I nod. “Yeah.”
“Bryce’s age, right?”
“Mm-hm.”
“He’s a Player?” She asks like she already knows. I nod. “What if this were about him? If your brother was assumed to havekilledsomeone, to have taken their life? And if the person whodiedwas someone you knew so well, spent so much time with, you felt their loss every single day?”
That personislost to me. Shaila is gone. If Jared had done it... I can’t even bring myself to imagine what I would do. I shake my head.
“If he says he didn’t do it, if the blood evidence doesn’t lie, then I want the truth. I want to know who’s responsible. And I want them to pay.” She grips the steering wheel hard and floors the gas. “We’re close,” she says.
The final leg of the drive is all twisty-turny roads and poorly marked exits. We pass them in silence. Rachel makes a hard left and a gray wooden sign comes into view, nearly hidden behind a curtain of branches. I’m barely able to make out the dull white letters:DANBURY JUVENILE CENTER. I wonder who else is locked up here, kept so far from the rest of society. Not off the grid, but only just on.
Gravel and salt crunch under the tires and about a half mile down the road, we approach a chain-link fence. It opens as if operated by a phantom guard and I scoot forward, craning to see what’s ahead. When we emerge from anothernarrow path, there sits a concrete expanse the size of a football field, marked neatly by white-painted lines. The lot is nearly full with BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis. Helpful, clear markers hang overhead.
VISITORS LOUNGE THIS WAY, one reads in navy block lettering with an arrow underneath.PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE, another one says in cursive scrawl.
“Knock, knock! Need a hand?” A middle-aged woman with saggy cheeks and graying hair appears, standing just outside my window in an all-khaki snowsuit and an eager grin. Her name badge saysVERONICA,VISITOR HOST.
I look to Rachel but she’s already out of the car, coming around my side. “Hi, V.”
“Oh, it’s you, dear! Nice to see you.”
“You too.” Rachel rubs her gloved hands together and motions to me through the door. “C’mon.”
The air is sharp and icy. It burns my throat. I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
“This is Jill,” Rachel says when I step down from the passenger side. “She’s a frie—” but she stops herself and redirects. “She knew Graham.”
Veronica nods, showing no emotion, no sign of recognition. “Welcome to Danbury, then,” she says. “Follow me.”
We do, but I can barely keep up, shuffling my feet forward to try to catch Rachel. I should have asked her more about this place, about what Graham has been doing for the past three years. But instead I’m totally oblivious to everything around us. Veronica pulls open a metal door and leads us down a wide hallway decorated with collaged dream boards and ink drawings until we come to a pair of French doors and a brightly litcube that looks more like a doctor’s waiting room than the jails I’ve seen on TV.
“Come right this way. You’ll need to fill out some forms as a first-time guest.” She click-clacks on the keyboard and a ream of paper flies from the printer. “Here’s a pen, sweetie.”
Rachel raps her knuckles against the Formica countertop and taps her foot impatiently on the floor. I speed up my work, checking boxes until I reach the final page, where I scribble my name.
“Done,” I say.
“Finally,” Rachel mumbles. But when I throw her a look, she immediately mouths “Sorry.” I guess I can’t blame her for being anxious, for wanting to see Graham as quickly as possible. I’d be the same way with Jared.
A big, burly man in purple scrubs motions for us to follow him, and the next hallway is just as strange, cold and lined with tile, like a school. More hand-drawn artwork hangs on the walls.
When we reach another door, metal and massive, the guy stops and turns to us. “Rachel, you know the rules, but just a reminder, you can only stay an hour. No touching. Be positive.”
“Thanks, TJ,” Rachel says. “Go time?” She looks at me now.
I swallow the lump in my throat and break my fingers apart. I hadn’t realized they were clasped together.
TJ pushes open the door to what looks like a cafeteria and makes a sweeping motion with his hand like he’s a butler or a waiter at a fancy restaurant. My stomach does cartwheels and I scan the room frantically. I spot him before he sees me.
There, just across the room. Graham.
It’s almost too much to bear. But I make myself look, to take him in from afar. He’s dressed in light green scrubs, not handcuffed like I expected. He runs his fingers through his hair, anervous tic that gives me déjà vu. He used to do that before major tests or Player pops. His chin has a faint sheen of stubble, making him look so much older than I remember, so much older than I feel right now. He stoops a bit, though it looks like he’s grown at least a few inches taller. He’s thin, too. Almost skinny, with sharper angles and darker shadows.
His head turns toward us slowly and his eyes meet mine. They widen as we register each other for the first time in nearly three years. Rachel is already by his side and I force myself to walk, to close the gap between us.
“Hi,” he says. It’s a mixture of shock and excitement. Curiosity, maybe.
