The first house had a kitchen island the size of a small car.
Serena walked the length of it, running her hand along the marble top, and tried to picture Brice standing here. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t a bad cook, he just wasn’t a willing one. Not anything beyond grilling some steaks or roasting some potatoes in the air fryer.
“He’d like the counter space,” she said, because it was true enough, and because the relocation coordinator was standing by the fridge with her tablet, waiting.
“Great,” the coordinator said. Her name was Marissa. She had that look. The way they all had that look. Thirty, maybe thirty-five. Could pass for mid 20s on a good day. This was a good day for her. Neutral, professional blouse but with fuck-me-pumps anchoring her heels.
"The kitchen was recently renovated. Sub-Zero throughout. Induction range.”
Serena nodded like she knew what that meant. She opened the fridge. Spacious.
“The living room opens right through here,” Marissa said, leading the way.
Serena followed. The living room was big. Too big. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls that let in so much light it made the room feel like a greenhouse.
“He wouldn’t like all the windows,” Serena said. "Especially when his son is over."
Marissa tapped something on her tablet. “We can look at blackout options. Or we can prioritize properties that maybe are more family friendly."
"That would be better."
They moved through the rest of the first floor. Dining room that could easily house his parents and Sophie if they ever came to visit while they were out there. Office that could work as a film room or whatever the fuck 'draft prep' meant. Half bath. Laundry room.
Upstairs was three bedrooms. The master was fine. Big bed. Walk-in closet.
“I know he wanted four rooms,” Marissa said, gesturing. "Our inventory isn’t great for those, but we can always turn the downstairs office into a room. It’s for his son, right?"
“James won’t be here the whole time,” Serena said. “But yeah, we’d need a space for when he visits. The sitter too.”
Serena moved on to the third bedroom, which was smaller, with a window that faced the neighbor’s fence.
“This could work,” she said.
Marissa nodded.
They went back downstairs. Serena stood in the living room and looked at the windows again. The light was hitting the floor at an angle that made the hardwood look almost white. Outside, through the glass, she could see the backyard. Patio. Grass. A pool.
“I’m not sure about a pool,” Serena said. "Especially not with James starting to walk."
Marissa looked up from her tablet.
“Actually,” Marissa cleared her throat, “Brice mentioned to us that he wanted to look at properties with a pool."
Serena’s hand was still on the marble island. She kept it there.
“Oh,” she said, "Okay."
She pulled her hand off the marble and crossed her arms. The kitchen felt smaller than it had a minute ago.
"I think he’d like this," she forced a smile, "What’s next?"
…
The front door clicked shut behind Sophie. Tom waited until he heard her footsteps on the sidewalk, then he waited another thirty seconds, then he turned around.
He hadn’t planned on talking to her about it that day. Or during the trip at all, but she and they had been in such a good mood that he figured this would be the best time to have it. It felt a bit silly but the change in scenery was helping. It didn’t feel lived in. They didn’t feel lived in.
Liz was already in the kitchen. She had a glass of water she wasn’t drinking.
“So,” Tom said. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “We should talk about what this looks like.”
Liz set the glass down on the counter. She didn’t look at him.
“I think,” Tom said, “We sit them down, together, obviously after the playoffs, and sort of put our cards on the table, you know?"
Liz picked the glass back up. She took a sip. Set it down again.
"Why wait?" she shrugged.
Tom’s arms uncrossed. He let them hang at his sides for a second, then he crossed them again.
"I mean," Tom began to stammer, "It’s the holidays. Brice has a pretty big game coming up, if you haven’t realized. I don’t know, I figured we wait until we get back home."
"I don’t think that’s doing anyone any favors," she rejected, "We’re all here. Let’s rip the band-aid off."
“You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
He looked at her. She looked back at him.
"I’m tired of pretending," Liz said.
Tom scoffed. She didn’t find it as amusing.
"I just don’t think that’s a good idea."
"A lot of things weren’t good ideas, Tom," she let out a small breath, "That’s why we’re here."
Tom clenched his jaw. He tried to read her face. He couldn’t. He pushed off the counter and walked to the window.
"Okay. When do you want to do it?"
"We can tell Sophie when she gets back," Liz replied. She took a sip of her water, "We can tell Brice whenever we see him. Hell, he won’t give a shit anyway."
Tom opened his mouth. Closed it. By the time he turned around, Liz was already walking out of the kitchen and he watched her go down the hall toward the bedroom, and the door clicked shut behind her the same way the front door had clicked shut behind Sophie, and he was alone in the kitchen.
He stood there for a while. Then he pulled out his phone and opened his messages. Brice’s name was second to the top. He typed a few words and then he deleted them and typed some more then he deleted that too and put the phone back in his pocket.
…
The bunk was stripped. The mattress was bare. Nia folded the sheet the way they’d taught her to fold it during intake, corners meeting corners, and set it on top of the blanket at the foot of the bed.
She picked up her toothbrush. The bristles were worn flat on one side. She set it in the clear plastic bag the CO had given her. Toothpaste next. The tube was almost empty. She squeezed it from the bottom and rolled it tight and put it in the bag.
Twenty-five years. Parole in fifteen.
She picked up the bar of soap. It was small. She put it in the bag.
Twenty-five years. Parole in fifteen.
The letters. She’d kept them in a stack under her pillow. She picked them up and flipped through them. Her mother’s handwriting on the first one. Her aunt’s on the second. The third was from a lawyer who had offered his services after her parents had already hired Vega and Cohen. She put them in the bag.
Twenty-five years. Parole in fifteen.
The commissary sat on the top shelf. Packets of ramen. Cookies. Peanut butter. The little coffee singles. A row of candy bars she hadn’t touched. She looked at them for a second, then turned away. Sara would be expecting them.
Twenty-five years. Parole in fifteen.
She zipped the bag. It was light. Lighter than she expected. She set it on the bed next to the folded sheet and blanket.
The cell looked the same as it had the day she’d arrived. The same concrete walls. The same stainless steel toilet. The same shelf. The same window with the same view of the same parking lot. She’d spent almost ten months in this room. It would look exactly the same when the next woman walked in.
Twenty-five years. Parole in fifteen.
She sat on the edge of the bunk. The plastic bag sat next to her hip. Through the door, she could hear the tier. The day room television. The distant clang of a door somewhere down the corridor. The commissary was still on the shelf. She didn’t look at it.
Twenty-five years. Parole in fifteen.
The footsteps came from the end of the tier. Heavy. Boots on concrete. They got louder. She knew the rhythm. She stood up. Picked up the bag. Set the sheet and blanket on the bunk where they belonged.
The footsteps stopped outside her cell.
“Beckford. Let’s go.”
She turned around. Rodriguez was at the door, keys in his hand. Behind him, the tier was quiet. She could feel eyes on her. She didn’t look. She picked up the plastic bag and walked to the door. Rodriguez stepped back. She stepped through. The door stayed open behind her.
Twenty-five years.
She started walking. Rodriguez fell in step beside her. The corridor stretched ahead. Fluorescent lights. Concrete floor. Doors on both sides.
Twenty-five years.
Skylar was twenty. Jimmy was seventeen. Neither of them had made it to twenty-five. Neither of them would.
Parole in fifteen.
She stiffened her lips. Tightened her jaw. Looked straight ahead. The corridor kept going. Rodriguez’s keys jingled at his hip. Somewhere behind her, a door closed.
She kept walking.
