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)
Officer Dickhead waited for everyone else to leave the house before turning toward Jersey. “No one wants a fifteen-year-old delinquent.”
Her hard gaze remained affixed to him. He wasn’t sharing any new information.
“Jersey Six …” He shook his head, scratching his scruffy chin before running his hand over his dark, buzzed halo of hair. “Did anyone ever tell you why that’s your name?”
She narrowed her eyes, clenching her jaw.
“You weren’t swaddled in a number six jersey. It’s not the day of the month. Or any other rumor you’ve probably heard. You were dropped off at the door to the fire station, a New Jersey fire station, on Christmas. And you were the sixth abandoned baby that month. A foot of umbilical cord was still attached to you, pointing to a trail of bloody tracks that ended at a bus stop.”
Dipping her head, Jersey took slow steps toward the officer.
“No.”
She halted, glancing up.
“It ends here. If you can slaughter a grown man, you don’t need anyone to take care of you.”
Slaughter. Not a terrible description. Jersey thought it was better than gutted.
“I know you don’t want to see what’s behind the next door. The system is flawed. Most homes are good. Most foster parents are loving. How you’ve managed to find the rare exceptions …” He shook his head. “Well, it’s beyond me.”
Searching for the true meaning behind his words, Jersey canted her head. Was he going to draw his weapon and put her out of her misery? Kill her with her own knife? So many questions kept her from speaking or moving another inch.
“What did you say to those other kids before they left?” His expression mirrored hers as he cocked his head to the side. “Be brave and run fast?”
Jersey nibbled the inside of her cheek, wondering where he was going with his questions.
“No one will miss you. Run, Jersey. Don’t stop. Keep your head down. Stay out of trouble. And maybe you’ll live. Maybe you’ll find some way to turn this shit life of yours around.”
Her eyes flitted between him and the door. He stepped to the side and opened it for her.
Fifteen. A police officer encouraging a fifteen-year-old girl to run, nowhere in particular, had to be wrong on too many levels to count. But that’s exactly what he did.
That girl took cautious steps, waiting for the trap to snap on her. There had to be a catch.
“You could freeze to death in one night or be raped and left for dead in a week. Tell me you understand.”
Jersey’s steps faltered at the threshold. “I understand.” Her voice was soft but sure.
“And we never had this conversation. If you’re not clear on that, then you can choose to get in my car, and we’ll find you a home.”
She nodded, putting one foot in front of the other until she stopped at the squad car. Maybe the next home would be like the Russells’—the good kind of love. That possibility gave her a moment’s pause. It was the other kind of love that kept her feet moving down the driveway.
Him. Before she cut him open with her knife. Him. With his creepy, old man funk. The putrid smell of his breath, something in between garlic and cigarettes mixed with a bit of booze.
Was that good?
The way she was made to sit next to him, at the table, on the couch, or in the car. Close enough for him to touch her with his rough, filthy hands and move her closer to him so she could touch him for his pleasure. The smell of him was always so overwhelmingly enhanced by the terrified moments of wondering how far it would go this time.
Was that good?
Love didn’t exist.
As the memories of that kind of love crawled up her throat from her churning stomach, she picked up speed until her legs took her far away from an awful past.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Present
“The Russells were good people.” Chris hugged his knees to his chest, sitting next to Jersey on her mat. “I … I still can’t remember much, but I remember that. I remember they were good. I feel like I have more feelings than actual memories.”
Everyone else was gone, and it was a little after midnight. A single light in the corner by the sink flickered a few times, casting shadows on Chris’s swollen face.
Jersey crossed her outstretched legs, sliding her hands between them to keep warm. The heat in the building barely kept things from freezing, always dropping a good twenty degrees after the sweaty bodies exited at the end of the day.
Chris continued, “Fifteen. You must have felt so lost.”
She nodded. “Your friend …” Jersey brushed off his comment because lost wasn’t even close to how she felt. Eight years later, she still couldn’t find the right words. Of course she felt lost, but it was more. Lost felt like her normal. “How do you know it was your friend who killed them? Is he in prison? Please tell me he’s in prison.”