“Don’t matter none, if you’re going to be like that.” She turned back to her bed, muttering, “Just keep your shit tidy.”
I didn’t talk to any of the other inmates, just stayed to myself. I sat in a corner for all my meals and focused on my tray in the line for chow, but from the side I checked out the other women. They were mostly white, with some First Nations, and a few Asians. There were women who looked like men, short haircuts, broad bodies, a way of swaggering, sometimes grabbing at their crotches, which freaked me out. And some really hard-looking women who might have been bikers or druggies—those ones scared me the most. But the biggest surprise was how normal a lot of the women looked. A few of them were even kind of dowdy. Many were overweight, their skin sallow, their teeth stained. I saw plenty of tattoos, some really exotic and cool but others rough and faded. I didn’t see many younger people, maybe a couple of women in their twenties.
None of them paid any attention to me until a big woman with gray hair pulled back into a long braid walked over to me one day. She held her head high, her shoulders squared, and walked like she was hoping someone would cause her a problem, but all the other women moved out of her way. She sat down beside me. “You in for murder, kid?”
My body tense, I studied her hands—each knuckle had a tattoo of an eye. Was she part of some gang? I glanced at her, then looked away. I remembered Pinky’s warning but I couldn’t stop myself from mumbling, “I didn’t do it.”
She gave me a poke in the ribs, a hard jab with her finger. My blood rushed to my face. I looked around for the guards, but they were talking to other inmates.
“Listen up, kid. I’m going to tell you how it is around here.” I met her angry stare, noticed that she had dried saliva in the corners of her lips. “No one gives a shit what you did out there. You’re in the joint now. Keep your cell clean and keep yourself clean. You need anything, you talk to me, not the guards. I run this place.”
She got up and walked off. I stared at her broad back, looking away when she glanced over her shoulder. I pushed my tray to the side, having lost what was left of my appetite. No one on the outside had cared that I was innocent, and no one cared in here.
The woman next to me said, “You going to eat that?”
I’d barely had time to shake my head before she snatched my juice cup off my tray and speared my hamburger patty. I felt someone’s gaze and looked up.
The woman with the gray hair was watching me.
CHAPTER FOUR
WOODBRIDGE HIGH, CAMPBELL RIVER
JANUARY 1996
When Ryan dropped me off at home, it was late and I’d missed dinner. I came in the side door and noticed my dad tying some fishing flies in the garage. We used to go fishing all the time when I was little. We’d pack a lunch and spend the day out in the canoe. Now that I was spending most of my time with Ryan I didn’t go with him as often, though I still liked fishing. Ryan and I had a few favorite spots on the river, but half the time we just ended up making out. Dad used to take me to the job site too, and I liked working alongside him. When I was five he bought me my own tool belt and I’d follow him around, hammering things.
All last summer I’d worked for him to pay off part of the car my parents had given me—a Honda my mom inherited when my grandparents died. It was a little junky, but once we fixed a few things and got some new tires, it should last me a couple of years. I was hoping we’d have it ready by spring so I could insure it and get a real job. Working with Dad was fun, and hard work—it had given me strong muscles in my arms and a flat, toned stomach, which Ryan loved—but I wanted to try something else, something that wasn’t a family business.
Dad looked up when I came in the side door.
“Hi, honey. Where you been?”
“Over at Ryan’s.” My dad looked tired, his face pale, with bags under his eyes. He had a new subdivision contract and had been leaving early and coming home just before dinner. He had dark hair like me and Nicole—my mom was the only blonde—and olive skin that turned bronze if we were out in the sun for more than five minutes, so we looked more like him, in the face anyway. Mom was petite, with small hands and feet, narrow hips and shoulders, so we got our builds from her. She was tiny but she had muscles in her arms, and I was proud of having a hot, tough mom—you could see how toned her biceps were when she wore tank tops, and guys were always checking her out. Dad liked to tell people, “Pam’s small and wiry, like a rat terrier,” and she’d pretend to punch him.