Chapter 5 Melody
Melody
Guilty. The word rattles around in my brain as I'm taken back to the jail, back to my cell.
I'm guilty. A jury of my peers decided they didn't like my story.
A jury of my peers decided I was guilty, that I should be left to rot in prison, forgotten by the world.
I'm perfectly fine being forgotten. In fact, I prefer it—that was my goal, after all, when I left Chicago.
I take issue with the "rotting in prison" part.
Everyone I killed deserved it. Charlie was a sexual predator.
Frank hated women. Dante had a good reason for that other guy, I'm sure, though I don't remember his name.
And that sleazy asshole in Ella's basement was perfectly fine with taking advantage of a literal caged woman.
I'm sure there are a few others I'm forgetting, but they deserved it, too. My only regret is the fact that Ella, Rafaella Angelo, is still alive. She's very much alive and lauded by her peers for catching a horrific murderer.
"Heard the news," Stacy announces as she's brought back to our cell. The guard locks the goddamn cage we're stuck in and saunters off without a care in the world. "Sorry to hear it, sister. When's the sentencing?"
"I don't know. I think they told me, but I don't quite remember." I shake my head. "I was… preoccupied."
"You don't say." Stacy plops down on the bunk beside me and throws her arm around my shoulder. "Honestly, I'm impressed. You really seem like you're taking this all in stride."
I shrug and drop my head into my hands. I'm so fucking tired. "Nothing else I can do now, is there?"
Stacy giggles and tosses herself back, sprawling on the twin-sized bunk. "There's always something to do."
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"You're a woman of means, aren't you? Businessman husband, vacation homes, right?" She cocks her head to the side with a wicked grin. "There are always spaces between bars, if you catch my drift."
My eyebrows rocket up to my hairline—at least, that's what it feels like.
Escape. Jesus, I'm an idiot. Why have I just been lying back and taking it?
Maybe the botched attempt with Ella knocked me on my ass, metaphorically speaking.
Holy shit. Of course, I could escape. I just need to get a message to Dante. Holy shit.
"What do you know?" I drop my voice to a whisper. "How? What?"
"Not everyone who works here loves their job, girl." She winks. "Just watch. Listen. Observe. You'll figure it out."
I'm still riding the high of Stacy's sneaky suggestions when Mr. Vetter drags me back into court for sentencing.
Maybe my years of TV watching didn't prepare me adequately, but I really thought these processes took more than a handful of months.
But no, I'm sitting back in court, not even a week after my guilty verdict.
Waiting for the judge to tell me what I already know.
Except my mind won't focus on the proceedings.
I keep going over the guards' faces and names, their attitudes and demeanors, mentally sorting them into helpful or harmful.
I only catch a few words of my own sentencing.
Life in prison, no chance of parole for thirty years, blah blah blah.
Mr. Vetter elbows me when he catches me smiling blithely.
"Fix your face," he hisses under his breath. Try as I might, I can't. It'll be in the papers, of course—the murderess smiling at her own demise. I'll be branded insane. A crazy bitch. But like, who cares? If I know Dante—and I know I do—he won't stand by this.
As casually as possible, I stretch my arms up and out like I'm yawning, chancing a peek behind me.
There he is. There's my man, sitting just behind the partition, watching me intently.
I fake another yawn and wink at him. Recognition flashes in his eyes, and he stifles a smirk. Goddamn, my husband is hot.
And just like that, a pang of guilt jolts through me to my core.
That sexy as sin man married me, promised me the world, and I smashed it to pieces.
If I'd kept a handle on myself, if I hadn't convinced Helena to take me out to the range, we wouldn't be in this mess.
What is this all costing him? What about my hospital stay?
He's rich, of course, but everyone has a financial limit.
The smile falls from my face as self-deprecating thoughts race through my mind.
Through it all, he's come to court for me.
He got slapped with contempt of court for me.
He professed his love for me when the jury read their verdict.
It seems impossible that someone like him would actually love me, but…
maybe, just maybe, I could start to believe him.
I feel his eyes on me through the whole sentencing ordeal—through the judge announcing I'll be extradited to Illinois to stand trial again.
Illinois, however, doesn't seem to be chomping at the bit to get its claws in me.
I won't be transferred for another few months.
But I still won't get to go home. No, I'll still be remanded to custody without bail.
That's fine. That's all fine. It gives me the chance to figure out how the hell I'm going to escape. I know I can trust Stacy, but who else? My new mission is to figure out which guards hate their jobs and get them on my side.
"Seriously, fix your face." Mr. Vetter elbows me again. "You look like you're happy about this."
"Sorry," I mumble and fix my attention back on the judge. Folding my hands together in front of my mouth, I hide my smile. I'll absolutely get the fuck out of this.
Without a looming court date, all the days run together in jail.
Stacy's still here, though. We chat about whatever magazine she gets her hands on or play cards.
One of the guards she's friendly with passed her a deck about a week ago, and I'm the reigning champion of Go Fish.
Plus, I'm the queen of commissary. Dante keeps my books full, and I treat Stacy whenever she mentions wanting snacks. It's the least I can do, really.
"Where's your toothbrush?" Stacy asks, throwing down her (losing) hand of cards.
"Where it always is. Why?" I snatch up the cards and start to shuffle them.
"They're probably going to let you mingle with the rest of us long-timers soon. It's always nice to have protection."
"Protection?"
"Oh my god, you absolute baby." Stacy leans in and whispers to my ear, "Scrape the handle against the wall. Your bed. Anything harder than plastic, and make yourself a shiv."
"I don't think that's a good idea," I blurt out, dealing our hands again. "Sharp objects and I have a… complicated history."
"Your funeral, girl." Stacy snatches up her cards and arranges them carefully. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
A shiv. A shank? I thought that was only necessary in real prison, not jail.
God, movies failed me again. The more I think about it, though, she's right.
It would be nice to have something, you know, if anything were to happen.
And if I spy an opening in the jail's defenses, literally anything, it could be a massive help in Operation: Get the Fuck Out.
"Lights out in five, ladies," a male guard announces at our door. Stacy looks up and grins, tossing her hair around.
"Of course, sir," she purrs. My eyes nearly bug out of my head. What the fuck? Is that her boyfriend—no, he's a cop. Ex-boyfriend, I mean. I wait until he's a few cells down before I turn back to her.
"The fuck was that?" I whisper.
"He's one of the good ones," she hisses back. "He hates it here. So do I. We help each other out."
Well, fuck me. Stacy strikes again. The guard has that boy-next-door look to him, which means I never really gave him a second thought.
They all blend together with menacing faces and disinterest in human rights.
But maybe… maybe this guy is different? I lose myself in thought while picking up cards, putting them down, and for the first time? Losing Go Fish to Stacy.
"Holy shit, I won? Oh, you owe me hot chips and deodorant—maybe a haircut?" Stacy babbles happily as she scoops up the cards again.
"Yeah, sounds good," I mumble. Dante has always said that the Consortium has a hand in nearly everything. Maybe that guard is involved? Maybe he's their man on the inside. Maybe he'll happily get me out. Wow, I really owe Stacy a ton. Way more than some hot chips.
Truth be told, I'd be lost without her in here.
She knows the way everything works. She knows who to trust. I'd be willing to bet she knows every blind spot, every nook and cranny of this godforsaken jail where I could stow away in the night.
Maybe I'll miss my flight—or bus or whatever they use to transport people—and take Stacy with me.
She could use a break. I'd be more than happy to give it to her.
"What's his name?" I interrupt Stacy as she lists all the things she wants.
"Huh? Who?"
"That guard. The one you said… stuff. About." I tip my head towards the cell bars.
"Hands off, girly. You're married, if I need to remind you.
" She shuffles the cards again and again.
Cardstock on cardstock is a really grating sound, now that I think about it.
And now it's all I can think about. Fwip fwip fwip.
Fuck. It echoes around my ears and strums my taut nerves like the world's worst banjo.
"His name's Dylan," she says as she puts the cards down. Thank fuck. "He absolutely hates Steve."
"Steve?" I ask, reaching for the cards.
"My ex? C'mon, girl. Are you feeling okay?" She rests the back of her hand on my forehead.
"I don't know. Maybe. It all just… it all feels so real, you know? I'm convicted. I'm sentenced. And I'll be extradited to Illinois." I chew on my lip and taste the coppery sting. I'd kill for a lip balm.
"Yep. Sucks, doesn't it?" Stacy shrugs and looks at the clock on the wall. "Oh, look at that. My lawyer should be here soon."
"Cool," I mumble, half-listening. I stare a hole into the cinderblock of our cell.
I'm still staring at the wall when the guards get her and take her out to the visiting area.
I think she says something to me, but I don't quite hear it.
My lip is a bloodied mess by the time her guard friend pops by.
"Hey. You doing okay?" He cocks his head to the side. "You, uh, you need a tissue?"
"Huh?" I shake my head and focus on the man. "Oh, shit. I'm fine. Thanks."
"Listen, Crawford—I mean, Lyons. Sorry. It's rough in here, you know? But you just have to find the light. You can do that, yeah?" He smiles. It's… disarming. It feels genuine. "I'm Dylan, by the way."
"Dylan…." I murmur. "Dylan. Nice to meet you."
"Great to meet you, Lyons." He huffs out a breath and peeks at his watch. "Mind if I sit? I've got a few minutes before I need to get back on patrol."
Numbly, I gesture to Stacy's empty bunk. "Hey, do you know anything about my transport?"
"Oh, yeah, I volunteered for that. It's always nice to get out and about, right?" Dylan cocks a half-smile. "Nervous? Don't worry. We'll take good care of you, okay?"
"Thank you," I breathe out a whisper. "It's all just… so much."
"Hey, hey. I know. It's a big adjustment.
But think about it like this, right? A bus is just a liminal space.
It's not a destination. It can be very healing to reflect and meditate during the journey.
You'll knock 'em out of the park in Chicago.
Think about it, huh?" He leans over and pats me gently on the shoulder.
"I gotta get going. Just… think about it. "
I nod and smile as Dylan resumes his patrol.
This could really work—it will work. I'll get out.
I'll get away. I'll get my husband back, my life back, my friends—a tear rolls a salty path down my cheek at the thought, soaking into the threadbare pillowcase.
I miss Helena so much. I miss Dante even more.
And god, I miss the little life that we made together.
Of course, I only knew about it for a week—if that, really. But it was mine. It was ours. As I drift off to sleep, images of a little boy with my eyes and Dante's soft, black hair trickle into my mind. We could have had a son. But Ella took it all away. And I swear to god, I'll kill her for it.