Page 87 of The Inmate
They shut off the lights inside the cell when it was time for bed, but they’re still on in the hallway right outside the bars. It’s these fluorescent lights that keep flickering—it’s even worse than the ones at work. I can’t sleep with that going on, but it’s not like I can ask them to shut the lights out—plus this cell would be far more terrifying if it were pitch black. And the stench of urine is almost overpowering, to the point where I want to breathe through my mouth. The gray mystery meat I ate for dinner churns in my stomach.
When I got here, they gave me the option of changing out of my 5K T-shirt and running pants into a jumpsuit. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. But now I regret it. This jumpsuit is itching so much. I don’t know if it’s the detergent or what. At home, I use a hypoallergenic detergent, but I’m guessing the jail laundry doesn’t have that.
At least there’s a bed in the room so I don’t have to sleep on the floor, but I might as well be. There seems to be a mattress on the bed, but it’s not much better than a sleeping bag.
Also, it’s freezing. All they have given me is a paper-thin wool blanket that’s possibly itchier than the jumpsuit, yet I’m obscenely grateful to have it. I don’t even know how it’s so cold. The winter hasn’t even started yet. It’s got to be colder in here than it is outside.
I just want to sleep. Is that too much to hope for?
“Hey. You.”
I roll my head in the direction of the other bed in the cell. It’s the woman with the neck tattoos.
“What?” I say.
“It’s cold in here,” she says.
“I know.” I shiver under the itchy wool blanket. “It’s freezing. Do you think we should tell the guard?”
The woman laughs. “Yeah, what do you think he’s going to do? Turn up the thermostat?”
“I don’t know…”
“Listen, I need your blanket.”
I shift on the poor excuse for a mattress. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’mcold. I need your blanket.”
“But then I won’t have a blanket.”
“Like I give a shit.”
“But…”
The woman climbs out of her bed. She straightens up and crosses the small cell, and now I am absolutely terrified. She bends down close enough to me that I can smell her stale breath. She reaches out one arm, and I flinch, sure she’s going to punch me in the face and break my nose. But instead, she grabs my blanket and yanks it clear off me.
If I was uncomfortable before, it’s a lot worse now. I didn’t realize how much warmth that skimpy blanket was providing me. Without it, I’m practically shaking. But my cellmate doesn’t care. I’m lucky she left me with my pillow, even though it’s flat as a pancake.
I lie on my back, still shivering, trying to get some sleep. This is going to be my life from now on. I don’t have enough money to make bail, so I’m stuck here until my trial. And if the trial goes as badly as my attorney has warned me it will, this could be the rest of my life.
Before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks. I don’t cry easily, but this last thing has broken me. Losing my itchy, crappy blanket has broken me. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, because it would be too much to hope for a tissue.
“Hey!” my cellmate snaps. “Keep it down over there! I’m trying to sleep.”
How did my life get to this point? I never laid a finger on Dawn. How could they think I would kill her? Why won’t anyone believe me?
ChapterFifty-One
DAWN
Caleb decidesit’s safer to wait until late to leave the motel. So it’s well into the evening by the time we arrive at the new motel.
It looks exactly like the other one. Identical. It’s like we just drove around the block for forty minutes and arrived exactly where we started. But Caleb is the one who picked it, and I don’t feel like complaining. It’s not like some other place would be better. Any place nicer than this is probably going to pay more attention to who is checking in, and that’s the last thing we want.
Caleb goes into the main lobby to get us a room. I am wearing my wig and baseball cap, and my spare tortoiseshell glasses are in my coat pocket. I duck down in the seat, but it’s not like it matters. The outside of the motel is very poorly lit, and there’s hardly anyone around anyway. I probably look more suspicious crouching down.
About ten minutes later, he returns to the car, a key jangling in his hand. “Second floor again,” he tells me.
