The Inmate (10)

“Oh!” I fix my lips into a smile. My lips feel like putty. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”

“Uh, thanks.” He rubs his chin, and I can’t help but notice there’s no ring on his left fourth finger. “How about you?”

“Me? I’m a nurse practitioner.”

His eyes light up. “You’re our new nurse?”

“No, I’m not,” I say quickly. “I work… somewhere else.” I’m sure as hell not telling him I’ve got a job at the maximum-security prison forty-five minutes away from here.

He frowns. “Oh.”

It takes a second to figure out why he looks so confused. He doesn’t know why I’m here. I’m going to have to tell him.

“I was just here dropping my son off,” I explain. “It’s his first day of school, so, you know, he’s pretty nervous.”

“Oh!” He smiles again, but it looks slightly more forced this time. “Well, the first day of kindergarten is always scary for kids. I’m sure he’ll do great.”

When I told him it was Josh’s first day of school, he assumed I meant he was starting kindergarten. He doesn’t realize my son is ten years old. He’s going to find out eventually, and I’m dreading it. I don’t want him to do the math.

After all, he was there that night too. He has the scars to prove it.

“I heard about your parents’ accident, Brooke. I’m so sorry. I was out of the country or else I would’ve come to the funeral.”

“I’m okay,” I mumble. “We weren’t exactly close. They weren’t the best parents in the world.” I don’t mention that I hadn’t seen or spoken to my parents in five years. No need to get into the details.

“It… it was a car accident, wasn’t it?”

I nod. “They died together, which is ironic because I always felt like they couldn’t stand each other. My dad used to cheat on my mom all the time.”

“Still.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “It must have been hard on you. Are you staying at their house?”

“Yes. Easier than selling it in this market, you know?”

“Oh, sure.” He bobs his head. “I’m staying at my parents’ old place too. They moved to Florida two years ago, so officially, I’m house-sitting. But I think at this point, I need to stop kidding myself and admit that I live there.”

“I always liked your old house.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s just big. You know, for just me.”

As if I need another clue that he’s single. He’s making absolutely sure that I know.

“So, um…” His eyes dart around the slowly emptying lawn around the school, which has been trampled by little footprints. “Does your husband have a job around here too?”

“I’m not married.”

“Really…”

“That’s right.”

We stare at each other for another few seconds, then Tim’s face breaks into a sheepish grin. “Pretty smooth how I found out you’re still single, huh? You impressed with those skills?”

Despite everything, I have to laugh. Tim always knew how to make me smile. “Extremely impressive. You must be quite the player.”

“All elementary school assistant principals are.”

“I’d assume as much.”

His smile widens. “Look, I have to get inside, but we really do need to catch up. Could we get coffee sometime?”

The last thing I want is to catch up with someone from my old life—especially someone I was as close with as Tim. “I’m pretty busy.”

“Well, coffee doesn’t take long, does it? Twenty minutes—tops.”

This can’t lead to anything good. I don’t have any room in my life for whatever Tim wants. Plus, I have a feeling when he finds out the truth about Josh, he’s going to feel differently about me. But I want to end this conversation, so I’ve got to throw him a bone.

“Maybe,” I finally say, “after I get settled in.”

“Well…” His face is still glowing. God, I forgot how he used to look at me. “It was really great seeing you again, Brooke. Really great. And I’m going to hold you to that maybe.”

There’s an extra skip in his step as he sprints back toward the elementary school. Tim Reese. Wow. I really never believed I’d see him again.





Chapter 6


I am outraged.

The patient I’m seeing right now is Mr. Carpenter. He is in his late twenties, and he was shot in the spine while doing… well, whatever got him sent to a maximum-security prison for life. It was bad, I’m sure. I don’t want to know.

But none of that is my concern. What is my concern is that Mr. Carpenter is a paraplegic and uses a wheelchair. So he’s sitting on his bottom all day, and then he’s lying on a mattress at night that is paper-thin, and now he has a rather impressive sore on his coccyx that has not been addressed in God knows how long.

“What do you think, Brooke?” Mr. Carpenter asks me. He’s lying on the examining table on his side with his pants pulled down, waiting for my assessment. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything good to say.