The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [101]
No one goes to prison and comes home a virgin. No sirree, Bob.
Jerry visited me week four. Only visitor I ever had. My stepdad sat across from me, took in my bruised face, shell-shocked eyes, and started to laugh.
“Toldya you wouldn’t last a fucking month, you prissy little piece of shit.”
Then my stepfather left.
He’s the one who turned me in. He found my stash of letters, the ones I’d written to “Rachel.” So he called the cops, but not before ambushing me the instant I walked in from school. He caught me above the eye with the metal locker I’d used to store my few personal possessions. Then he’d gone after me with his fists.
Jerry was six two and two hundred and twenty pounds. Used to be a star high school football player, back in the day, then worked the lobster boats before he lost two fingers and figured out he liked sponging off women instead. My mom had been act one. But after she died when I was seven, he’d found several replacements. I was just along for the ride after that, no more family, just the little blond-haired kid Jerry used to pick up chicks. Wasn’t even his kid, I tried to tell them, but the women didn’t care. Apparently, widowers are sexy, even ones with enormous beer guts and only eight remaining digits.
Jerry hit like a Mack truck, and I was done after the first blow. He landed twenty more, just to be thorough about things. Then, when I was curled up, coughing up blood, he called the cops to come take out the trash.
Cops didn’t say boo when they walked through the door. Just nodded at Jerry, gazed down at my sorry ass.
“He’s the one?”
“Yes suh. And she’s only fourteen. I’m telling you, he’s one sick sonuvabitch.”
Cops dragged me to my feet. I was still coughing blood, swaying in the wind, eye swelling shut.
Then Rachel appeared. Came up the walkway, fresh off the bus from junior high, lost in her own thoughts. Then slowly but surely, she realized the front door was already open, that a whole cluster of blue suits were standing there. We all watched the comprehension wash over her face.
Then, gazing at my smashed-in nose and rapidly swelling eye, she started to scream and scream and scream.
I wanted to tell her I’d be okay.
I wanted to tell her I was sorry.
I wanted to tell her I loved her and it had been worth it. The pain, everything. I loved her that much.
But I never got to say anything. I blacked out. By the time I regained consciousness, I was in county lockup and I never saw Rachel again.
I pled guilty for her, spared her the trauma of the trial just like the DA asked me to. I gave up my freedom. I gave up my future.
But the courts will tell you it wasn’t true love.
I know what I gotta do tonight, and it has me all pissed off. The pretty cop lady is gonna come back. She has that look about her. A dog with a bone. And the guys at the garage are gonna come over, too. Except they’re gonna bring baseball bats, and rolls of quarters in their fists. They got that look about them, too—you know, the overexcited drool of muscle heads armed with pitchforks.
Even Wendell called me this afternoon, the fucking flasher from group therapy. None of us is supposed to have each other’s personal info, but Wendell no doubt bribed some flunky just so he could grill me for the inside skinny. He’d watched the press conference on the missing woman and wanted to hear all about it. Not that he thought I was innocent, mind you. Not that he was calling to offer support. No, he wanted details. Exactly what Sandra Jones looked like, exactly what she sounded like, exactly what she felt like when I squeezed out her last breath. Wendell has no doubt that I killed her. And he doesn’t care. He just wants me to share the glory so he has something fresh to fantasize about while whacking off.
Everyone’s got an opinion about me, and I’m just plain fucking sick of it.
So I hit the liquor store. Screw my probation. I’m already gonna get arrested and I haven’t done anything wrong. So following the time-honored tradition that I might as well commit the crime, since apparently I’m serving