Page 112 of Jagged Line Paradise

Avalon

THESPIDERS AREeverywhere inside my mind, crawling around and spinning webs of darkness that keep tugging me back toward the corner. They want me to succumb, to lose myself in despair so my body will carry me home to bed and far, far away from here.

Andrés and I haven’t said a word to each other since we arrived at the prison. I was surprised that he hadn’t set up an interview with his camera crew for this meeting with his father, but he’d promised me before that this documentary was never meant to be a platform for his father—it was meant for the victims and their families. More than that, though, this meeting is for him.

As much as the thought of seeing that evil demon again scares me to the point of sickness, I couldn’t let Andrés do this alone. He’s strong and fully capable of facing him on his own, but I don’t want that for him. I don’t want him to be alone. I wouldn’t ever want anyone to be left alone to face that vile creature, least of all the man I’m head-over-heels in love with.

But the creeping spiders of depression hate me for being here and my heart pounds a steady, anxious rhythm, telling me to run, run, run.

It was terrifying checking-in as visitors, going through the process of being patted down, and orientated to the dos and don’ts of visiting a violent offender. Andrés gave me comfort with his eyes on mine, through frequent glances and eye contact when were weren’t able to touch.

We’re led through the barred gate and it swings shut with a click behind us, locking us in. My pulse ticks up with adrenaline for the fear of being trapped in this prison—being trapped again with the Canyon Carver. I blow out a long, slow breath and Andrés brushes his knuckles across the back of my hand as a guard leads us forward down a narrow hallway.

“It’s safe,” he tells me. “I’m with you, you’re safe.”

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to convince him…and myself. “Focus on you. This is for you.”

“It’s for both of us. We’re doing this together.”

I nod and force a small smile, though inside I think I’m breaking apart.

What was I thinking?

Why didI come here?

Regret pounds behind my ears with the whooshing-whirring sound of blood pulsing through my veins. I remember hearing my pulse like that back then—when the Canyon Carver had me.

Oh, my God, he’s here. I’m going to see him face to face.

The guard turns a corner, leading us through an open entryway into a small room. There’s no door, just an open access that we walk through, but the space is defined by a half-wall cutting off at the entry and cream-colored brick walls which close in the other three sides.

“Is this where we see him?” I ask the guard, instantly feeling boxed in, trapped, though there is no door. The space still feels confining.

“Yes, ma’am,” the older male officer tells us. “Don’t you worry, I’ll be standing right there,” he gestures toward the half-wall, “on the other side of that wall. You two sit on this side, he’ll sit on the opposite so I can keep my eyes on him.”

He holds out his hand toward two plain chairs behind a simple rectangular table in the center of the small space. Our backs will be to the half-wall, to the officer, and Andrés’ father will sit opposite, facing us.

Andrés holds out his hand, gesturing for me to scoot in behind the table first. I take the seat that blocks me in against the wall and he moves to sit beside me. For a moment, I feel completely trapped with no way to run out of the room unless I leap over the table. But sitting here also allows Andrés to cover me from being open to his father when he walks in—he shelters and guards me, and I love him so much for that.

I’m shaking, my hands trembling. I should’ve known how hard this would be, but somehow, I’d fooled myself into thinking it wouldn’t be so bad because I was doing this to be here with Andrés. I glance at him and notice that he’s clenching and unclenching his fist, cracking his knuckles, and fidgeting in his seat.

I watch as he changes, as the fear I’m feeling washes over him, as anger curls through his fingers, as nerves shift his body and put him on edge.

This is whyI came.

I came to be here for him because I knew it would be hard. It’s not just hard for me, it’s hard for him. I don’t know what I’d feel if I were Andrés, knowing my father hurt my best friend and left me without any parents to care for and love me—not that I really knew what it’s like to have a parent’s love.

Andrés is as broken as I am, just in different ways. I don’t think our pieces can ever be put back together, but I think maybe we can build new pieces together—new pieces to fill the gaps the broken ones have created.

I reach over and place my hand on his shoulder, rubbing my palm down over his back. He doesn’t look at me, but I see the tight smile he grants me, recognizing my presence, and that’s enough. I don’t say anything to him because there’s nothing I can say, no comfort I can offer. This moment is just waiting, and we wait together.

A minute or two later, I hear chains rattle. A buzzer sounds and we hear a metal gate unlatch and creak as it slowly swings open. More chains rattle as the sound draws closer and the gate latches shut again with a click.

My fingers at Andrés’ back curl, digging in and trying to grip the fabric of his shirt because I need to hold onto something. I feel like running. I feel like my feet are about to pick me up from this chair and carry me as fast as they can toward the gate.

I can imagine myself pulling and tugging at the cold, metal bars on the gate, desperately trying to get through, calling to the officer to unlock it for me. I can imagine the Canyon Carver at my back, pushing me against it, holding me in place, stabbing his knife into my back, and taking my breath away.

They’re just images in my mind—scrambled, frantic pictures—but they accurately reflect how terrified I am waiting to come face to face with the man who nearly succeeded in killing me.

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