North Country(19)

Will everything be this hard? I eye the phone still in its box, taunting me. I think I’ll wait for a lesson from my twelve-year-old nephew before I tackle that. Today’s been a long, overwhelming day, and right now, I need something familiar.

Anything that might anchor me in this new world.

Like the box of CDs on the floor. Jay and I had a decent collection back in the day, and I was pleasantly surprised to find it sitting here when I came in, and even happier that the stereo we used to play music on still works. I don’t need a twelve-year-old’s guidance for that.

We were allowed MP3 players in prison. It’s the first thing I bought from the canteen, along with prison-approved headphones and songs, to be listened to only during certain hours. Every aspect of my life for the past twenty years has had to be reviewed and approved—even the music I could listen to and how I could listen to it.

Fishing out my favorite albums from back in the day, I load the five-disc carousel, crank the volume dial, and sink into my chair, closing my eyes as the music drowns out the noise in my head.

I smile as nostalgia rushes forward.

Emery and I would spend hours in here with this album playing on repeat. Sometimes we’d talk nonstop, about anything and everything—things as shallow as who said what at school, and as deep as where our future selves would land. Other times, we didn’t say a word, content in each other’s company while the lyrics filled the void.

She was my best friend.

She was the only girl I’ve ever loved.

And despite the fact that I’ve spent years dwelling on the moment I’d see her again, I have no idea what I’ll say when it finally happens. What does she even look like now? The last picture I saw of her was from fourteen years ago. Based on the offside comment my cousin’s boyfriend made, I’d say she still looks good .

Glass shattering startles me back to reality. Something lands on the wood plank floor with a thud and rolls to settle next to my feet.

A rock. Someone threw a fucking rock through my window.

That can’t be an accident. But who the hell would come all the way out here on my first night home to do this?

Nobody with good intentions, that’s who.

Fear and anger explode as I rush down the stairs, fumbling for switches until I find one that bathes the garage in dull light. On impulse, I grab the first thing within reach on the workbench—a pipe wrench—and charge for the backside of the garage. Slapping on the floodlight, I shove open the sliding barn door, my fist wrapped around the cold metal, ready for whoever’s waiting.

Four startled female faces stare back at me.

It’s the farthest one away that my focus snags on. “Emery.” It’s not a question, there’s no doubt it’s her, even though all hints of the girl I knew are gone. This version has aged gracefully, with slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes and a permanent line where she’s spent too many years furrowing her brow. Her mane of streaked strawberry-blond hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, highlighting sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw.

“Logan.” Her green eyes are wide as they roam over me, and in that instant, I remember that I’m down to navy boxers, the cold nipping at my bare skin. And holding a pipe wrench.

I toss it to the ground as if it ignited in my grip. “I thought you were someone else.” Plaid ranch jackets hang on wall-mounted pegs nearby. I hastily grab one and slip it on. It’s at least two sizes too small, and I’m fully aware of how ridiculous I look.

She clears her throat and levels a stern glare on the three teenage girls shifting on their feet. “Who wants to explain?” she asks, as if reading my mind.

“We didn’t think it would break the glass,” one says, her nervous gaze flickering to me. I don’t need an introduction to know this is Emery’s daughter, Isla. The resemblance is uncanny, in the shape of her eyes and nose, in the color of her hair.

I hold up the golf ball–size rock with jagged edges. “You didn’t think this would break glass? ”

“Jesus,” Emery mutters, shaking her head.

“We just wanted you to come hang by the fire with us,” another says, her fingers twirling a strand of platinum-blond hair as curious eyes trace the scar where Travis Dorsey impaled me with a shiv made from a filed-down toothbrush handle.

I may have been locked up for the past twenty years, but I’m no idiot. This one’s flirting.

And, I think, drunk.

“So, you thought vandalizing his home was a good idea?” Emery scoffs.

“Obviously we didn’t mean to,” Isla’s voice cracks with frustration.

“Oh, yes. Obviously.”

“You’re blowing things out of proportion, just like you always do!”

“Always?” Emery’s jaw tenses and then something seems to snap. She turns to me, her posture straightening as she says smoothly, “Mr. Landry, would you like me to call an on-duty officer to handle this?”

So this is Emery in cop mode. I have to say, I’ve had more than my share of dealings with law enforcement and none of them have ever been this attractive—even in rubber boots and a jacket tossed on over pajamas.

All three sets of young eyes widen with panic. They believe she’ll do it. Maybe she will. I don’t know this Emery.

I want nothing to do with charging teenage girls, but clearly this is about teaching a lesson. “I’ll let it slide this time.”