Released
ROSWELL MILLS
Ten years. Ten long, frustrating years were coming to an end.
Finally.
I hated every person in that stinking prison. The other inmates were nothing but lowlife scum. Idiots, all of them. The staff? Hypocrites. The guards? Bullies and overbearing tormentors.
Not a bit of that showed on my face. It never had. I’d made friends. Formed alliances. Given favors and gotten them in return. None of them saw the depths of my hatred. None of them knew I’d sooner slice them all open with a box cutter than listen to their sniveling voices.
Courting their favor had suited my purposes. I was good at doing what needed to be done to survive.
But finally—finally—it was over. My sentence complete.
I walked out wearing a used T-shirt and jeans that didn’t fit, carrying the few belongings I’d accumulated during my stay in a brown paper bag labeled with my name—Roswell Mills. There wasn’t much. A few books, a hooded sweatshirt, my wallet, an extra pair of shoes.
My shoulders hunched forward as I shuffled behind the guard toward the exit. The posture of a penitent. I was sorry, yes, so very sorry, for my crimes. I kept my eyes downcast, a man beaten down and contrite. Quiet, unassuming. Not a danger to anyone.
“Nice day,” the guard said as he opened the door to my impending freedom.
The clear, blue Tennessee sky stretched above the prison, a stark contrast to the ugly walls and barbed wire.
“Beautiful,” I mumbled.
He led me through the outer gate, and without meaning to, I stopped. They were actually going to let me go free? After ten years, I could walk outside… unencumbered?
The guard glanced over his shoulder. “It’s okay. Everybody stops there.”
Impotent rage poured through me. I wasn’t everybody. I wasn’t like the other prisoners—thieves, thugs, drug dealers. I was better than them.
Or maybe worse.
I bottled up the rage, shoving it down so it wouldn’t show. So nothing would show. So I’d stay invisible.
“Just glad to be going free,” I said, not looking up.
“Of course. I’m happy for you, man.”
His voice held nothing but sincerity, but it was probably misplaced. If they knew what I was going to do, they’d have never let me out.
But that was simply because they didn’t understand.
The guard kept walking. My feet moved, and I followed him, eyes still on the ground. Words ran through my mind in a hideous whisper.
They still don’t see you. No one does.
With a shudder, I pushed the whisper away and kept walking .
Of course they didn’t see me. Didn’t really know who I was. How could they? I’d served time for credit card fraud. My sentence had been so long because I’d stolen more than sixty thousand dollars—a Class B felony in Tennessee.
I looked like nothing more than a petty thief—just greedy. A guy who found a way to make a quick buck and got caught.
My lips turned up in the hint of a smile. They had no idea.
“You have a ride coming to meet you, right?” the guard asked.
“Yes. My mother.”
“Hey, man, that’s great. Not everyone who gets out has family to go to.”
He led me through another gate and out to the sprawling parking lot. A worn-out white Dodge caravan was parked in one of the visitor spots, the engine running.
The driver’s side door opened, and my mother stepped out. The past ten years had not been kind to her. She had saggy, wrinkled skin and a thicker middle than I remembered.
“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 you get 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.
Reverently, I uncovered the box and slid it from its place of secrecy. The lid snapped off, confirming the only things I cared about—my most treasured possessions—were still inside.
There was money, thick rolls of bills I’d managed to keep hidden. I set those aside. The childhood photos, old report cards, and my first driver’s license were a ruse. I didn’t care about them at all. But if anyone had opened the box, the important items—the real reason I kept it—wouldn’t stand out. No one would notice.
With a slight tremble in my hands, I pulled out what I’d been longing for—a yellow manila envelope with the photos I’d taken and printed myself.
It was her.
Laying them on the floor, I lined them up in chronological order. The first photos I’d taken of her were from a distance. I hadn’t dared get too close. She was talking to friends or colleagues. In line to order a coffee. Getting into her car.
Another was at night, but closer, the outline of her face visible in the glow of the bar. There were more like that, taken without her knowing. Moments when I watched her, unseen.
But my favorite, the picture I coveted above all others, showcased my glorious triumph. And reminded me of my failure.
I’d managed one picture of her that night. Tied up in the trunk of my car. Gagged, bound hand and foot. All that fire in her, all that spirit I loved so much, restrained and controlled. By me.
Everything should have gone according to plan, but I’d made a fatal mistake. I’d underestimated her. And she’d gotten away.
I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Fortunately, I hadn’t been caught. Not for that. Credit card fraud was nothing—even with a ten-year sentence. I didn’t know where she was—where she lived or what she’d been doing for the past ten years—but I wasn’t worried about that. I’d find her.
And when I did, I would finish what I’d started all those years ago. She was the one who got away.
I was going to take her back. And she’d finally be mine.