Page 8 of Watch Me Burn

I frowned. “Not in its current state.”

Blondie jumped off the couch and darted into the kitchen, scrambling to clean the dishes.

“Sorry, man. I . . . I’m not much of a cook myself, but I get it, man. I’ll straighten up a bit,” he blurted out, trying to make amends.

I nodded and grabbed my bag. This was a damn good start. No longer running on the edge of my life, I could actually live in a somewhat livable place now. And maybe, just maybe, I’d get a chance to see her. If they lifted our god damn no-contact rule or not, I needed to find out. No matter the fucking cost.

Pursing my lips, I walked to the tip of the hallway before piping a question. “Do you know which one my room is?” I asked while eying the three doors down.

Giving me a side-eye, the blond guy responded, “One to your left. The other one is my room and the bathroom. Name is Jack, by the way.”

I gave him the cold shoulder, not here to make damn friends, and barged my duffel bag into the bedroom. All right, I had to fucking admit it, it wasn’t as shitty as I was expecting. No more damn bunk beds, just a single twin-sized bed shoved against a grimy wall, right next to a wooden desk with a black office chair. They even threw in a tiny closet for my clothes.

“Thank god,” I murmured to myself as I strode to the bed. I dusted my sheets and sat down, letting myself shut my eyes for a bit.

I was out.

A free man.

Back in my life again.

It’d been so long. I was now what, twenty-eight years old? We didn’t celebrate birthdays in prison, but it was hard to not watch the ticking of the clock when you were bound to the same cycle every day.

Damn, I hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet. My stomach was growling, and I knew better than to chance myself on the cooking equipment in the cupboards.

Sucking my teeth, I rolled out of bed and fished for my wallet. It was at the tip of my pant’s left pocket, stashed with a few tens that would hopefully last me through the month.

Striding to the living room, I shouted, “When I get back, my things better look untouched and the kitchen clean.”

“The Virgin Mary herself would wanna bake muffins in it when I’m done,” Jack replied in an overly fake voice.

Well, goodbye to that.

I flicked my keys and hopped down our porch’s stairs. I wasn’t very familiar with Boston, which was about twenty-five minutes from the small town I grew up in. But anywhere was better than prison, and Boston had a liveliness to it that somehow cheered me up a bit. Plus, nobody would recognize me here if I walked into a store. Which would come in handy when I would start looking for her.

Anna.

The girl I once loved more than life itself. The same damn girl whose testimony ripped me apart and sent me away for a god damn crime I didn’t commit. The memory of her wide-eyed gaze filled with horror when she found me kneeling beside her dead father by those porch stairs was still as fresh as a summer evening breeze. Those haunting eyes as they dragged me away in court as a murderer, destroying any semblance of a future. Those memories plagued my dreams, tormenting me night after night. How could she believe I did this? Betray me like this. Fucking how? I hated her for it. I truly did.

Her whereabouts still bothered me. Where was she? I heard rumors that she was a lawyer in Boston now. Likely clinking glasses with suited men in high-rises I’d never get to step foot in unless I was a cleaner. Heck, even being a janitor in those places was beyond my luck.

After walking for nearly half an hour, I receded into my black hoodie and stooped into a diner called Sam’s.

“One?” Sam, the business owner, greeted in a hearty voice.

Eyes racing across the menu on his counter, I said, “A coffee and egg-sausage combo would be nice.” I trusted that this would be protein-rich enough to last me until the end of the day.

“Coming right up,” Sam chirped as he swooped into his kitchen. I watched as he fried sausages on his stovetop, shimmying a splatter of eggs with his other hand.

“First time here?” a man asked out of the blue. I looked down to my right, carefully surveying him.

“Yeah, heard about the place through a friend,” I replied.

A greasy-haired man at a nearby table flashed his rotten teeth. “Best eggs in town! You won’t regret it.”

I just nodded, shoving my hands into my hoodie. It was better to stick to myself.

Thrumming his hands on the order counter, a guy a little away from me piped, “If you are new in town, stay away from the south side of Boston. Full of halfway houses. Heard some murderer was released to one of them recently. Some guy who smashed some dad’s head in.” He clucked his tongue, giving wide-eyed Sam an inciteful gaze.

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