“Why?”
“Because it’s procedure.”
I take a few minutes to read over the documents before I sign, but it’s a lot of convoluted legal jargon that I don’t fully understand. Anyway, it doesn’t seem like I’m signing my rights away to anything, so I scribble my signature and hand it back to her.
“I wanted to ask you what happens when I turn eighteen,” I inquire. “Will I remain here or be moved to an adult prison?”
“That depends,” she replies, returning the sheets to her file and closing it.
“On what?”
“On your behavior, how well you’re responding to your treatment program, and what’s in the best interests of your mental health once you come of age.”
At the court hearing, it was determined I’m to meet weekly with a psychologist for individual counseling. It’s due to start next week, and I’m nervous. Still trying to figure out how I should act and how real I should be.
My mouth turns dry as I wonder how best to phrase my next question. “Are there ever instances where a verdict is overturned? And if I wanted to, could we lodge an appeal before I turn eighteen?”
Her brow puckers, and she runs a thin hand through her frizzy, unkempt hair. “In your case, we could only lodge an appeal if we have grounds for an appeal. You confessed to voluntary manslaughter, and your punishment was decided. I don’t see how we’d have any grounds for appeal unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”
I’m tempted to tell her the truth, but it’s too early to admit I lied. If I tell the court how it really went down, there’s a chance he won’t go to jail and that I’ll be sent back to him. Being locked up is preferable to that, so I shake my head and bottle the truth back up, deciding to wait until the timing is better, hoping by then it won’t be too late.
“Did you manage to locate my aunt?” I ask, switching tack.
“Your aunt?” She frowns again, scratching the side of her head.
“Yes.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes to the ceiling. “You asked me if there was any next of kin besides mystepfather… and I told you my mom had a younger sister. You said you’d try to find her.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush pink. “I haven’t had time to investigate yet, but I’ll get on that straightaway.”
I have zero faith that she will, and it’s probably a lost cause anyway. The only thing I know about my aunt is her name. I’ve never met her. Or, if I did, it must’ve been when I was too young to remember it. All I know is her and Mom were estranged, and they hadn’t spoken in years. I overheard Mom on the phone one time, saying something about her working overseas. It’s a stretch, but if she could be found, maybe, just maybe, the court would accept her as my guardian, and it’d give me the opportunity to come clean. Even if she doesn’t want me, it’s better than staying locked up for a crime I didn’t commit.
Powell leads me to the common room after my meeting ends, and my heart jumps a little when I locate Ryder, tucked into a corner of the room, with a guitar slung around his shoulder. He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, lightly strumming the guitar with his eyes closed. I want to go to him, like we planned, but I don’t know if he wants anything to do with me after my revelation. I’m rooted to the spot, drowning in indecision, wondering if I should just ask to go back to my cell and lick my wounds in private.
Almost like he can sense me, Ryder opens his eyes and lifts his head, his face lighting up when he spots me. Or at least, that’s how it appears to be, but it’s quite likely I’m delusional, wanting to read more into his friendship than there is.
He wiggles his fingers in the air, gesturing me forward, and I slowly place one foot in front of the other, moving in his direction. An anxious fluttering feeling descends on my chest, and I chew on the inside of my mouth as I get nearer. I watch him slide the guitar off, placing it gently on the floor beside him.
“You made it,” he says, when I land in front of him.
“Yep.” I sink to the floor, propping my back against the wall and pulling my knees up into my chest. I stare at my feet, unable to look him in the eye. He doesn’t seem unhappy to see me, but how could he not hate me after the bomb I dropped.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. “You okay?”
I bite down on my lower lip as I draw strength from somewhere and look up at him. All I see is compassion in his eyes, and that goes a long way toward settling my nerves. “Why don’t you hate me?” I whisper.
Understanding washes over his face, but he’s quiet for a couple moments before speaking. “You think I’ve changed my mind because of what you said?”
I nod. “Most people would.”
He shakes his head. “Not around here.” His eyes subconsciously scan the room. “Everyone in here has done something which justifies being locked up. You’re not any different.”
“But I … it was mymother.My mother is dead because of me.” A genuine tear leaks out of the corner of my eye, because that part is true. “I mean, she wasn’t going to win any mother of the year awards or anything, but she still brought me into this world.”
He looks contemplative as he scrutinizes my face. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than meets the eye. But”—he hurriedly adds as I open my mouth to speak—“we don’t need to talk about it. I can tell you’re remorseful, and that’s all I need to know. We don’t have to discuss it. You’re already upset enough.” He lifts his arm, as if he’s going to touch me, then he drops it back onto his lap, like he’s thought better of it. Or maybe he remembers I said I don’t like to be touched.
But I’d make an exception in his case. When it comes to him, I most definitely want to be touched.
I’m digressing, and daydreaming about guys should be the last thing on my mind. “I don’t like having to use that to build a rep in here, but it doesn’t look like I have much choice.”
