Chapter 3 3

The back of the police cruiser smelled of vomit and pine air freshener. Karen watched through the wire mesh as the cemetery disappeared into the gray distance. She saw Isaiah on his knees in the rain, frantically trying to scoop up the wet gray sludge with his bare hands.

It was pathetic. It was tragic.

"I hope it hurts," she whispered to the glass. "I hope it hurts you every day."

The trial was a blur. A montage of gavels banging and lawyers droning. She pleaded guilty. It was part of the deal. Five years for First Degree Manslaughter. In exchange, the state wouldn't pursue life in prison without the possibility of parole, and Isaiah wouldn't pull the plug on Danny's dialysis.

She didn't look at the jury. She stared at the back of Isaiah's head in the front row. He never turned around. Not once.

Then came the intake.

The Correctional Facility was a world of gray concrete and fluorescent lights that buzzed like trapped flies.

"Strip," the guard barked. She was a large woman with eyes like stones.

Karen stood on the cold tile. The hose turned on. Freezing water blasted her, stinging her skin, washing away the mud and the blood and the last of her identity.

"Open your mouth. Lift your tongue. Squat and cough."

They took her clothes. They took her name. They gave her orange scrubs that scratched her skin and a number.

9275.

They cut her hair. The shears were dull. They hacked at her long chestnut locks, leaving jagged ends that prickled her neck. Karen watched her hair fall to the floor, feeling lighter and emptier with every snip.

The cell door slammed shut. Clang. The sound of a tomb sealing.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Karen woke up with a gasp.

Her hand flew to her stomach. It was flat. Empty.

The panic was a living thing in her chest, a bird beating its wings against her ribs. She sat up, her eyes darting around the room.

It wasn't a cell.

It was a basement. The walls were peeling, painted a sickly shade of yellow that was now stained with damp. The air smelled of mold and the fried onions from the neighbor's apartment upstairs.

She was out. She had been out for three months.

Karen swung her legs over the edge of the narrow mattress. Her left hand throbbed. A phantom pain, sharp and electric, shot up her arm.

She raised her hand. It was covered in a black leather glove. She slept with it on. She showered with it on. She never took it off.

"Mommy?"

The voice was small, sleepy.

Karen turned. On the other side of the room, on a mattress on the floor, a little boy was rubbing his eyes.

Hoke.

He was five years old, but his eyes were ancient. They were dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly familiar. He had Isaiah's jawline. He had Isaiah's intensity.

"Did you have the bad dream again?" Hoke asked. He sat up, his messy dark hair sticking up in tufts.

Karen forced a smile. It was a muscle memory she was relearning. "I'm okay, baby. Just a dream."

Hoke didn't look convinced. He slid off his mattress and walked over to the dresser. He was small for his age, malnourished from a diet of cheap pasta and government cheese, but he moved with a grace that didn't belong in this basement.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a small orange bottle.

"Here," he said, handing it to her.

Karen took the antidepressants. Shame washed over her. Her five-year-old son shouldn't know which pills his mother needed to stop shaking. He shouldn't be the one taking care of her.

"Thank you, Hoke." She swallowed the pill dry.

Hoke climbed onto the bed beside her. He reached out and placed his small hand over her black-gloved one. He didn't ask about the glove. He never did. He just held it, offering a silent comfort that broke her heart.

"I have to go out today," Karen said softly. "I have an interview."

Hoke nodded. "For the drawing job?"

"Yes. For the drawing job."

"You're the best drawer," Hoke said fiercely. "If they don't hire you, they're stupid."

Karen kissed the top of his head. "We need the money, Hoke. For Uncle Danny. And for rent."

Hoke pulled away slightly. His expression shifted. For a second, just a split second, the childish softness vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look that chilled Karen to the bone.

"I'll help," he said. "When I get big, I'm going to make them pay. Everyone who made us live here."

Karen grabbed his shoulders. "Hoke, no. Don't talk like that."

Hoke blinked, and the look was gone. He smiled, an innocent, gap-toothed grin. "I just mean I'll get a job too, Mommy. Maybe walking dogs."

Karen pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck. She was terrified. Not of the world, but of the seed of hatred she could see growing in her son. A seed planted by a father he didn't know he had.