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He waits for another outburst, but I’m emotionally spent and physically exhausted.
“Okay.” He nods, picks up his notepad and closes it, then exits the room.
When he returns, any sign of emotional understanding is gone, and the FBI agent in full force. They make me sign paper after paper. So much so, my hand starts to cramp. When I finish, I sigh, realizing I just signed my life away, literally, since I just agreed to become someone else. I sign the death certificate of my old self. Here lies Atticus Finch, who died from being an idiot and getting involved with something she should have never stepped foot near.
They tuck me in a hoodie and glasses—so cliché—and transport me to a secure location to wait until they ship me off to my new life. The hotel room is small and smells musty. They don’t give me any feedback on how long I’ll be here, and I want to pull my hair out. I pace and pace and pace until I eventually wear myself out. I want to call my parents, but Agent Bishop says contacting them would only put them in danger.
I wish I could at least watch the news, but my room strangely doesn’t have a television, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. After almost eight hours of pacing, someone finally opens the door. A woman dressed in a DEA uniform.
“Hi, Addy. I’m Special Agent Virginia Warren. Just stopping by to check-in. I brought you some dinner. You hungry?”
My stomach growls at the smell of fries but eating is the last thing on my mind. “Why doesn’t my room have a TV? Any chance I can use your phone?” She looks like a nice lady willing to let me make a simple phone call.
She places the bag on the dresser. “I’m sorry, I was given strict instructions by my boss. No phone, recorder, or laptop. And the missing TV is so you stay clear of any news reports. It can be detrimental to your recovery. Sometimes the mind—”
“Who exactly is your boss?”
She ignores my question. “I brought you a cheeseburger, fries, and a shake. I figured you would like that.”
I cross my arms over my chest, biting my tongue at the twinge from my bandaged arm. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to—”
“Unless I can use your phone, you can leave.” My tone is harsh, and I stare her down until she understands I want nothing more from her. She smiles gently and leaves.
They keep me here for a total of four days. Four horrible days I spend contemplating how to escape and get back to work to write my story. After everything, it’s what’s owed to me. For anyone who has ever suffered at the hands of someone like Vincent Leoni and Renaldo Valdez. How many other people are out there, tainting this world with their ugliness?
For those days, I wear myself thin. They may not allow me my laptop, but they didn’t account for the nightstand drawer, which held a pen and notepad behind the faithful bible. I use the notepad, toilet paper, even the bedsheets to write down my story. Every four hours, like clockwork, an agent comes in to check on me. They find me laying on the bed singing loudly, my notes hidden behind my back. I decline all their sucky fast food, and they leave the way they came.
On the third day, pizza is sent.
I don’t deny that one.
On my fourth day of prison hell, Agent Bishop arrives. “Oh, goodie, it’s you.” I blow him off and walk into the bathroom. I wait for him to turn his head and give me privacy so I can shove the scrolled toilet paper into the cabinet.
“It’s time. If you’re ready, we’re going to take you to your destination.”
I walk back out. He has a bag in his hand and extends it for me to take. “What’s this?”
“Some things from your apartment. Necessities. On behalf of Chicago law enforcement, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you will be granted a generous allowance, which will allow you to replenish the belongings you’re leaving behind.”
I clap my hands together and offer him a cheeky smile. “You guys are too good to me.”
He doesn’t find my childish outburst amusing. I open my bag to see the things they call essentials. My journal, some bathroom essentials, and three different sets of patterned pajamas. “Seriously?”
Agent Bishop shrugs, looking as bored as can be. “If you’re ready, we can head out.”
Unbelievable. Not that I’m complaining. I love these pajamas. “Whatever, just let me go pee.” I excuse myself. Once the door is shut, I open the bathroom cabinet, and shove all of my notes, including the bedsheet, in my backpack and then walk back out. I allow the one-person I’m starting to hate the most lead me away to a new life. I get to start over, but does anyone truly start over after what I’ve been through? They survive, learning to live each day with the scars that have been inflicted.
