under his breath and swings the cell door shut again. He knows I’m right. I hear him stomping on the stairs. The last thing he wants is for me to go without my medicine. Not that I intend to take any of it. I’d love to be around to see the expression on his face when he finds the stash inside my mattress.
I don’t want to talk to Richard right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. My mind is clearer than it has been in a while, and I’m trying to get reacquainted with my relative sanity. I tried to tell Roland that the medicine was screwing with my brain. Give me a week, and I’ll give him all kinds of hell for that.
I decide to name the cracks in the ceiling: Grams. Lola. Clay. Benny. Each crack has large gashes and barely noticeable hairline flaws. All of the cracks merge at some point, the breaking point, the point at which, someday, pieces will start to fall, and eventually, they’ll bring down the entire ceiling.
I’m going to keep an eye on the cracks. I don’t want to be lying under them when they finally merge and can’t hold the weight of that hundred-year-old cement anymore. But something tells me that, no matter how hard I try, I’m going to be right here when it all falls down.
Chapter Thirteen
Clay
“A re there worms in it?”
Cassie sits at the small visitation table, picking at a piece of apple-spice cake on a paper plate with a plastic spoon. I figured she needed it more than the VFW bake sale.
“Just a few.” My apple-spice cake is famous, at least by Deacon standards. No one would ever think that the secret ingredient is a few choice residents from my farm. They wouldn’t even sample it if they knew. Cassie has always known, though.
She fills the small plastic spoon with a good-sized piece and puts it in her mouth. She moans as she chews. “Spicier than usual. But good. Real tasty.” She takes another bite before she has swallowed the first.
“I purged them in graham crackers this time. And deep fried them. Like sweet, crunchy nuts, but with more protein.” I have several recipes for my worms, but the apple-spice cake is the only thing I’ve ever let anyone else eat. If they knew, there’s no telling what they would say… or do to me.
She eats the rest in silence then drinks an entire cup of water. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and pushes the plate away. Sitting behind the worn, paint-chipped table in her jail scrubs, she seems very small. I wish I had brought more cake.
I pull two books from my backpack and lay them on the table. “I brought you something to read. Keep your mind busy.”
She picks up the top book and glances at the back cover. “You know this one is about a woman who killed her husband, right?”
“Dolores? How could someone named Dolores kill anyone?” How could a Cassie? “I remember you like Stephen King.”
She places it back on the table and picks up the next. “ The Nabateans of Petra . Thinking of breaking me out of here and smuggling me to the Middle East?” She smiles. It’s nice to see her smile.
“You always liked reading about faraway places.”
The Deacon Public Library has a limited collection, and I had no idea what to get for her. I knew she needed something. Maybe Dolores What’s-Her-Name wasn’t the best idea, but maybe Cass can find some peace in the Nabateans, whoever they are.
“Thanks, Clay. This will beat talking to that fossil of a lawyer. I’m not sure he’s got it all going on up there, but what the hell, right? He’s free, and it’s not that difficult of a case, really.”
Richard Warner may be old, but he’s a good lawyer. At least, a well-respected one, I hear. Cassie’s lucky that Lola snagged him. The family discount on his services is well worth it, especially if you just happened to have killed your husband.
“Cassie?” I thought about this all night. I knew if I asked, she’d tell me. Cassie tells the truth, even when no one wants to hear it. I’m not sure I want to
I don’t want to talk to Richard right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. My mind is clearer than it has been in a while, and I’m trying to get reacquainted with my relative sanity. I tried to tell Roland that the medicine was screwing with my brain. Give me a week, and I’ll give him all kinds of hell for that.
I decide to name the cracks in the ceiling: Grams. Lola. Clay. Benny. Each crack has large gashes and barely noticeable hairline flaws. All of the cracks merge at some point, the breaking point, the point at which, someday, pieces will start to fall, and eventually, they’ll bring down the entire ceiling.
I’m going to keep an eye on the cracks. I don’t want to be lying under them when they finally merge and can’t hold the weight of that hundred-year-old cement anymore. But something tells me that, no matter how hard I try, I’m going to be right here when it all falls down.
Chapter Thirteen
Clay
“A re there worms in it?”
Cassie sits at the small visitation table, picking at a piece of apple-spice cake on a paper plate with a plastic spoon. I figured she needed it more than the VFW bake sale.
“Just a few.” My apple-spice cake is famous, at least by Deacon standards. No one would ever think that the secret ingredient is a few choice residents from my farm. They wouldn’t even sample it if they knew. Cassie has always known, though.
She fills the small plastic spoon with a good-sized piece and puts it in her mouth. She moans as she chews. “Spicier than usual. But good. Real tasty.” She takes another bite before she has swallowed the first.
“I purged them in graham crackers this time. And deep fried them. Like sweet, crunchy nuts, but with more protein.” I have several recipes for my worms, but the apple-spice cake is the only thing I’ve ever let anyone else eat. If they knew, there’s no telling what they would say… or do to me.
She eats the rest in silence then drinks an entire cup of water. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and pushes the plate away. Sitting behind the worn, paint-chipped table in her jail scrubs, she seems very small. I wish I had brought more cake.
I pull two books from my backpack and lay them on the table. “I brought you something to read. Keep your mind busy.”
She picks up the top book and glances at the back cover. “You know this one is about a woman who killed her husband, right?”
“Dolores? How could someone named Dolores kill anyone?” How could a Cassie? “I remember you like Stephen King.”
She places it back on the table and picks up the next. “ The Nabateans of Petra . Thinking of breaking me out of here and smuggling me to the Middle East?” She smiles. It’s nice to see her smile.
“You always liked reading about faraway places.”
The Deacon Public Library has a limited collection, and I had no idea what to get for her. I knew she needed something. Maybe Dolores What’s-Her-Name wasn’t the best idea, but maybe Cass can find some peace in the Nabateans, whoever they are.
“Thanks, Clay. This will beat talking to that fossil of a lawyer. I’m not sure he’s got it all going on up there, but what the hell, right? He’s free, and it’s not that difficult of a case, really.”
Richard Warner may be old, but he’s a good lawyer. At least, a well-respected one, I hear. Cassie’s lucky that Lola snagged him. The family discount on his services is well worth it, especially if you just happened to have killed your husband.
“Cassie?” I thought about this all night. I knew if I asked, she’d tell me. Cassie tells the truth, even when no one wants to hear it. I’m not sure I want to
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