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My eyes grow wide. Sometimes you get lucky. Me, I am the luckiest. I hit the jackpot.
I have to explain to my children their father’s murder. This in and of itself is bad enough. Do I want them to know the kind of man their father was? Not really. Why inflict that kind of pain on them if I don’t have to? So far, they know their dad made a mistake. A chance encounter in a coffee shop led to us being stalked and ultimately to him making a bad decision. He had an affair. That part is clear. Izzy Lewis has a history of stalking married men. So when I met her at Lucky’s, and I saw the way she looked at my husband, it made her an easy target. I hadn’t thought her pretty enough to get him to stray. I only hoped. A bit of digging, and I found out she had charges filed against her. I knew the hand my husband would play. I knew he was tracking my every move. I knew if I visited Lucky’s again, he would, too. He saw the way the girl acted. She was perfect for New Hope. Young, gullible and lonely. Easy prey. The worker bee type.
What can I say? I wanted out. I didn’t care if she took my husband, not at first. Not until I saw the way people pitied June. Not until I saw another woman fitted into her life like the final missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle now solved. I didn’t want that for my children. Grant didn’t deserve a clean slate. Also, I couldn’t be certain I wouldn’t end up like June.
So I lied. I lied and I lied, and I kept on lying. I didn’t want to admit Grant was abusive. That he wanted out. I didn’t want to admit Izzy Lewis acted in self-defense, that she was trying to save my life. I could have told the truth about why Izzy shot my husband and why. But what’s the point? She was hell-bent on destroying my family, whether or not I wanted it destroyed. She dug her own grave, stalking me on Instalook. Later, during the trial, I would learn, it was in fact her who sent me pictures of shellfish and got my daughter expelled from school. She hired her friend to rob and rough me up. Those things were on her. She had to pay for her mistakes. Everyone does. It’s not my fault a jury of her peers sentenced her to death. How am I to know she wasn’t going to shoot me that night? Who’s to say? It’s not like she can be trusted. She proved that when she slept with a married man. And a dozen times since.
Facts are facts. And the fact is, my husband is dead, and everyone loves a good story.
It’s not all bad, though. I got out from under the church, turns out they’re the only ones who don’t want a good scandal on their hands. Although, that will come soon enough, I’m sure. There’s something to be said about a woman scorned. I think of June and her missed opportunity. I could have turned out like that. Me, I have a reputation to protect. People can take a lot from you, I have learned. Your husband, your wealth, even your life. But your reputation, you must never let them take that.
So, no, I don’t feel sorry for Izzy Lewis. I don’t feel sorry for my husband. Their mistakes should serve as a warning to every person out there considering an affair. Be careful who you get tangled up with…you just never know.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Izzy
Mountain View Prison Unit, Gatesville, Texas
Right out of the gate, there’s something you should know. I am not a good person. So don’t go feeling sorry for me. If anything, let my story serve as a cautionary tale. Love is blind. That you should remember. As for the rest, well, it’s complex, and quite frankly, a jury of my peers have already made their decision.
As it turns out, whether it was the right one is irrelevant once it’s been made. This is what I’m guilty of: I searched these people out. I wanted in, and in that respect I got what I wanted. It just so happened to be more than I bargained for. Real life doesn’t work like it does on television. If a crime is committed, someone has to pay. And the law, as much as we’d like to believe, isn’t that black and white. Add the fact that you have real people, fallible people, with their own experiences, judgments, and beliefs they bring to the table, judging your fate, and well, it’s not as simple as they want you to believe. Less so, when you’re ‘the other woman’ with a long history of making bad decisions. In that case, you’d better be prepared to pay when your number is called.
“Inmate,” I hear the guard say. His voice is deep, thick with false bravado. Still, I flinch when I hear my number called, even after all this time. “Let’s get a move on. They ain’t gonna wait all day.”
Stalling, I stare at the clothes that were delivered to me. I don’t want to disturb them; they’re almost too pretty to touch. Play with fire, get burned, I hear my mother say. A woman should be reserved in all things. I remember Grant saying that once. This has always been my problem. I never set out to be a troublemaker, quite the opposite actually. It’s just I never could resist doing something I wasn’t supposed to do.
Running my fingers over the soft material, I feel the hurt bubble up, and I do my best to stuff it back down into its rightful place. You have to do that in here. If only you’d been better at doing it on the outside. It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve felt something this nice, this soft, this real. It’s just a blouse and a pencil skirt, a little reminder from the old days, but it feels like I’ve won. Small victories. Sometimes that’s all a person
can ask for.
I wonder if they’ll let me keep them when this is all said and done. Probably not. I make a mental note to ask— it’s little things like this that keep you sane, that remind you that you’re still alive. In the end, I probably won’t ask after all. Stupid questions get stupid answers.
I check the tags; they’re new, a condition of the terms I agreed to in exchange for the interview. It’s nice to have a bit of leverage, and nice clothes was one of my requests. For this, in the off chance that she might be watching, I want to be seen in something other than bright orange scrubs. I want to be seen as human. I don’t know if that’s still a possibility. Once you’re in here, it’s easy to be forgotten. Thankfully, I have something they want. Something that sells. That something is a story.
Here’s what they want to know: Had I known I was going to be sentenced to die for my crimes, would I have done things differently?
It’s probably the one question that matters more than anything. Even now, I’m not sure how I’ll answer. It’s a tough question, and while I have a lot of time on my hands to mull it over, I’d propose that it’s not that simple. What I want to say is this: The reality of who someone is online and the reality of who that person is in real life are often two different things. When it comes to saving their own ass, people will always turn on you. Friends. Lovers. Everyone. Remember that.
This makes me think of Tyler. He got off easy. He didn’t admit to the drugs in my system being his. He didn’t admit to the gun I used coming from anyone named ‘Big Sean.’ He said I made it all up. What he did admit to was witnessing me stalk the Dunns online. Two lies, one truth.
Everyone knows drug users are unreliable.
The guard bangs on the door with his fist. “Coming,” I say and I deftly slip the orange prison uniform shirt over my head. It's stamped with Death Row Unit in big black letters as though I could forget. I unclasp the granny bra and slide the new one on. I check myself in the small plastic mirror and I smile. You can’t imagine what a good fitting bra will do for one’s self-esteem. In here, everything is issued, everything is mostly the same. Nothing is my own anymore. I've been reduced to having basic necessities dished out to me as though I'm an animal, caged and on display.
She thinks she’s better than us, I hear them say as I’m escorted down the corridor. I know there will be hell to pay for this later, but I might as well enjoy it now. This is probably the last time I’ll wear plain clothes, the last time I’ll remember what it felt like to look like a woman, the last time anyone will be jealous of me. And even after all this time, even knowing I’m going to die, I still want what I’ve always wanted: envy.
I’ve been offered good money to give this interview, to tell my side of the story, and I can only assume this comes with being one of only seven women on death row in the entirety of the United States.
This is my third attempt at this interview and judging by the way the last two went, I bet they're thinking what I'm thinking. Hopefully the third time will be the charm. I’m led to a chair in the center of the room. My hands are cuffed, but they assure me I’ll be filmed from the waist up. The woman interviewing me has already taken her place. I study her as she stares at her phone. She’s pretty, in a plain sort of way. I watch as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, and I wonder what she could possibly have to be nervous about. Already I have forgotten what life on the outside is like. I forget that it’s also a dog-eat-dog world out there, maybe even more so than in here, because at least in this place we are governed by rules. I feel sweat bead up at my temples. It could be nerves or it could be the bright lights overhead. Someone dusts powder across my nose. There’s a flurry of activity around, a buzz about the place I haven’t felt in a long time.
The woman looks up. “Ready?” she asks offering a reassuring smile.
I nod slightly. I can see that she thinks I’m going to run again. She leans forward a little, lowers her gaze and then her voice. “Just remember why you’re doing this.”
“Oh, you mean for the freedom?”
She laughs nervously. She doesn’t understand my sarcasm. Although, whether she gets me matters not. We both know I’ve exhausted my appeals. That’s why the price tag on the interview went up. Time isn’t on my side. “There’s freedom in telling your story, you know,” she offers sympathetically.
