This wasn’t Garfield. This was some cheap imitation cat. It wasn’t even from Santa, because the clearance sticker from Zellers was still on the box. This dumb cat was so unpopular, the store had to reduce the price twice just to get rid of it.
“It’s not Garfield!” Joey cried, unable to help herself. “And it’s stupid!”
Her mother’s face changed. Joey shrank, certain she was going to get a punch—or three. But Ruby simply stood and headed down the hallway to her bedroom, where she shut the door. A minute later, Joey heard her mother sobbing.
Her mother never cried, and the sound scared her more than thinking Ruby was going to hit her.
Twenty long minutes later, her mother came out of the bedroom. The wrapping paper was still on the floor, and there were a few presents under the tree that had yet to be opened, including the small gift that Joey had made for Ruby at school. Joey was sitting in the same spot near the tree with Chesterfield in her lap, which she hoped would let her mother know that she was sorry, so very sorry, for her outburst.
Ruby calmly strode past her and into the kitchen, appearing a few seconds later with a garbage bag. She put the unopened presents into it and then cleaned up the wrapping paper. Then she plucked the stuffed cat out of Joey’s lap and left the apartment. A few seconds later, Joey heard the clang of the metal door as her mother threw everything down the garbage chute.
“Better?” Ruby asked when she came back into the apartment, empty-handed. “By the way, we’re three months behind on rent, so we’re out of here on New Year’s Eve. I don’t know where we’re going, but anything that doesn’t fit in my suitcase can be thrown away.”
Joey couldn’t speak. She was only seven. What was there to say?
And now, sitting across from Deborah, the kindest person she knew, she felt the same as she did with Nicole Bowie. Jealous. Resentful. Desperate for a better life, a different life, though she knew it wasn’t possible, because she didn’t deserve anything that was good. Deborah was only here because it was her job. Her aunt and uncle only took her in because they were being paid.
There was nobody in Joey’s life who was here simply because they wanted to be.
Deborah’s daughter was the luckiest person in the world. And if Joey could have killed that girl to trade places with her, she would have strongly weighed her options on the best way to do it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Drew finished reading the last of Joey’s diaries the night before, and he’s spent half of the five-hour drive to Sainte-élisabeth wondering what her life was like after she moved to Maple Sound. If she kept any diaries during her five years there, they’re long gone now. And the only people who would know anything about Joey’s life in the small town aren’t talking. Her Tita Flora declined his request for an interview. Of her three cousins, only the youngest replied to Drew’s email, and all Carson said was that he was too young back then to remember much.
And her Tito Micky? Dead. Five years ago. Emphysema.
Check-in happens fast once Drew reaches the prison. He’s interviewed inmates at a few different correctional facilities over the years, and he knows the drill. The corrections officer passes him a bin for his phone, belt, wallet, and keys, and then he stands with his arms out as the CO pats him down quickly.
“You’re the sixth visitor she’s had this week,” the officer says as she buzzes him through. “She loves making people wait, so be sure to grab a magazine to pass the time.”
“I appreciate the heads-up,” Drew says. “Merci.”
“De rien.”
It’s Drew’s first visit to the Sainte-élisabeth Institution for Women, and it’s unfair how nice it is. Like all correctional facilities, it offers GED classes, psychological counseling, and parenting workshops, but inmates here can also sign up for yoga, tai chi, and meditation. There are organized sports, game nights, movie nights, even a book club. It houses 115 women, only five of whom are in maximum security. Ruby Reyes is not one of them. Joey’s mother is apparently a model inmate, and is therefore allowed to roam as freely as medium security allows.
This isn’t a prison. This is a fucking wellness retreat.
The visiting area is annoyingly cheerful, and barely a third full. Drew chooses a table close to the vending machines, where he purchases an assortment of overpriced snacks. The magazine rack turns out to be a disappointment, mostly filled with tabloids and celebrity fluff, but he picks up the newest issue of People with the late Jimmy Peralta on the cover. He also snags an older issue of Maclean’s.