CHAPTER ONE

ROCKLAND PENITENTIARY, VANCOUVER

MARCH 2012

I followed the escorting officer over to Admissions and
Discharge, carrying my belongings in a cardboard box—a
couple pairs of jeans, some worn-out T-shirts, the few
things I’d gathered over the years, some treasured books, my
CD player. The rest, anything I had in storage, would be
waiting for me. The release officer went through the round
of documents. My hand shook as I signed the discharge
papers, the words blurred. But I knew what they meant.

“Okay, Murphy, let’s go through your personals.” The guards
never called you by your first name on the inside. It was
always a nickname or your last name.

He emptied out a box of the items I’d come into the prison
with. His voice droned as he listed them off, making notes
on his clipboard. I stared at the dress pants, white blouse,
and blazer. I’d picked them out so carefully for court, had
thought they’d make me feel strong. Now I couldn’t stand the
sight of them.

The officer’s hand rested for a moment on the pair of my
underwear.

“One pair of white briefs, size small.”

He looked down at the briefs, checked the tag, his fingers
lingering on the fabric. My face flushed. His eyes flicked
to mine, gauging my reaction. Waiting for me to screw up so
he could send me back inside. I kept my expression neutral.

He opened an envelope, glanced inside, then checked his
clipboard before dumping the envelope’s contents into my
palm. The silver-faced watch my parents had given me on my
eighteenth birthday, still shiny, the battery dead. The
necklace Ryan had given me, the black onyx cool to the
touch. Part of the leather cord had worn smooth from my
wearing it every day. I stared at it, felt its weight in my
hand, remembering, then closed my fingers around it, tucking
it securely back in the envelope. It was the only thing I
had left of him.

“Looks like that’s it.” He held out a pen. “Sign here.”

I signed the last of the documents, put the belongings into
my box.

“You got anything to dress out in?” the officer said.

“Just these.” The officer’s eyes flicked over my jeans and
T-shirt. Some inmates’ families send clothes for them to
wear on their release day. But no one had sent me anything.

“You can wait in the booking room until your ride gets here.
There’s a phone if you need to call anyone.”

* * *

I sat on one of the benches, boxes by my feet, waiting for
the volunteer, Linda, to pick me up. She’d be driving me to
the ferry and over to Vancouver Island. I had to check into
the halfway house in Victoria by seventeen hundred hours.
Linda was a nice lady, in her forties, who worked with one
of the advocacy groups. I’d met her before, when she’d taken
me to the island for my unescorted temporary absences.

I was hungry—I’d been too excited to eat that morning.
Margaret, one of my friends inside, had tried to get me to
choke something down, but the oatmeal sat like a lump in my
stomach. I wondered if Linda could stop somewhere. I
imagined a Big Mac and fries, hot and salty, maybe a
milkshake, then thought of Ryan again, how we used to take
burgers to the beach. To distract myself from the memory, I
watched an officer bring in a new inmate. A young girl. She
looked scared, pale, her brown hair long and messy, like
she’d been up all night. She glanced at me, her eyes
drifting from my hair, down to the tattoos around my upper
arm. I got them in the joint—a thin tribal bar for each year
behind bars, forming one thicker, unbroken band that circled
my right biceps, embracing me.

The officer yanked the girl’s arm, pulled her to Booking.

I rubbed my hands across the top of my head. My hair was
short now, the middle spiked up in a faux-Mohawk, but it was
still black. I closed my eyes, remembered how it was in high
school. Feathered and long, falling to the middle of my
back. Ryan liked to wrap his hands in it. I’d cut it in
prison after I looked in the mirror one day and saw Nicole’s
hair, thick with blood, and remembered holding her broken
body in my arms after we found her that night.
“You ready to get out of here, Toni?” A friendly female
voice.

I opened my eyes and looked up at Linda. “Can’t wait.”

She bent down and picked up one of my boxes, grunting a
little as she lifted it. Linda was a small woman, not much
taller than me. I was just a shorty at five feet—Margaret
used to say a mouse fart could blow me over. But Linda was
about as round as she was tall. She had dreadlocks and wore
long flowing dresses and Birkenstocks. She was always
railing at the prison system. I followed her out to her car,
my box in my arms, as she chatted about the ferry traffic.

“The highway was clear all the way out to Horseshoe Bay, so
we’ll make good time. We should be there around noon.”

As we pulled away, I watched the prison grow smaller in the
distance. I turned back around in my seat. Linda rolled the
window down.

“Phew, it’s a hot one today. Summer will be here before you
know it.”

I traced the lines of my tattoos, counting the years,
thinking back to that summer. I was thirty-four now and had
been in custody since I was eighteen, when Ryan and I were
arrested for my sister’s murder. We’d been alone with her
that night, but we hadn’t heard Nicole scream. We hadn’t
heard anything.

I wrapped my hand around my arm, squeezed hard. I’d spent
almost half of my life behind bars for a crime I didn’t
commit.

The anger never really leaves you.