Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
The sky spit a few raindrops into the late September air. Jersey diverted her attention to the front window—a clean window.
Dusted blinds.
Vacuumed beige carpet.
Shiny, faux-tile linoleum.
Not only had it taken fifteen years to land in a home where love was not laced with hard slaps and inappropriate touches, it took fifteen years to experience cleanliness, smoke-free air, and doors with locks meant to keep bad people out—not innocent children locked inside.
Mason, Sophie, and Wyatt followed another social worker to the door, shooting doe-eyed glances and trembling lower lips over their shoulders at Jersey.
Three, four, and seven.
They couldn’t comprehend reality, so they looked to Jersey for some sort of explanation or reassurance.
“Be brave and run fast.”
That’s the advice she followed years earlier after an older girl they called G used a baseball bat to crush the skull of the fifty-year-old man who liked to do sick things to young girls. Jersey ran, just like the girl told her to do, and she didn’t stop until a police officer snagged her by the waist in a park nearly two miles from the scene of the homicide.
CPS quickly placed Jersey in a new home with a new, demented fuck of a man and his wife who liked to screw the window washer.
Jersey knew Mason, Sophie, and Wyatt were destined to follow in her footsteps because, just like her, they had at least one living parent who was not willing to get their shit together but also not willing to completely surrender their parental rights.
As their social worker opened the door, Mason ran to Jersey, clinging to her leg. He pulled her pants down several inches because Jersey liked baggy jeans that hid her willowy body. She rested one hand on Mason’s head as her other hand tugged up the waist of her jeans. He cried but said nothing. Mason didn’t speak. Ever.
Not for one second did she think about lying to him, telling him everything would be okay. It wouldn’t be okay because Dena and Charles were dead.
Mason wailed when they tore him away from her and hauled him out to the dirty, white SUV.
“Let’s go, Jersey.” The roll-calling brunette jerked her head toward the door.
“Amy, search Jersey’s bag.” A partially bald police officer didn’t even look up from his flip phone as he barked his request. Jersey recognized him. He’d questioned her about different incidents on more than one occasion.
“Her bag?” Naïve and obviously-new-to-the-job Amy questioned.
Without hesitation, Jersey dropped her bag. Thud! The unexpected eviction left no time to make alternative arrangements for the contents in her bag.
Amy eyed her for a few seconds before squatting down and unzipping the bag. “Drugs? What exactly am I looking for?” Inexperienced Amy stabbed her hand into the contents of the bag before Jersey could warn her. “Ouch!” She seethed, jerking her hand from the bag.
Lips twisted, nose wrinkled, Jersey’s gaze followed the blood oozing down Amy’s hand, right onto the clean, beige carpet.
“Knives, Amy.” Jersey laced her fingers behind her back. “Officer Dickhead wanted you to inspect my bag for knives. But his lack of respect for you—probably because you’re a woman—prevented him from suggesting you use caution.”
One of the knives was sheathed. Amy managed to find the one that was not. And a third knife Jersey carried on her. Officer Dickhead retrieved a towel from the kitchen and wrapped Amy’s hand while scowling at Jersey. “Johnson will take you to get this stitched up. I’ll deal with Jersey.”
“How did you know she’d have knives?” Amy hugged her wrapped hand to her chest.
“Less than a year ago, Jersey gutted a man from groin to throat when he tried to take photos of her naked in the shower.”
Amy gasped, meeting Jersey’s gaze.
On a heavy sigh, Jersey rolled her eyes. “Gutted is not the correct word. It implies I removed his organs. Slashed, sliced, cut, maybe even lanced … but definitely not gutted. That’s gross.” Jersey had a limited vocabulary, except when it came to knives. She knew everything a knife could do.
Amy cringed as every ounce of sympathy drained from her rigid body. It didn’t faze Jersey. She doubted Amy’s genuine sympathy anyway. It was a job. Jersey was Amy’s job—and not her only one that day.
That was fine. The fifteen-year-old didn’t want sympathy; she just wanted Amy to get that hand stitched up before she dripped any more blood onto Dena’s clean, beige carpet.
The officer dumped out the rest of the bag’s contents, using more caution to retrieve the knives. “I’m not going to lie … the asshole deserved it. But, we still can’t let little Jersey take the law into her own hands whenever she sees fit.”
Little Jersey mumbled a “fuck you very much” as she hiked up her oversized jeans before bending down to stuff everything back into her bag. The asshole did deserve it. Jersey wasn’t his first victim, but she was his last one. She never feared going to jail for murder—it would have been a welcomed opportunity at that point—but they didn’t charge her with a crime. Instead, she won the lottery … They placed her with the Russells.