Branded(22)

Finnley pauses to collect herself and I take the time to try once again and think back to high school. Phina was smart, beautiful and had just enough of an attitude that no one ever fucked with her. She was in the same popular, jock group that Collin and I hung around with and I never once witnessed the kind of sadness or shutting down that Finnley spoke of. Maybe I just didn’t notice. I was a hormonal teenager. My small head was so occupied with trying to get in her pants that nothing else mattered at the time.

“Phina left that big party at Tony Calloway’s house around seven in the morning the day after graduation,” Finnley continues, pausing to shoot a glare at me when she mentions Tony’s party. Before I can question it, she continues.

“She snuck into the house and as soon as the door closed behind her, she heard a gunshot from her father’s bedroom. She ran back there and found him standing over a body with a gun in his hand. When he saw her standing there, he chased after her. Thank God she was on the track team. She made it to the neighbor’s house and called the police. Turns out, he borrowed money from a loan shark. When he didn’t pay it back on time, the guy came to the house. Her dad walked him back to the bedroom telling him he had to get the money out of his dresser and then shot him in the head instead. Phina testified against him in court and he got twenty-five years to life with a possibility of parole in fifteen.”

Finnley stops talking and the room is dead silent.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “That means he’s up for parole this year.”

Finnley nods. “Why the hell didn’t she tell me about the note?”

“She probably just didn’t want to worry you for nothing,” Collin reassures her. “There’s no way that bastard is out of prison. It has to be someone else.”

It could be, but the possibility of that is slim to none. As much as I hate having to go to him, I know I need to share this information with Dax. If her father is out on parole and Phina doesn’t know, this could get really ugly, really fast.

“I’m going to call Phina,” Finnley announces, pushing herself up from the couch. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me about this.”

Speaking of getting ugly really fast…





Most people can close their eyes and pinpoint a certain memory from their childhood where they felt safe and loved. With the melody of an old song or a particular smell that reminds them of being young and cared for, they can picture it perfectly in their mind. The soft press of their mother’s lips on their forehead as she kissed them goodnight after a bedtime story or the scratch of their father’s beard as he blew raspberries on their stomach to make them laugh. I stole these specific memories from Finnley when we were in college and had a night of bonding. I told her about the time my mother brought home a Happy Meal from McDonald’s as a way to apologize for not being around that much recently and how my father picked up the red and yellow cardboard box, tossed it into the sink and then lit it on fire with his Zippo. Finnley wrapped her arms around me and told me I could keep any of her memories I wanted and use them as my own, so that’s what I do from time to time when I’m feeling unusually sorry for myself.

Everywhere I look today I see smiling, happy families wandering through the park. I volunteer to spearhead the blood drive booth for every function the hospital sponsors and I tell myself that it’s all for the cause, but I do it for entirely selfish reasons. I like to torture myself by staring at all the families meandering about and wonder why I wasn’t blessed enough to have something like that. Why couldn’t I have a mother who ran her fingers through my hair and kissed the top of my head as I looked at a craft table? Why didn’t my father ever tickle me until I screamed with joy and then lift me up onto his shoulders so I could get a better view of the activities?

Why the hell wasn’t I good enough for a life like that?

Today is the annual town festival to benefit the children’s wing of the hospital. During the day, there is a fair set up in the park with tons of booths, including blood and platelet donation mobiles, and tonight is the fireman versus policeman Fight Night. It’s a great event that always brings in crowds of people and it’s the one part of my job I actually look forward to doing. Today, however, I feel like there is a black cloud of doom hovering over me. My calls to the warden at the prison were never returned, but after a few days, it didn’t even matter. A certified letter came to my house yesterday informing me that inmate number 45089 qualified for parole and if I have any questions, I should contact his parole officer.