Dead Secret

Her gut heaved, spasms of revulsion spreading to her chest, her bowels, her throat, her brain, in a torrent so overwhelming she felt it might bury her.

She inhaled deeply. Sought again that dead, flat place. Then she raised the gun and put it against his head.

Ethan went still. His eyes flew to the mirror, wide, dilated.

‘Jodie? My God.’

She two-handed the gun, to be sure of her aim.

‘Wait! Jodie!’

Pull the trigger!

Ethan slammed his foot on the accelerator. The Bentley roared, took off, and she felt herself being sucked backwards.

Her aim wavered. She corrected her sights. Ethan swerved the car, tried to knock her off balance. She worked to keep her hands steady.

Do it!

The engine screamed, Ethan flung her a look.

‘I die, you die.’

‘You think I want to live?’

Two quick shots. One for him. One for you.

The car lurched, zigzagged. She flashed on Abby’s face.

‘There’s a place in hell for you, Ethan.’

She pulled the trigger.

The blast torpedoed her ears. Stickiness splattered her face, her neck. The car screeched, spun, hurled her sideways.

She angled the gun.

Then she took the second shot.

PART TWO (#u954ce44e-e0f1-5430-a507-a96fdcd4e48a)

3 (#u954ce44e-e0f1-5430-a507-a96fdcd4e48a)

Deadlock bolts clanked through metal. Latches snapped back, lights stuttered on, and a hundred and twenty-two cell doors clattered open.

6 a.m.

The hollering on A-Wing burst into Cell 5, filling the ten-by-twelve space. Noise in the prison never stopped. People screamed all through the night, kicking at doors, banging on walls, yelling about everything and nothing, as though to drown out awareness of where they were and why.

The steel bunks creaked in Cell 5. A bout of coughing started up, loose and wet, probably Magda’s. Someone urinated loudly in the alcove toilet, no door to screen off the sour smell.

‘The fuck out of my face, Dixie.’

‘Where’s my towel?’

‘You stink, you know that?’

‘Anyone seen my towel?’

‘I don’t fucking believe it, some bitch stole my soap.’

Seven people bumping around, cramped in a space designed for four.

‘Hey, Picasso! You dead up there or what?’

‘Leave her be, she’s got time.’

Jodie ignored them and stayed where she was, on the top bunk nearest the door. She closed her eyes, letting the racket wash over her, an unbearable weight settling into her chest. She worked hard to push against it, trying to summon up the strength to face another day.

Magda hawked into the toilet. ‘I find out who stole my soap, bitch is dead.’

Jodie waited till the woman had lumbered out of the cell, then hauled herself down off the bunk. Her limbs felt heavy, as though gravity had doubled. She bird-bathed at the sink, using the soap she’d stolen from Magda, before dragging on her Department of Corrections T-shirt and loose, elasticated pants. By the time she was done, the others had gone, all except for Dixie who was waiting by the door.

‘She sees you with that soap, she’ll cut your face.’

‘I know.’

Dixie rolled her eyes. In the light, her brown face looked as plump and shiny as a chestnut. Too fresh for a seasoned inmate serving her third prison term, this one a five-year stretch for forgery.

They joined the mob of inmates out in the corridor, all making their way down to chow like slow-moving cattle.

Massachusetts Correctional Institution was the oldest female prison in the country and it showed. Despair seemed to seep from the bare cinderblock walls, like residue from some Victorian asylum. Jodie shivered. She’d had the same bleak feeling as a child, in the shelters where she’d lived in between foster families. Those places had had the same austere, brick walls. The same absence of hope.

She’d spent a lot of time in between families. Some of them had lasted longer than others, but mostly it only took two or three months before her case worker would arrive to ship her out. She’d stopped asking why after the third move, coping the only way she knew how: by acting tough, by yelling and fighting. Which meant the next family dumped her too.

Joining a new family was always hard. She could still recall the rush of fear: I don’t know you. What do you want from me? Will it hurt?

‘Look at this slop. Like something my dog’d puke up.’

Dixie shoved her porridge away. Jodie sipped at her watered-down juice, not bothering with food. The over-boiled stench turned her stomach, though after two years, she should have been used to it.

Two years, two months and one week, to be exact. Eight hundred days she’d been in this place. Serving ten to life for murdering her husband.

Jodie stared at her juice. Eight hundred days. For a moment, her vision tunnelled, walls and ceiling closing in. Then she gripped the edge of the table, pushed herself to her feet. If things worked out, maybe this day would be her last.

Dixie looked up. ‘Where you going?’

‘Think I’ll line up for Meds.’