carlos looks at me, but it’s deeper, stronger.
Scarier.
I turn my gaze to Robert, unsure what to do, and he offers me a smile of approval, making me relax a fraction. “That was beautiful, Wren. I can tell you’ve been practicing,” he tells me with a nod.
It wasn’t like I had anything else to do. Well, besides cross-stitching, ballet lessons, cooking, and cleaning, that is.
“Thank you, Robert.”
“Impressive,” Ivan says with a slow nod, before turning to Robert, approval shining in his eyes. “Very impressive. I think we have some things to discuss.”
Robert smiles before turning back to me. “Why don’t you head to bed now? I’ll see you for breakfast at seven-thirty.”
“Yes, sir.” I stand and move toward him, and he bends down, letting me give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, Robert. Thank you for allowing me to join you tonight.”
“Goodnight, Wren.”
“It was nice to meet you, Ivan,” I say, making sure to keep my distance from the man as I offer him a small curtsy.
“The pleasure was all mine.” Humor dances in his eyes as I turn and exit the room as fast as I can without looking too eager to leave.
Don’t run, don’t run.
It takes everything I have not to dart up the stairs to my bedroom, not because I want to get away from Ivan that badly, although I do, but because I know what awaits me there.
Stepping into my room, I close my door slowly, not wanting to slam it accidentally. Then I lock it and run to my desk, pulling out the white envelope addressed to me as excitement shoots through me.
The letter arrived earlier today, but I couldn’t risk being caught with it. Nobody ever interrupts me after I’ve gone to bed, though, so I knew if I waited until now, I’d be able to read and reply in peace.
I lay the envelope gently on my bed, anticipation bubbling in my chest as I rush to change into my silk pajamas.
I actually hate silk; it gets all sweaty and sticks to me.
Give me a cotton shirt to sleep in any day.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to choose my own clothes.
And if wearing silk makes Robert happy, even if he rarely sees me in it, then I am glad to wear it.
Sort of… Kind of… Maybe not so much happy to wear it as I was happy to meet his approval. That was all I ever wanted, his approval and happiness.
After brushing my teeth, I grab a stack of paper, a pen, and rush into bed, pulling the comforter over my legs as I get settled against the headboard.
Grabbing the envelope, I stare at my name, recognizing Sly’s handwriting.
I eagerly rip it open and pull out four separate letters.
Relief fills me, knowing they all wrote to me. It’s been nine months since I started writing to them by accident, and every time I send a letter, I’m terrified I won’t get a response, that someone will figure out what I’m doing and put a stop to it.
Their letters fill me with something I’ve never had before: excitement, freedom, and a weird sort of rebelliousness. It’s the only thing I do that my brother would not be happy with—if he ever found out.
It was his fault, really. He told me to become penpals with some foster kids who needed a big sister role model. It wasn’t my fault that I grabbed the wrong list of names from his desk.
In my defense, the paper had only a single line of text:
Sylvester Romano, Peter Montgomery, Dexter Sutherland, and Jason Hayes are all now permanently residing at
Stoney Creek R.C. 3200 Red Canyon Road, Stoney Creek, Arizona.
Could I be blamed for thinking R.C. stood for Recreation Center? Imagine my surprise when I realized I hadn’t written to four foster boys but, in fact, to four inmates at Stoney Creek Rehabilitation Center.
Four men whom I’ve never met, never seen, and yet were the most exciting part of my life. Receiving a letter from them was what I imagined being struck by lightning felt like: dangerous, impossible to ignore, and filling my entire body with a warmth I’ve never felt before.
When I read their words, I feel truly seen for the first time in my life. Like my thoughts and opinions actually matter. Their letters bring me a feeling of hope and exhilaration that I’ve never experienced. I find myself craving their words more than I crave air. I’m inexplicably drawn to them.
And to think, all of this comes from four convicted murderers.
My prison penpals.