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I hardly heard him. The money didn’t mean shit. Nothing mattered except…
Shiloh.
But I’d cut her off so that she’d move on. I only served three years instead of ten, but it was still too long to wait, to have a woman like her put herself on hold for me.
Four days later instead of eight, a guard came to my cell and told me to pack up my shit. I said goodbye to my cellmate, Marcus, and to some of the guys I’d befriended out of survival necessity. I was walked to processing, where my intake three years ago happened in reverse. I was given the clothes I was arrested in—jeans, boots, a T-shirt, and my denim jacket. I changed in a small room, ditching the dark blue sweatpants and the light blue shirt that looked like doctor’s scrubs. The CO behind the counter slid me a small manila envelope. Inside was my wallet, the keys to my apartment, and the compass pendant Shiloh had made for me. I slipped it on and put the pendant against my skin, over my heart.
I could keep that, at least.
The restitution cash hadn’t processed yet, but they gave me fifty bucks and a bus ticket to Santa Cruz, my last place of residence. The management company I’d hired to take care of Nelson’s apartment buildings said repairs to maintain the Bluffs complex were too costly and not enough; it was on the verge of being condemned. I figured I’d handle all that, make sure the tenants at both buildings were taken care of, and then…
I didn’t know what. Start over somewhere else, maybe.
You could fall at Shiloh’s feet and beg her to forgive you.
Nope. Too fucking selfish. I couldn’t shut her out and then show up and take it all back. Too late. It was too late…
I stepped outside into a bright April afternoon. The sun felt different, shining in a different sky than the one we had over the prison yard. Air, sun, food…none of it was the same on the inside—given in bits and pieces and taken away just as easily. Suddenly the entire fucking world was available to me.
I’d give it all for Shiloh.
Fuck, I had to shut down these thoughts. My entire body ached for her, my heart screaming for her. But even if I wanted to undo it all, she probably hated me. Hopefully she did exactly what I wanted and moved on.
There was a sleek, black SUV in the prison visitor parking lot. T
wo guys in dark sunglasses—security, by the size of them—stood at the front and rear. A driver sat behind the wheel, but the tinted windows darkened the back.
I started to walk past but stopped short when a door opened, and Miller Stratton stepped out. My chest tightened so quickly, my eyes stung. He looked good. Bigger, healthier. He wore his usual jeans and T-shirt, but they were money now.
He slammed the door and leaned against the car, arms crossed. “You asshole.”
“Hey to you too,” I said, keeping my voice hard and pretending I hadn’t missed the fuck out of him.
We faced each other in that parking lot like gunslingers about to draw.
Miller opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He jerked his chin at the SUV. “Get in.”
“What for? You kidnapping me?”
“If I have to,” Miller said. “To make sure you get where you’re supposed to go.”
“I know where I’m supposed to go. I got shit to handle in Santa Cruz, and then…”
“And then…? Does this shit that you need to handle include seeing Shiloh?” He read my silence and scowled. “Fuck that, man.”
“Stay out of my business, Stratton,” I said and started to walk.
He moved in front of me, put a hand on my chest, and shoved me.
“That’s not going to work anymore,” Miller said, getting up in my face. “You always kept your shit to yourself, and I respected that. Same with Holden. But he disappeared, and you shut everyone out for three fucking years.”
“I had my reasons.”
“They’re shit reasons.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?” I asked, shoving him back, my voice rising. “You know what it’s like to spend three years in a place like this?” I stabbed a finger behind me. “To be locked up like an animal—with animals—the guys who actually murdered or raped or beat the shit out of their victims? When I wasn’t on constant alert for a shiv in my back or a beat down, there was the fucking humiliation of it all. Maybe you’d have visited once or twice, but when the years on my sentence really sank in, you’d see it too. That I wasn’t an actual person anymore. I was Inmate #339033.”
“That’s not what would’ve happened,” Miller said, his voice low.
