Epilogue
THE SLOT IN THE DOOR slides open next to him. He’s been waiting for it not because he’s hungry—even if he was hungry, the single piece of slime-covered bologna slapped on white bread isn’t really worth waiting by the door for. Today, he waits for Susan.
Susan brings the trays around on Tuesdays and Fridays.
She’s in her early fifties, short, with stringy blond hair tied back into a pathetically thin ponytail.
She wears bright pink lipstick that’s always slightly outside the line of her lips, and her nails are long and sharp, looking more like claws than anything else.
It didn’t take long for Jeremy to begin charming her through that slot in his door. She was timid at first, seemed to be nervous around him, almost flustered, but once he gave her the impression that he was interested in her, Susan’s guard dropped like the curtain at a ten-cent peep show.
“Hey, beautiful,” he purrs as he pulls the tray into his cell. Her fingers purposely graze against his own, a fleeting touch that will likely get her through the rest of her week.
She grins, wide and genuine. “Hey, Jer,” she replies, her voice shaking slightly, attempting to come out breathy. Her eyes linger on him, hungry and heavy with lust.
When he looks down at the tray, he spots the paper tucked under the sandwich and pulls it out. He shoots Susan a smile and a wink as he unfolds the note, reading it to himself.
Dear Jeremy,
I feel like my entire life has led to this …
to you. Seeing WD at the party was scary, but it was even more thrilling than I imagined.
I could see my whole purpose coming into sharp focus and I want you to know that I am ready.
I am ready to step into the role and I heard what you said loud and clear when you said W got sloppy.
I won’t get sloppy. I want to do this for a long time.
I want to be the one you can count on. I know what I need to do.
He stops reading before the end of the letter, taking a moment to pass another note back to Susan. She places it in her pocket and looks at him from under her eyelashes.
“You’re my girl,” he says, tilting his head to the side and biting his lip, feeding her desperate need for his attention.
She melts, drawing in a shaky breath and nodding. “I sure am,” she says.
He watches her leave with the cart of trays. There’s a swagger to her walk that wasn’t there before.
It’s all worth it. He knows she will get that letter past the mail room inspectors and to the mailbox he convinced her to set up for him.
Because of the bedroom eyes he flashes her, she will keep this process flowing smoothly, allowing him to keep speaking to people on the outside who care about continuing his legacy, continuing his work.
Pushing the tray aside, he finds his stash of paper and the piece of charcoal he sharpened. He sits on the bed and begins to respond to the note, putting himself in the right headspace to direct the new Wyatt.
“Hey, Rose.”
The interruption from the mail slot is unwelcome. He can almost hear the sneer in Vex’s voice without even seeing him.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he focuses on writing his letter.
“I know you’re there,” Vex says, chuckling to himself.
Where the fuck else would I be? Jeremy thinks, still shocked that this man can tie his boots every day.
“Thought you should know that your brother is dead,” Vex says, sticking his hand into the slot to flip Jeremy his middle finger.
Jeremy feels nothing. He’s choosing to compartmentalize the news, to save it for dissection at a later time.
His jaw tics, and he furiously writes, controlling what he can. After all, he has so many more moves to make and a lot more people willing to join the cause.