Dead Secret

‘Why the hell not? No use to me in here. Been sitting untouched for thirty-two years.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not in any bank, you’ll have to go find it. Should be over sixteen thousand dollars. If it’s still there.’

‘But why would you help me? I don’t get it, what happened to acceptance, and making peace with my lot?’

Momma Ruth leaned forward, her gaze penetrating Jodie’s.

‘Something’s changed in you. Clear as day. For the last two years, you’ve had a look in your eyes I’ve only ever seen in two kinds of people: the ones on drugs, and the ones on suicide watch.’ She shook her head. ‘But you don’t have it any more.’

Jodie looked at the floor. Momma Ruth was right, though she’d never guess why. Ironic how hate could destroy you, but at the same time could keep you alive.

Momma Ruth squeezed her hand. ‘Looks to me like you’ve decided to live. And if getting out of this place is the only way you can do it, then I’ll help you any way I can. Hell, anything’s better than watching you lay down and die.’

Jodie closed her eyes briefly, and felt like a fraud. If Momma Ruth knew the reason she wanted to live, she might not be quite so supportive.

After a moment, Momma Ruth said, ‘When will you do it?’

Jodie’s adrenaline spiked. She swallowed, and whispered,

‘Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

8 (#ulink_2a0ae545-abe4-5f14-b337-065ef12b6530)

For the next twenty hours, Jodie slogged through the prison routine: sitting tight through the cell count; lying on her bunk till lights out at ten; up at six, down to chow; on duty as porter from seven till two, cleaning the unit, her movements robotic; and all the while, her brain manic, replaying the risks over and over, rehashing all the things that could go wrong.

It was mid-afternoon before she got back to the art room, doubt still gnawing at her gut. She stared at the mannequin in her hands.

Her muscles felt rigid. Stupidly paralysed. She swore softly at herself. How hard could it be, for God’s sake? It wasn’t so different from her original plan. Except this time, she wanted to live.

It was Nate who’d given her the idea, with her talk of detox in the prison’s med unit. A unit that dealt mostly with cold-turkey and routine healthcare.

Jodie grasped the mannequin’s head and wrenched it off, peering into the hollow torso. The white cotton wads were still snugly packed inside. Her stomach dipped. Some part of her had been hoping the doll would be empty.

She reached for a pair of tweezers from Mrs Tate’s trays, using them to prise the wadding out onto the counter. A handful of Tylenol pills clattered out after it, the rest still wrapped up in cotton. Jodie unfolded the bundle, tipping the white oblongs into a pile. Thirty-six pills in total.

Her last plan had been easy: swallow the lot, the more the better. But this time, things weren’t so clear-cut. This time, she needed to strike a balance: swallow enough to get seriously ill, but not so many that they’d kill her.

She’d tried to research it in the prison library, tried to find a magic number that would keep her from tipping over the edge. But the few available medical textbooks were vague on the topic.

Jodie filled a beaker of water at the sink. Set it down beside the pills. Then she gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.

Just do it.

She gathered up half a dozen tablets, cupping them in the palm of her hand, staring at the white capsule-like shapes, at the Tylenol brand stamped in orange on the surface. She recalled what Momma Ruth had said about inmates who’d escaped: Mostly it happens while they’re being transported somewhere else.

She gripped the beaker. The prison med unit wasn’t equipped for emergency cases. It could handle detox and everyday complaints, but the serious stuff got shipped out. To the local hospital in Framingham, under CO escort.

Transported somewhere else.

Jodie stared at the pills. Stage one of a half-assed plan. Stage two, she’d figure out once she got to the hospital. Escaping from there had to be easier than breaking out of here.