Page 57 of Forget Me Not

“Stratman,” the chaplain says my name just as his hand lands on my shoulder. A bold, and somewhat stupid move given our surroundings. You don’t sneak up on people in prison, you just don’t. “We need to talk.” The look in his eyes is enough for me to drop the deck of cards I’ve been shuffling for the last ten minutes. They land back on the table just as I get up.

“What’s this about?” I ask, my mind reeling with possibilities. Mr. B calls often enough to keep me in the loop even if I wish he didn’t. I can’t imagine anything important enough to warrant a meeting with the chaplain, unless he knows something about my court case I don’t and has concluded it’s now or never when it comes to saving my sorry ass soul.

“Let’s talk in your cell, son. In private.” He turns back toward the guards, letting them know he’s ready to get moving.

“See you in hell, sucker,” some jackass hisses as I make my way through the room.

I flip him my middle finger and keep walking. Silence goes a long way around here.

By the time we reach my cell, my heart is pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. You don’t get counseling sessions with the chaplain unless you request them. Or, someone dies.

I hold my breath and wait for the door to close. Then it’s just us. The chaplain, myself and one guard standing near the door, ever present but still granting us some privacy.

“Gunnar,” the chaplain starts, and I can tell by his tone, this isn’t going to go well.

“Yeah.” I rub my forehead with my thumb and index finger. I don’t want to be an ass, but I really wish he’d spit it out and tell me what all of this is about.

“There’s been an accident,” he says in the sort of falsely calm voice people use on television when they’re about to tell you your grandma died. Only I don’t have a grandma.

“What kind of an accident?”

“Late last night...A boy named Reed McAllister was driving heading south when the semi alongside them veered toward him. The driver fell asleep and ran the boy’s truck off the road.” He’s silent except for the long pull of air I hear him take. “Your friend, Jane Cooper, was in the truck with him when it happened. It’s bad Gunnar. Your friend’s been in and out of surgeries. Internal bleeding and head injuries. They think they’ve got it all under control now, but even if she pulls through, she may lose her right hand. It was nearly severed when they found her.”

My first instinct is to ram through him and anything else blocking my path to run from the building. Run. Run as fast as I can until I reach her.

“Gunnar? Are you still listening to me?”

I wasn’t. I am now. Instinct subsided the second I looked up and saw the steady stream of orange passing my door on the way to the prison cafeteria. Remembering the plexiglass windows lining the walls and the corrections officers staring me down from every angle at every second of every day, also make it hard to deny the reality holding me here. I’m in prison. I’m not getting anywhere near Cooper. And it’s my own fucking fault.

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Reed

Present Day

I can feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I’ve been waiting all afternoon for this, it’s gotta be Cooper calling me to tell me we’re all set on the new house.

I don’t even check the screen to make sure, just stand up from the conference table and excuse myself despite my father’s incredulous glare as I do so.

As soon as I’m out in the hall, I answer, “Hey, Gorgeous. Walk through all good?”

“Actually, no.” She sounds upset, but then this news comes as an unpleasant surprise to me as well.

“Babe, it’s okay. I’m sure whatever the issues are, we can work them out,” I reassure her.

“You don’t understand,” she says, her voice shrouded in tears, “We can’t take the house. We have to find something else.”

“What? Why?” Unless she’s about to tell me about a sudden sinkhole that opened up and swallowed the place, we’re getting that house.

“Because, I don’t want it anymore,” she insists.

“It’s not exactly that simple, Coop, we have a lease,” I reason, grateful to have the law on my side to keep from making it personal.

“We can break it. Trust me. The owner won’t object.” Her tone has gradually hardened throughout the argument.

“What the hell happened at this walk-through? Was the owner rude to you? Did they try to up the rent? What?”

“Gun owns the house,” she blurts out, sounding frazzled and angry.

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