The Grim Room

The Entire Suspense Novel

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental

MWM Publishing 2024

Copyright Michael Mohr 2024

~

Dedicated to the four POV characters in this book who I dragged through the mud of my imagination. Poor bastards.

~

Michael Mohr is the author of six books: The Crew (literary punk YA); Two Years in New York: Before, During and After COVID (fictional memoir); Disgust and Desire (A tragic COVID love story); Controversial: The Substack Essays, Polemics 2022-2024 (an essay collection); American Freaks (a short story collection) and The Grim Room (psychological prison suspense). He writes on Substack at Sincere American Writing (michaelmohr.substack.com).

~

THE GRIM ROOM

~

CHAPTER 1

Christopher Doyle stood in his cell for the last time, gripping one of the cold metal bars with one hand, and with the other, clenching his AA Big Book, saying the prayer his sponsor had taught him: God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

His brother was waiting outside. Rebecca was out there somewhere.

The click-clack staccato of guard Don Hicky’s booted heels resounded among the tier. Echoes of voices pulsed down the cells; rugged hands reached through bars. Chris felt nervous, anxious. He looked behind him at the stainless steel toilet, the cot with the thin hard mat, that fluorescent buzzing bulb, the single, lonely, cobalt-colored chair in front of his desk, the concrete 6 X 8 cell he’d spent the past 26 months in.

Jesus, he thought, his sweaty hand clutching the steel bar tightly, I’m finally getting the hell out of this place. Time to live again. Time to start over from square one.

And that’s when the fear hit him like an invisible slap to the face: Was he ready for the real world?

Hicky arrived, his tan shirt tucked into olive-drab pants, the curling walkie-talkie cord around his shoulder. His bulging muscles presented a warning. He nodded and proclaimed, “Opening cell #28, to release inmate #17273!” Hicky fumbled for his keys, the giant key ring full.

He opened the cell, the creaking sound of steel.

The guard led the way. Chris faced straight ahead using his peripherals to watch the inmates behind bars. Paco, one of the Southern Hispanics, reached his gnarled, veiny hand through the bars and eyed Chris. “Hey, gringo. You better not come back.” His sweaty hand clutched the tattered, hardcover Big Book. Voices rang out but they sounded light and distant against Chris’s anxiety. That familiar smell emanated from the hallway, rank inmate body odor and the stench of the floors and griminess inside the cells.

Chris approached the uniformed woman behind the counter. Double pane glass protected her. It said “Receiving and Release” in gold letters above the glass.

The woman told him to wait and came back with a box containing his “dress-outs,” the clothing his brother had sent. She also brought a prison-issue duffel bag he’d prepared the night before, with his belongings. He opened the cardboard box and pulled out his old ripped-up blue jeans, his Venice Beach, California shirt, his biker boots with the metal buckles, and his coveted leather motorcycle jacket. He took the clothes into the bathroom.

What if Rebecca were here? What would she think? What would she say? A thumping throb began in the pit of his stomach, his apprehension beginning to rise, his low-level panic starting to increase.

Picking up the duffel he once again followed Hicky.

The guard unlocked the arch door of East Gate. Chris didn’t know why but he felt like returning to his cell, returning to the womb of Folsom. But no: he could only go forward.

As he stepped into the cold foggy morning, Hicky extended his palm. “You gonna be alright, kid?”

Chris dipped his head. “I’m cool. Thanks for everything.”

“Forget about it, kid. Don’t come back, ya hear?”

“I won’t,” Chris said. You know you won’t make it, bud. You’ll be back. It was Kid Maniac’s demented voice, assaulting him, the inmate from hell.

Hicky closed the heavy door and headed back into the castle-like dungeon that was Folsom State Prison.

Chris spotted his brother’s blue 1971 Chevelle, two white lines painted down the hood. Julian leaned against the car, smoking a Marlboro, his teeth biting down on the filter like he always did, James Dean with a beard.

Julian ripped the Marlboro out of his mouth and smiled. They stood a few feet from each other, staring. Julian looked him up and down. “You’ve outgrown those clothes.”

Chris took in a breath and released. “I know.”

Taking a harsh pull off the smoke, Julian said, “You carved some serious muscle.” Chris lifted his gaze, his eyes following the tall granite walls surrounding the prison, the guard towers—Tower 26 behind East Gate—and the fences with triple-rolled barbed wire curling above.

Letting the cig fall to the ground, Julian smashed it out with his Ferrini alligator boots. He grinned, rushing up to Chris. They embraced, arms slapping each other’s backs.

“Chris. You’re back.” Emotion throbbed in his voice. Chris, too, felt the deep emotion welling up, but he’d act like all was fine, normal.

They jumped into the leather bucket seats of the Chevelle. Chris smelled the skunky scent of “Bubba Kush,” coffee and stale cigarettes. A filthy, furry rabbit’s foot dangled from the keychain, and a beaded necklace hung from the rearview mirror, a little wooden cross held at the bottom, a tiny crucified Christ on it, arms pinned, head crowned and lowered.

Julian flipped the engine and waited for a moment while it rumbled to life, the hood shaking, the explosion like a Harley Davidson.

In the side mirror, Chris looked behind them at the F and S and P insignia, the letters engraved into the stone wall. It seemed like every step he took further away from Folsom, the more, inch by inch, the nervous insecurity started to gradually fade.

They hit the main road on East Natoma and headed towards what would lead them to I-80 West. A light drizzle began, drops zigzagging down the windshield.

“Congrats on being free, brother. Oh, and here’s some money.” He pulled out a thin stack of cash. Chris took the money. Six crisp hundreds. Julian lit another cigarette.

“What’s this for?” Chris said. He wanted to ask about the reek of weed. Shame snaked its way down his spine: what was he doing, taking money from his brother while he criticized him for the smell of pot? Stop being so judgmental, man.

“Least I can do. We’re family. All we’ve got.”

“Thanks, Jules.” He fell silent for a moment, that fear he’d been denying coming back: he’d have to get a “real job.” He’d been dealing cocaine since he was a teenager. That same ripe insecurity he’d been pushing around in his mind for the past month, since he found out he’d be getting released early, returned. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it, bro. Get on your feet, that’s the best pay back. I hope you like San Fran. Been living there about a year now. The big city.”

This time it wasn’t nervousness but a slow burning warmth. Julian had always been a force of love, a guiding force of direction for Chris. “I like starting over.”

Julian chucked his smoke out onto the slick, wet freeway. Rain pelted the windshield, the wipers working back and forth. “You going to steer clear?”

“I told you I’m sober.”

Julian looked over, his eyes remaining a bit too long. “I know. I’m proud of you for that. You were out of control. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Chris squinted. “Want to help me out here?”

“Her.”

A bolt of electric energy pulsed through his body. Like walking through the door at East Gate, he wanted to crawl back into the womb, but this time it was his desire for Rebecca, not for Folsom.

“C’mon, Chris, don’t play dumb. You had a lot of months in there to think about it. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

His world contracted into a needlepoint. Julian was right. All his hopes of survival on the outside had been pinned to the idea of seeing her. If he could just hold her, make her understand he’d changed. “Silver knows…” Julian caught himself. Silver was an old “friend” from Venice Beach, where they’d grown up. A drug addict and silver jewelry thief, Chris had rolled over on him because the DA had promised Chris a lesser sentence.

“Silver knows what?”

Red-faced, Julian looked out his window. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing. Silver knows what?”

Shaking his head, Julian said, “Silver knows a chick at this dive bar who knows Rebecca. But don’t chase that lead, man. Be smart.”

“I thought Silver was still in Venice?”

“He moved up here a few months after I did. Palo Alto, south of the city.”

“I’d like to see her. Is that so bad?”

Julian glanced at the hanging cross. “Bad? Her mom’s the reason you did time, you realize that, right?”

Chris stared at the grubby rabbit’s foot dangling from the keychain. Resentment shot through him like a shot of cocaine. “No, she’s not. I’m in here because I had a problem and I couldn’t stop. I was trying to cope with—”

“Mom and dad. I’ve heard this story before.” Julian looked away, running his hand through his slicked-back greaser hair. “Stay away from Rebecca, Chris. You’re on early parole. That means it’s conditional.”

Chris’s face crumpled. “I know what the fuck it means. I was the one who did the time. Alright? You don’t need to—”

Julian spun his head around, fast. “It means if you get anywhere near Rachel Akerman’s daughter she’s going to protect her the only way she knows how: she’ll prosecute your ass and before you know it you’ll be back in the pen.” He paused. “Is that what you want?”

Rain came in sheets now, angry water from the heavens. This wasn’t how he wanted his first interaction with his brother to go. This wasn’t how he wanted to feel, guilty because his heart longed for…her.

I don’t want to fight with you, brother, Chris thought. Can’t we just get along? Can’t this go easily? Can’t I have some serenity, some peace of mind, some relaxation? Why does everything have to be a challenge?

“Look,” Chris said. “I want to look her in the eyes and let her know I’m not mad at her; I don’t blame her for what happened. It wasn’t her fault.”

Julian leaned back in his seat. “You’re being a fool, Chris, if you think your prison fantasy of seeing her and it all being perfect is real. Be smart. Let her go. Move on. Start your life over fresh, like you said.”

Chris looked out the window. Just like that, they fell silent. Julian turned on the stereo—NPR’s “Fresh Air” with Terry Gross—and there was no more room for talk.

The apartment was tiny. A San Francisco Victorian near the ocean in the Asian populated Sunset District also known as Ocean Beach. Julian’s apartment sat on 45^th Avenue, a row of colorful Victorian houses shouldering up against each other.

Chris strolled around the modest kitchen, surveying the area. Stainless steel pans hung from the ceiling. He thought of the stainless steel toilet in his shitty cell. Little on the walls, save for a San Francisco Giants poster, Madison Bumgarner cocking his arm back, about to lob the ball at 97 miles an hour, the bleachers hazy and packed with fans in the background.

He remembered he needed to contact his parole officer within 24 hours.

Inside the bathroom Chris stripped out of his old clothes. Julian, anticipating a change, had laid a pair of fresh black Levis, boxers, socks and a collared silk blue shirt folded on the counter. “Thoughtful,” Chris whispered. As soon as he said it he whipped his head around, ready for a potential fight. Oh. He wasn’t in the Folsom Tier 1AB bathroom, having to worry about Kid Maniac. Snap out of it, kid, he heard Kid’s voice say. You’s a sensitive jailbird, eh. Chris rubbed the back of his neck—his nape—where the letters K M were permanently carved into his flesh. That had been a bad night. He shuddered at the memory.

He opened the medicine cabinet, seeing small shelves. The first held tooth paste, nail clippers, band aids. The one beneath was full of all kinds of crap: Aspirin, bandages, floss, combs, extra Irish Spring soap. Scanning, making sure he was alone, he felt around in the drawer at the bottom, deep, his hand tunneling. Like he had suspected intuitively, there was a false bottom. He lifted the stuff out and found the little groove. Pulling up, he removed the wooden cover.

His eyes ballooned. Inside were a dozen tiny baggies, filled with white powder.

Chris brought a baggie to his face, opened it, and dipped his little finger. He brought the finger to his tongue and tasted it. Cocaine. Holy crap. After everything that’d happened, his brother was dealing. Silver must have been an influence.

The hot water rushed his face and body. Just being alone in a bathroom was surreal. In there you always had to look over your shoulder. He closed his eyes and felt the hot water flow over him. It was some kind of hot water baptism, wasn’t it? Him being alive and out and here, with his brother? Julian still loved him, still believed in him, even if he was selling drugs. His parents would too, if they—

No, he didn’t want to think about that. Or about Kid. Or about that…place. He wanted to start over, find a therapist, find work, find his own place. Rebecca. His heart still had that ache when he thought of her. What if she had gotten over him? What if she were with someone else?

CHAPTER 2

Rebecca looked deeply into her boyfriend Jake’s eyes, running her slender fingers through his hair, smiling, thinking of their future together. With her other hand, she flicked a random hair off her red scissored bangs, a line of demarcation between hair and forehead. They were in her studio apartment on Waller Street, one block from Haight in San Francisco.

Jake pulled back, shooting a cuff of his Brooks Brothers suit, checking his watch. He was such a handsome man. A second year graduate student at UCSF, studying in the neuroscience department. He was unlike any man she ever dated.

“We better go, babe. It’s 7:15. Reservations are for 7:45. With traffic…”

She smiled, her eyes beaming. “Right. Captain Jake, taking the helm.”

A smile crept onto his pale face. His hair, dark and reminiscent of JFK in the early 60s, was combed perfectly. A flower was pinned on his suit. Always the bastion of punctuality. But it was good; Rebecca was too lax with these things.

“C’mon, babe. You only turn 28 once!”

Crimson rose to her cheeks. Blushing, she pulled Jake close again, their faces inches apart. “I love you, Jake Gobel.” It was nearly a whisper, but more direct and forward than the other times.

Jake’s lips moved towards her and their mouths touched. Soft kisses which soon turned to open mouths and tongues slithering. She felt his anticipatory energy and knew where this could go. But they had someplace to be. Joe’s Crab Shack—her work—for her birthday dinner.

“I love you too,” Jake said, his fingers holding her chin. “We better go, honey.”

Her iPhone rumbled on vibrate in her purse. She dipped her hand in, keeping it inside—hiding it from Jake—and glanced at the screen: Alison Jones. Her best friend. Why would Alison be calling her right now? She knew she and Jake were going out to dinner. She better not be thinking of asking Rebecca to cover a shift. No, Alison could be selfish but she wasn’t that bad. Rebecca turned the phone over in her purse and hit the ignore button.

She smiled at Jake. “Let’s go. I’m ready.” She slung the purse’s strap over her shoulder.

Jake took her hand and together they made for the door. Right as they were about to exit, her phone vibrated again. Rebecca sensed some weird intuitive feeling; her heart started beating one note harder. Why? What was this? Something must be wrong. But still, she let it ring.

Holding the door open, waiting like a gentleman for her to pass first, Jake said, “You need to answer that, babe?”

“Why, thank you, kind sir. No, let’s go.” Sometimes she felt she didn’t deserve Jake; he was too good for her. But that was her insecurity talking; she had always been the one to follow, not lead.

They arrived at Jake’s 2014 BMW i8—a gift of his trust fund—the sleek, aerodynamic body reflecting off the moon’s glow. It was cold out, almost about to rain it seemed, and the breeze was steadily growing.

“Crap, forgot my coat,” Rebecca said. “I’ll be quick.”

Jake cocked his head, shooting a cuff again. “Hurry, babe!”

She sighed and turned, flipping her bangs in slight irritation. It annoyed her—just a little—when he rushed her. One of their things. Every couple experienced that though, right?

Just as she was reaching the door and pulling her key, her stupid phone buzzed once, this time indicating a text message. Fully delving into medium mode irritation, she whipped the thing out, her key in the other hand. The screen said: Alison Jones: “Call me asap. It’s important.” Aghhh: how annoying. Typical Alison: Couldn’t she wait until tomorrow like a normal friend? Why did she always have to bust in on Rebecca’s plans like this, make things so difficult? Ugh.

Rebecca fiddled with the key—sometimes it stuck—and went inside. Running over to her bed, sticking her purse on the down comforter, she opened her closet and found her coat. Catching herself in the standup mirror on back of the closet, she thought: Should I call her real quick or not?

She snatched her Revlon lipstick and puckered her lips, looking at her eyes in the mirror, applying the gloss on her lips. She mashed her lips together. This was a special night. She and Jake would have fun. That was the key word: fun. He’d been so busy with school lately, focusing on research papers and being in the lab at UCSF, studying fat books with titles she couldn’t even pronounce, and she’d been writing in her “spare” time, working five shifts a week at Joe’s Crab Shack.

She picked up her phone and called.

“Happy birthday!” Alison said.

“Thanks. What’s going on? Jake’s waiting outside at the car, probably blowing a gasket right now. We’re in a hurry Ali, could you make it fast?”

“I didn’t mean to worry you. But I needed to tell you.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes, plopping onto the bed. “Ok. I’ll bite. You finally slept with Timmy?”

“Ew, gross. Hell no. That’s never going to happen.”

“Then what, Ali, c’mon.” She glanced up at her alarm clock, the red digital numbers saying 7:24. Shit.

“Well, it’s out of the blue.”

“Ali,” Rebecca said, pulling the phone away from her face, irritation now creeping all over her body. “WHAT IS IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”

“Ok, ok. Calm down. I was at Smuggler’s Cove earlier…”

“Why do you go to that shithole bar, Ali? I don’t get it.”

“Because it’s close to where I live, okay.”

“Ok, fine. You’re at Shithole Bar, and…what?”

“I was sitting a few seats down from Silver…”

“Oh, God, that guy’s such a freaking creep Ali. Why do you go—”

“…And I heard Silver say, ‘Chris Doyle just got out of Folsom State Prison.’ He was talking to some creeper guy at the bar.”

Time seemed to stand still. The clock seemed irrelevant; everything did. It was like that feeling when all your plans are ruined after hearing some devastating news. And all of the sudden she felt this upwelling of emotion; fear, sadness, guilt, and…desire. Desire for what? For Chris to be okay? That he was not scarred from his experience? That she could…see him?

“Listen, Ali. Um. I gotta go. Jake’s going to kill me if I wait any longer.”

As if answering her, she heard Jake’s loud, booming voice from the front door. “Hey babe? What’s going on? You okay in there?”

Rebecca moved the phone down, licking her lips. She yelled back, “I’m fine sweety; give me one second. Putting on lipstick.”

“We’re gonna be late!”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she lifted the phone, her hands trembling, and said, “I’ll call you later.” Then she hung up.

It was close to midnight when she returned to her apartment.

Placing her keys in the bowl, she walked over to her bed. Chris Doyle. She knew this would happen eventually, but she wasn’t ready for it now. She whipped her phone out. The text was fast and to-the-point: Ali: You still up? A minute later the reply: Yup. Rebecca’s response: Call me.

Rebecca pressed “accept” before the first ring finished.

“How was your birthday dinner?” Alison asked.

“Good. Fantastic, actually. I love that man.”

Alison laughed. “Oh, you are a lucky girl, you know that right?”

“So, are you going to tell me about…him?”

“Well, there isn’t much to say. I already told you. I was sitting a few tables away and I heard Silver say it. That’s it.”

“Any clue where he’s living?”

“Judging from what we know I’d say he’d be living with his brother, right? Somewhere in the city.”

Rebecca took a massive, slow breath and eased it back out. “Yikes. What should I do, Ali?”

“What do mean, ‘what should I do?’ Don’t do anything. Forget about him, Becca. He’s a ghost from your past. You remember how much pain he caused you?”

This old argument. It wasn’t an argument, really, so much as a pleading from Alison to let go of her painful past. It always went the same way, just like some of her arguments with Jake. “Look, Ali. We’ve done this talk before. It wasn’t because of Chris that I was in so much pain but—”

“Because of your mother, right? I know this one, Becca.”

“My mom put the guy in prison, okay? I feel guilty. You think that was fair, what she did?”

“Becca. I love you. But you’ve got to grow up, stop blaming your parents for your problems and your pain. Face reality.”

“Funny coming from you.” She regretted saying this the instant it came out.

“That was uncalled for.”

“I’m not protecting Chris, if that’s what you think,” Rebecca said.

“Yes. You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“He was a coke dealer, Becca! And an addict! I know he never physically hit you, but the emotional abuse?”

“It was my fault, Ali. I allowed myself to be in it. And there were good times. Lots of them. I can’t just shun him from my life, Ali.”

“That’s exactly what you can, should, and will do. Jesus, Becca. What are you thinking? What about Jake, huh?”

“What about him? I’m not talking about getting back together with Chris? Are you nuts? I’ve moved on, ages ago! I’m just talking about seeing him. We never got closure; he was arrested so suddenly. It was terrible, Alison.”

“I know, Becca. You’ve told me the story too many times. These last eight or nine months have been so nice without all the Chris talk. I shouldn’t have told you what I heard, but I knew you’d be pissed at me if I didn’t.”

“Thanks for telling me. You’re right. I would have been pissed.”

“Just be careful, Becca. Don’t go doing anything stupid, okay? You’ve got so much in front of you.”

Rebecca snorted, finding the retort ridiculous. “What are you, my mother?” Another fat silence permeated the conversation. “He’s here, in San Francisco. Maybe you could talk to Silver, ask him—”

“Talk to Silver? Are you crazy? That guy is a nutcase. No way. I will not help you find Chris. Sorry. If you had any brains you’d let it go. Why get caught up in the past like that?”

“I gotta go, Ali. You wouldn’t understand. No one does.”

“Oh, c’mon, grow up. That same refrain, ‘nobody understands,’ is crap. You can’t really think that’s true.”

“Have you ever been in love before, Ali, I mean truly in love?”

“You know I hate this conversation.”

“Yeah, because you know I know the answer.”

“Didn’t you say you had to go?” Alison said, now the one annoyed.

“I love you, Ali. Let’s talk tomorrow. Too much Pinot.”

“Right. Happy Birthday, Becca.”

Rebecca sat on the bed. She was mildly buzzed, on the leeward side of intoxicated. Thankfully, Jake hardly drank compared to her, and he’d driven. Hey: it was her birthday! A girl’s gotta have fun! While they walked on the beach she was close to drunk. Not all the way there, but close.

She thought about the letter Chris gave her the one time she visited Folsom State Prison. The drive up north on I-5. Prison Road. The imposing granite walls, rolled barbed wire fences, guard towers, the double arches. The American River flowing along the side of the institution. She recalled being led along the halls by a guard to the Visitor Processing Center.

Chris had only been in about six weeks but he already appeared different. Afraid, guilty feeling, she tried to hold back the tears as she talked with her now ex boyfriend behind bars. They sat at a table, holding hands.

“Are you alright?” she said.

He glanced down, studying her hands in his. “It’s not so good in here, Becca. The gangs. There’s this one inmate, they call him Kid Maniac. He cornered me a few days in, made me join his crew. It’s probably for the best; I need to keep joined with people in here to survive.”

She clasped his hands. “I love you Chris. I’m so sorry. My mother, she—”

“It’s okay, Becca. I don’t want to talk about that. It wasn’t your doing. It just…happened. I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

And then the same massive-muscled guard walked over and tapped Rebecca’s shoulder. “Excuse me ma’am, but we have to take him back now. Visiting time is over.” That’s when he slipped her the letter.

Like a baby being ripped from its mother, it was over. Chris stood, and another guard walked up, leading him away, back to his cell. They caught eyes one last time, as he was drifting off. Chris mouthed the words, I love you, and Becca smiled through her brewing tears. Then he was gone.

A knock on the door startled her. She glanced at her clock: 12:19. Who on God’s Green Earth would that be? For a second, she sat still and thought: Am I crazy? How much Pinot did I drink? I must be imagining things.

CHAPTER 3

But then the knock came again. She heard boots stomping down her steps and onto the street. Peeling her peephole cover to the left, she saw the familiar uniform of the San Francisco Police Department.

She unlocked the door, swinging it open. “Officer Darnin?”

The large cop stopped and turned around, an inquisitive look on his face. “Rebecca.”

She scrunched her eyebrows at him. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”

He stepped towards her. “Sorry about that. I was in the neighborhood, patrolling. Pretty slow tonight.” His radio crackled loudly out of nowhere. Rebecca screwed her face up; the noise would no doubt wake the neighbors. “Sorry,” Darnin said. “Can I come in a minute?”

Rebecca tilted her head. “Now?”

“Well, I was hoping.”

Darnin was an old friend of her mother, an LA city prosecutor who worked for Josh Grodin, the District Attorney in Los Angeles. Her mother met Darnin in LA, through the court system. They became fast friends—this was after Rebecca’s father left—but had never, as far as she could tell, been anything more than friends. Five years ago he decided to move up to San Francisco to accept a job working with the SFPD. Every now and again, her mother would ask Darnin to stop by and see her daughter. It was annoying in that it was an extension of her mother’s reach, but he was a nice enough man.

“Sure, c’mon in.” Darnin took off his hat and sniffled, rubbing his nose, waltzing inside her apartment. “Get you anything? Water?”

“No, thanks. I won’t stay long. Saw your light was on as I passed down Waller; that’s why I stopped. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

“It seems your mother is concerned.”

“Oh?” Rebecca smiled. “About what?”

Darnin curled his lip. “C’mon, Becca. Let’s level with each other.” This was Darnin, putting on the polished police procedure.

“Ok. Level with me.”

“Your mother called me. She heard the news.”

“News?”

“I thought you said we were going to level with each other?”

Rebecca licked her lips, tightened the shawl, walked into the kitchen, and pulled down a bottle of white Zinfindel. She didn’t like to mix wines, but since Darnin was here at past midnight and she didn’t like where this conversation was going, she chose the obvious: another drink. And he was looking at her in a funny way. Rebecca long theorized that Darnin lusted for her.

“Ok. Fine. I’ll play along. My mother sent you to stop by asap because she doesn’t trust me with Chris.”

“Ding ding ding: And the victor wins a thousand dollars.”

Rebecca took a sip of wine. It was unchilled and not as delicious as it could have been. Still, it steeled her nerves. “So what’s your speech, then huh? Stay away from the big, bad drug dealer?”

Darnin picked up his hat and fiddled with it, then set it down in the same place. His eyes crawled over her body. “Your mother can’t tell you what to do. Neither can I.”

“Thanks ‘dad’ I appreciate that, lol,” she said, taking another sip and rolling her eyes. “I’m a grown woman, thanks.”

“But we care about you. Your mother dotes on you constantly, whenever we talk. You know that, Becca.”

“Can we get to the point?”

“The point, Becca, is that Chris is a felon—”

“Ex felon, actually.”

“Listen. Becca. He’s a convicted felon who just got out from doing two years in state prison. You really think he’s changed?”

“I don’t know what I think, to be honest. I just found out tonight.”

“I’m not going to lecture you. I just want to remind you how hard you’ve worked to get away from Chris, from that life.”

Rebecca frowned and took a swig of wine. Her distant buzz was starting to creep back into her head. “I love Jake. I see us together for a long time.”

“Been writing lately?”

“Tons. Yeah.” She glanced away, looking at the rejection letters on the wall. “Got a story published at a smaller press a while back.”

“And the novel?” He said, also glancing at the rejection letters.

“Nothing yet. Those damn New York agents are freaking hard to nail. I hate the word ‘unfortunately.’ I see that word now and I cringe. It’s in every rejection letter I’ve ever received.”

“And?” he said, the word floating in the air.

Taking another swig of wine, her mouth flinched from the bitter loveliness of it. “You’re right, Darnin. I’ll stay away from him. Ex cons are bad news, aren’t they?”

Darnin laughed. “You know you can call me John. You always say ‘Darnin’ like it’s some professional relationship. I am a good friend of your mother’s after all.”

Shrugging, she said, “I don’t know, it’s uncomfortable for me to call you by your first name. I’ve always known you as Darnin.” It rolled off her tongue like the wine rolled into her mouth.

“You promise you’ll stay away from him?”

She looked him square in the eye, no hesitation. “I promise. I have a life to live. Life’s too short to get involved with trouble.”

Placing his cap back on his massive head, Darnin said, “You said it right, there. Such a poet you are. Or excuse me: a writer.” He paused. “Have a good night, Becca. I’ll let your mother know that all is well in Akerman’s World.”

She walked him to the door. The noise of his radio crackling again broke the silence as he approached his squad car parked against the curb. Rebecca shook her head and shut the door.

She turned the lights off. Lying in bed, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Her mind was buzzed and buzzing. Nothing was as it had been yesterday. Everything, within the blink of an eye, changed. Jake didn’t even know Chris existed. She held that truth back from him, afraid he’d judge her or think about her differently. Besides, it wasn’t fair to talk about exes. Should she tell Jake about Chris now? Keep it hidden? Drop the whole thing? What should she do?

Tomorrow she’d figure out a plan because one thing was certain.

She was lying her ass off to John Darnin.

CHAPTER 4

Chris had only been back a couple of days, but he was nervous. Antsy.

He needed to talk to Julian about things. Needing to figure out a plan, he desired, more than anything, to find Rebecca. And he was feeling anxious and tested about the coke. It bothered him. No, “bother” wasn’t the right word. It poked at his heart. How could his older brother be selling blow?

He already knew it would be impossible to stop thinking about Becca. Julian told him she lived somewhere in the city. Here. But Julian didn’t know exactly where. Not that he would have told Chris if he did. Rebecca cleared her tracks. Unlisted. A ghost on the internet. No social media. No Twitter. No Facebook. Nothing.

The only thread was Silver. Julian told him that Silver held information. Silver knew this bar-chick Alison who, Julian was certain, knew Rebecca.

Chris walked to his brother’s room. Julian was laying face down against the blue sheet, his ass upward, the bedcover falling off his body. Kid standing behind Chris in the Tier 1AB bathroom appeared in his mind. Fear rushed up from his belly.

He waited for a second, then he shoved the door open, hard; it whammed against the wall, a loud thud. Julian’s head popped up in surprise, his eyes half open, swaying back and forth, confused. When he saw his brother standing there, staring at him, he jerked the sheet up to his chest and moved his legs around crazily, trying to gain composure.

“Jesus H. Christ, Chris, what time is it?” He peeked at his alarm clock on the bedside table. “What in the name of—”

“How are you paying the rent, Jules?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Listen, Chris, we need to have a talk about—”

“Talk my ass. Where are you getting money, Jules?”

Julian’s black beard seemed to hold some force field of energy. Chris’s knuckles clenched tight. He clenched his teeth, too, a habit he’d formed in the pen. Julian was about to speak, but stopped. The nervous anxiety was snaking its way up Chris’s body, from his feet to his gut like a wayward, muscle-pumping freight train.

Chris licked his lips and took a step forward, his fist wrapped. He was almost shaking.

“Ok,” Julian said. “Ok.” Julian looked into his brother’s eyes, then faced the bed, looking down, as if in some kind of secret shame. “I’m slanging.”

The color, what was left of it, escaped from Chris’s face.

Julian lifted his head. “Construction wasn’t paying the bills, bro. The housing market hasn’t been what it once was. The economy isn’t so hot. People can’t afford big remodels. I dabbled with selling to friends at first, and then, well, I guess you and I both have ‘the gift.’ It wasn’t my plan. I came up here to get away from Venice—”

“You Silver’s dealer?”

Julian glanced down at his bed, red-faced. Looking back up, he held Chris’s intense gaze and said nothing.

Chris slammed a fist into the wall, punching a hole in the cheap plaster. He tromped out.

An hour later, the place was quiet. Chris stepped over to his brother’s room, saw his brother asleep, and found the ash tray where Julian left the keys to the Chevelle.

He was going to Silver’s.

The engine exploded, nearly as loud as a Harley, with its V-8. Grabbing one of the Gold Marlboro 27’s he’d bought—with his brother’s money—he lit up. He backed out of the garage, into the cold, rainy morning of San Francisco.

Chris rolled his window down and blew smoke. He smelled the ocean as he drove past. Rebecca. He met her at the ocean, around the sand berms, by the Santa Monica Pier, in Venice Beach. From first sight she was unforgettable. And she’d been alone. That had been a sign. A woman like that, alone. It was as if she’d been sent there specifically for Chris. For him to find her. For her to find him.

They gravitated to each other right away. Chris was nervous, insecure, seeing such a pretty girl and sensing those pheromones. He’d taken an unusual chance and spoken up, from behind the dune, as if he’d been some kind of ghost materializing into human form.

Their attraction was a crazy kind of thing. Their eyes devoured each other’s. Some kind of psychic standstill occurred. Within minutes they left the beach together, strangely certain they weren’t coming back. And they hadn’t. Not for four years. Not until the Rachel set-up.

Driving past the house, which appeared empty, he parked. Julian told him that Silver was, for the most part, a recluse. Dealing blow, after Chris’d done time in the state pen: what the hell was wrong with Julian? He couldn’t get it out of his head. Silver must have been an influence. Julian, he assumed, would still be doing construction. His older brother learned a ton from their folks about the business, and he at one time owned his own truck, tools, and solo company. Things had changed.

Chris got out of the Chevelle—the hinges creaking—and walked toward the house. As he neared, he felt an ill-omened intuition. He made sure he was alone, scanning the houses in a row around him. Green lawns and palm trees lined a sidewalk that abutted the grass. Each house seemed very suburban. An odd place, without a doubt, for a person like Silver to be living. But outside life, Chris ruminated, was full of contradictions.

Peeking through the window, he couldn’t see a thing. He cracked his neck and knuckles and got ready for tough guy mode. He would not leave without information. He’d have to act like he did that first time he bumped into one of the Southern Hispanics, inside. That was before his initiation. Once he’d been with Kid and his gang, FSP, he had protection. Then he was able to do almost anything.

Chris felt a heavy energy. It was coming from behind.

“Nervous, Chris?” the cop said. His radio crackled from his hand-held walkie-talkie connected to his lapel: “We have a domestic disturbance down on Webster and Geary, can you get it, Darnin?...”

The cop leaned into the walkie-talkie: “Get Marshall to take it. I’m occupied.”

He switched the radio off.

Chris waited for the cop to talk. The scene of his arrest flared through his mind, the SWAT team busting in at his and Julian’s parents’ house, the cops cuffing Chris, pulling Becca into a separate squad car, heat everywhere. Becca’s mother had connections.

The cop’s eyes stayed on him. A brass badge said “S.F.P.D.” His name tag: “Officer John C. Darnin.” He had a combination handcuffs/magazine case. A side firearm was hanging on the left of his duty belt.

“You’re a ways away from San Francisco, officer.”

The cop said nothing. Darnin did not blink. Like Kid, dominating with his size, this cop was a big son of a bitch. Not wanting to show his back to the cop, he started to leave. Never trust another inmate; always keep your blind spot protected. Especially in the showers.

“He ain’t there, son,” the cop said with smug conviction.

“What do you want, officer? I know my rights. I don’t know who you are or why you were here waiting for me, but I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s perfectly legal to visit somebody’s home. Somebody who I have a personal relationship with.”

“You’re not going to see her, kid. Not on this planet, not in this life, ok?”

“How did you know I was—”

“Rebecca has a life now. Doesn’t need you anymore. Never did. I knew you’d come looking for her. I wouldn’t get mixed up with Silver. You got out of State, kid. Got out in two. Should have been five. Could easily be another five. Remember, kid: you’re on parole. Get what I mean?”

The nervous anxiety was pulsing, alive and reborn. He wanted to tell the cop—Darnin—about his getting sober, about AA, about his GED, about the Youth Diversion Program, about how he was seeking therapy; how he was trying to get his life back together. But it was seeming more and more like society wasn’t going to let him breathe. “I got out for good behavior. I did my time and I’ve repaid society,” Chris said.

Officer Darnin got up close to Chris. The man was a behemoth. He towered over him.

“This ain’t about the law. But we can make it about that, if you want. I can do a lot in San Francisco. I’m close with the Chief of Police. I’m very close with Rebecca’s mother. Now, speaking of ‘good behavior,’ you better be on your best, buddy. If not, I might have to spank you. Got that, Chris?”

It was a standoff and he saw Kid with a police uniform on, harassing him. Whether it was inside of state prison, or outside underneath the guise of a badge, there were bullies in either case.

He walked to the Chevelle. He felt the cop’s beady eyes on his back. Rachel had her minions working double duty. It hadn’t been enough to put him in the can for two years. No: She had to barricade him permanently from her daughter.

We’ll see how well that works, Rachel.

After saying the serenity prayer, Chris started up the blue beast and headed back up N. California Street. Darnin stood, feet apart, hands on hips as Chris sped past, his fingers hooked into his duty belt, weapons bulging. He flew north on U.S. 101 in the direction of Ocean Beach.

CHAPTER 5

His brother was waiting when he returned. Arms crossed over his chest, Julian’s face was all scrunched up like wanted to chuck a hatchet at Chris’s head. His hair was combed straight back and the beard seemed somber. He wore a black San Francisco Giants shirt, with WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS in white lettering, and the interlocking orange S and F letters, which reminded Chris of the F and S and P interlocked for Folsom.

Chris walked past him, dropping the keys in the ashtray. Julian grabbed the keys and shoved them into his pocket.

“What are you gonna do, huh? Run around all day looking for her?” Julian said.

Chris leaned against the wall, lit a smoke, exhaled and flicked a random hair off of his chin. He ran his fingers through his mop. “I can’t believe you’re dealing coke, bro. And selling to Silver? Didn’t you learn anything while I was away?”

Julian ignored the comment. “Look. You can’t steal my car. Ok? You can ask to borrow it. But you can’t steal it.”

Chris puffed again. Fighting his brother, he realized, was not on his agenda. The fighting between them was new. They’d fought as teens, after their parents’ car crash, but soon Chris had been in his own world, selling and swimming in a bottle. And he loved Julian, dearly. They were on the same team. Action needed to be taken: an AA meeting was #1.

“I need my Glock,” Chris sputtered.

Julian bit his lip. “It’s on the table next to your prison duffel bag. I left it there this morning.”

“Thanks for stashing it all these years, bro.”

“You’re family, Chris. What was I supposed to do, sell it?”

Chris felt another rush of resentment. Heat crept into his flushed cheeks. “Goddamn, Jules. I get out of State for slanging and you pick up the craft?”

“I—”

“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve had to think about what I did, about the life I’d been living, about changing my ways?” Chris said. “Huh? Maybe you need to come to a meeting with me, brother.”

“I’m not an addict, Chris, I’ve got it under control. I’m not like you.”

“Right. Sure. Just keep the shit away from me,” Chris said.

Julian jangled the keys in his pocket. He walked cautiously past Chris. “I’m going out to do some…errands.” Chris didn’t respond. “You need to calm down, brother. Get over this shit and figure yourself out. I love you, Christopher. I always have. But this is my apartment. It’s my car, my choices, my life. Frankly, if I want to sell drugs, I will. I know where you’ve been the last two years. And I know where I ain’t going. Don’t worry about me.”

“God, brother. You sound just like me. How do you think your selling makes me feel? This is supposed to be a safe environment for me.”

Julian poked his tongue around at his cheek. “That’s my problem, is it?”

“You’re my brother; we’re blood. Don’t you want to see me grow and stay sober? Don’t you give a shit?”

“Don’t be dramatic, bud. Of course I do. I love you, man. We’re all we’ve got. But I can’t change my life to make sure you feel ‘safe.’ My advice is to start looking for a job; hit the pavement. It’ll be tough with a record but you’ll find something. Check with your P.O. After that: get an apartment; then you won’t have to deal with me.”

Chris looked away, out the window above the kitchen sink.

Julian chucked the keys into the air and caught them.

“What?” Chris said, an annoyed tone.

“Let me make us some spaghetti tonight, huh? It’ll be nice. You and me. You can tell me more about…your time. I want to know. I mean, if you want to talk about it.”

Chris let his arms unhook and fall to his sides. This was really what he’d been wanting to hear, since Julian picked him up at East Gate. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted a peaceful reunion, some semblance of familial normalcy, and to find work and true sobriety. Happiness. Wasn’t that the point? Something had to be done, though, about this constant buzzing in his head, his thoughts out of control. “Yeah. That’d be nice. Let’s do that.”

“Good,” Julian said. “And Chris?” Chris jerked his head. “Don’t worry about me. I sell small and I know the right people.”

Like Silver? Chris wanted to say. But he held his tongue. “I’ll see you tonight, Jules.”

“Tonight.” Chris heard Julian’s feverish boot-clomps down the concrete stairs which led to the garage. A minute later, the blue beast’s engine blasted the quiet.

Chris thought about searching for the blow. He could flush it. But then he’d have to move out immediately. And, even though it was insane beyond belief that Julian was dealing, he also knew that if he wanted a less rocky experience, he’d learn to let things go. Jim B., his inside sponsor, taught him a lot about expectations and learning to let people be who they are, especially those you cared about.

The duffel bag. And his gun.

He walked over and snatched the bag. It was dirty and heavy. He sat it on the coffee table in front of the couch. A white tag was hanging: “Christopher Doyle’s belongings, CDCR Inmate #17273. 2011-2014. Property of Folsom State Prison, 300 Prison Road, Represa, Ca.”

Chris unzipped the bag. Books. Helter Skelter, by Vincent Bugliosi, the prosecutor who put Charles Manson away. Manson served time in Folsom. Mien Kampf: Kid forced him to read this. Hitler wrote the first portion of that book while in prison. The title meant “My Struggle.” Chris could relate. He didn’t buy into the ignorant Aryan Race bullshit—which made it harder to convince Kid he was “on their side”—but he did understand struggle. And prison.

And his blue Big Book, the title, “Alcoholics Anonymous,” barely visible on the spine. He flipped to a random page. “The Doctor’s Opinion.” A line was highlighted in pink: “We were not drinking to escape, we were drinking to overcome a craving beyond our mental control.” Chris closed the book with a snap.

His journals.

Chris picked up a journal and flipped through it. He saw a page and fear rippled through his body. Blood all over an angry message to God. He’d never forget that night. He let his own blood soak the page, using a single candle to light his way as he wrote his hellish letter to The Great Deceiver, he called God that night. The two permanent letters etched on his nape took weeks to heal.

Chris set the journals next to the books on the table.

Next were letters. Letters he never sent. Letters to his parents. To Rebecca. To his brother. He skimmed the notebook pages with looped “p’s” and “d’s” and “e’s” like he wrote.

December 24, 2011, Day 20 in FSP

I’ve been in this hell-hole for 20 days, man. Took less than a week to be threatened by Hector G. (working for Rachel)—saying that if I fought and went to trial Rachel would pursue “outside” actions—get arraigned, plead guilty, and land here. They call this place all kinds of things: The Dirty Chamber, The Big House, The Pen, The Joint, FSP, State, The Grim Room. Saw Kid in the yard today. Crazy bastard. He always trolls for fresh meat, like I was when he approached me. But I’m in deep now; I’m an FSP white supremacist. It’s what I have to do.

Chris stopped reading, feeling his heart beating hard. Sensing Kid nearby, he felt disoriented, blinking several times in rapid succession. He forced Kid out of his consciousness. His right hand was shaking.

He walked to the kitchen counter. On it, next to where the bag had been, he spotted the Glock-17. The “G” logo; “Austria” etched along the dark metal barrel, along with “9 x 19 mm.” A single magazine sat beside it. He checked the magazine. Empty. Jules must have hidden or trashed the bullets. He probably carried his own gun for protection. What if Jules were caught and had to serve time. Then what would Chris do?

His mind was racing. Silver. Officer John C. Darnin. The cocaine. He recognized an itch that wanted, pleaded to be scratched. He wanted a drink. He hadn’t had a drink since going in. And now, after all those AA and NA meetings inside, he was worried. That sinking sensation of resentment (the number one offender for alcoholics, he was told in the meetings), spread like a spider’s web inside of his soul.

God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out the card he’d been carrying since his release. “Jim Burroughs, Handyman Electrician. Sacramento, Calif. For a free estimate, call (916) 228-7845.” Using the flip-phone that Julian provided him with—with only Julian’s number in it—Chris dialed. It rang and rang, going to voicemail.

“Jim, uh, it’s me, Chris Doyle, from Folsom State. I’m out, officially! Just wanted to touch base, figured I could use a voice of clarity. Having a bit of a rough time but trying to summon your wise words. Call me when you get a chance. I don’t know my own number, actually, but it should come up on your cell? If not I’ll try you again later.”

Rebecca floated into his awareness. Somehow, he would find her. Nothing could stop him. Not Julian, not Rebecca’s mother, not her wind-up-toy, Darnin. Silver would spill the beans. And she’d love him still. She’d want him back. He would have to figure out a way around that cop. But he better be careful.

The last thing he needed was to go back to The Grim Room. He’d had enough Kid to last a lifetime.