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Chapter Seven
Drew
This might be worsethan prison.
I had no expectations for what I’d be doing at Paths of Purpose, but once I arrived with my father and brother—my wardens, in essence—we’d gotten straight down to business. Mrs. Quinn was worse than a high school principal.She’dobviously had time to prepare for my sentence.
“We have to go,” Easton said, buttoning his suit jacket.
“Fine with me,” I said, not bothering to put my own coat back on.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Not you. Dad and me.”
I scowled, knowing it was too good to be true. We’d been at it all day. Cooking. Taking out the trash. Scrubbing toilets. Vacuuming. I was used to long hours, but this was disgusting and exhausting. It was the sort of work I’d never touched, having always had someone to do it for me.Yet here I was.
“Whatever.” I couldn’t figure out why they’d hung around anyway. Wasn’tIthe one serving a sentence? Yet there was nothing I’d been asked to do that they hadn’t done right along with me. What was their angle?
“I’ll be back to pick you up.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Easton will escort you to and from the apartment building to make sure you don’t wander.” Dad’s deep voice from behind me had my hackles rising. So thatwasit.They didn’t trust me.
“Last I checked, I was perfectly capable of getting where I need to go myself.”
He didn’t even flinch at my petulant attitude. Until recently, I hadn’t pulled that often, but I wanted him to feelsomething. I wanted a reaction. I didn’t get it.
“You will go to your apartment and to this facility. That’s it.”
I looked at him incredulously. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s part of the arrangement.” He put his hands in his pockets, oh so casually.
I glanced at my brother. His face gave nothing away, and he remained silent.
“Not as far as I’m concerned.”
“If the alternative’s what you prefer . . .” Dad shrugged as if indifferent.
“Mama didn’t say that was part of the deal—”
“It isn’t your mother’s stipulation.”
I kicked out my foot. “Do I get an ankle monitor too?”
His eyes turned cold. “The choice is yours.”
“I’m not wearing a goddamned ankle monitor,” I shouted, garnering the attention of several ladies.
“I meant whether you serve here or in a prison.”
I might have only heard what I wanted to, but I swore he almost choked out the word prison.
“I can’t stay confined to that apartment. I have things to do—” Jesus, who was going to run things at the office? I could work online as I’d been doing, but I had to make an occasional appearance.
“You’ve done enough.”
“Drew, there’s an issue with the downstairs toilet. It’s about to overflow.” Mrs. Quinn rushed to where we stood in the dining room.
