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Jamie.
“Don’t,” I answer. It’s automatic after last night. “It’s just a room, Mom.”
Why are you here?
“I swear wejusttalked about this.”
What did you do?
“I didn’t do anything.” Just a run-of-the-mill kidnapping. Just a side order of falling in love.
Then you should leave.
“I’ll think about it.”
I jump from the bed when the sound of waves on the shore gets so clear I could stick my fingers in the water.
Nothing else from my mom.
Snatches of conversation bounce down the hall to my holding cell. A phone rings out front, the sound cutting off when somebody picks it up. People are coming and going, judging by the distinctclickof the doors when they open and shut.
There was supposed to be some amount of acceptance in all this. I’d go to jail, she’d go back to her life, everything would be fine.
Unfortunately, I’m not three hours into what will probably become a twenty-year-stint in prison, and there is no acceptance to be found.
I slouch into another position on the concrete approximation of a bed in my holding cell and concentrate onnotripping my skin off.
My purpose might have been noble, or it might have been a delusion brought on by staying up all night for sixteen years. Either way, I’ve had it with the getting-arrested theater. The cops already had thirty-odd mugshots before they got one today. The ceremonial taking-away-of-my-wallet was a nice touch. What did they think I was going to do with a wrinkled family photo and a few twenties, pick the lock?
No. I have to stay in here, no matter how much I want to claw through the nearest wall with my fingernails.
If I’m in here, Lily’s safe.
If I’m in here, Lily’ssafe.
She’s safe because she’s far away from me, which is the only way to protect yourself from a human train wreck. I want her countries away. Continents away. My siblings are never going to be convinced to make an international move, so the best way to keep myself from dragging them all into hell is to put myself there first.
Well. Here I am.
I feel a twisted kind of gratefulness toward the cops. I know, I know—it’s not fair to use them as guardrails, no matter how much I want someone else to stop me from becoming completely unhinged. Right now, it doesn’t seem particularly fair to me, either. I hate being confined. If a door closes, I’ll find a window. If I crash my car in pursuit of justice, I’ll take the subway. I’ll do whatever it takes to get free, and get some sense that the world hasn’t totally fucked me over.
You know what they say—if the world is going to fuck you over, fuck yourself over first. Thatiswhat they say, isn’t it? Because I’ve done that. I kidnapped a woman for revenge, handed her my house and mybird, and threw myself on the mercy of the cops.
When I think of it like that, it doesn’t sound like the best plan.
What can I say? What’s done is done. The best thing to do is settle in to a life behind bars. For once, there’s no question—this is the most noble thing a crime scene like me can possibly do, given the circumstances.
I’ve just closed my eyes to concentrate on forgetting Lily Hayes when there are voices in the hallway. Footsteps. Keys clinking on a belt.
“Get on up, Jameson.” It’s the cop who arrested me, all shiny and clean in his blue uniform and bulletproof vest. We’ve done this dance a few times before. He jiggles the keys in the lock of the holding cell and pops the barred door open. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“I said no lawyers, Tommy.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s Officer Phillips to you.”
“I’m good.”
“Come on.” He waves toward the open door.
