Won't Let Go (12 page)

When I open the door and slide into my Mustang, I jump as a tidal wave of winter air bashes me from all sides. “Don’t do that!”

I turn in my seat and wait for the swirl of colored grains to materialize, take shape and form Embry. “Sorry.”

Dramatically, I rest my hand on my chest. “You scared the crap out of me.”

He grins. “Oops.”

Playfully I take my hand from my heaving chest and swat at him. But my hand passes
through
him and thuds against the seat instead. I look at him questioningly. “You’re not solid.”

He shrugs. “I figured I’d better play it safe. I’m pretty sure no one but you can see me like this.”

Embry has a point, even though I still don’t understand how
I
can see him. “Fine,” I grumble and shake off the twinge of pain radiating through my hand from smacking the looks-softer-than-it-is leather seat.

Fitting as it is, the Tri-County Correctional Facility is right smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Yet it’s close enough to civilization that friends and family can visit at the drop of a hat.

Half way through the forty-five minute trip, I tense up. As I take a quick glimpse at Embry, I can’t decide who’s more nervous. Me or him. “I’ve never been to jail,” I say, my voice cutting through the near silence of the car.

“That’s good to know.” Embry chuckles, but when I flash him a not-funny-look he shrugs. “Neither have I. At least I don't think I have.”

I take a deep breath. “We’re really doing this,” I say, more to myself. And as if Embry senses the full brunt of my apprehension, he takes my hand from the shifter and holds it tight.

I sigh.

He’s solid again.

It’s moments like this I tend to forget what he really is and relish the thought of what he
could
be—to me. I can see so much in him, even though I know so little. Certainly he’d make an amazing boyfriend. He’s almost always gentle, considerate. When I talk, I feel he’s really listening, absorbing every word that flows through my lips. And the buzz of electricity and emotion that passes through his touch seems to surge my heart with so many feelings. I swear. I swear it up and down, we could have something real. Amazing.

But then I’m slammed back into reality, knowing it might never be. That he might be better off going to heaven than spending the rest of his life in a hospital bed, nearly dead to the world.

I’m not going to allow that to happen, though. Not now, not ever. I want Embry to be real so bad it hurts, but I’m not going to condemn him to that kind of life either. I’ll do everything I can to get him to cross over, to help him, even if it means I can never have him.

“Don’t cry.” Embry releases my hand and fingers away the wetness seeping from my eyes. “Please don’t cry. I’ll protect you.” And I’m not sure if he means from the horde of potentially deranged inmates we’re about to be in the presence of or if he means something else. He shuffles down the bench, closer to me. “Always,” he whispers and kisses my cheek.

And like a dam forcing the water back, it breaks.

I break.

 And silently, tears stream down my face.

Why did I have to fall for someone I might never be able to keep?

I pull myself together, insist to Embry a million times that I’m fine—while not telling him why I was so upset. I exit the Mustang and head towards the Correctional Facility.

I’ll have you know this
isn’t
like in the movies. It’s not a one hundred year old building crumbling beneath its weight on its own private island. There are no moats filled with flesh eating sharks or piranhas. Instead, it’s rather bright and cheery looking, something reminiscent of a hospital or library. Even with loops of barbed wire on the tall fences it’s not nearly as menacing as I expected. Large windows encase the building—bullet proof, I assume—and as I draw near, there’s even green grass, shrubs and flowerbeds full of colorful blooming flowers.

On the inside however, it’s stuffy. Guards stand at attention in every corner, and this is just the lobby. Behind thick paned glass a strict looking, grey haired man sits at a computer. He’s dressed in blue and yellow fatigues, and I’m pretty sure I can see a gun holstered at his hip.

Upon my approach, he looks up. “Can I help you?” he says. His voice is scratchy, maybe from too many years of chain-smoking.

Reaching into the cool air for the presence of Embry for extra strength, I step towards the glass. Raising my chin as though I have every right to be here, I say, “I’d like to visit Elliot Winston, please.”

I’m ushered into a small room, and this is like airport security times ten! I’ve never been so intimidated. The guards make me empty my pockets and my messenger bag. They go through everything with a fine tooth comb. I walk through metal detectors. I am scanned from head to toe with one of those wands—arms out and legs spread. And just when I think they’ve seen every possible inch of me, they pat me down. You'd think Elliot was a serial killer on death-row, the way they poke and prod at me. Finally when they give the all clear, I’m handed a visitor badge and shoved into another room. All the while Embry stays close, sending sweet chills up my spine.

This new room reminds me of a doctor’s office. White walls, boring art that looks like it was done by a three-year-old or an elephant and uncomfortable plastic chairs. No magazines. Other people are waiting, lining the walls with grim faces. I take a seat by a young mother with an infant perched on her lap. She’s cooing to the baby, smoothing down the unruly black tendrils of her hair.
This is no place for a baby,
I think.
But who am I to judge. The mother, inked arms, bleached blonde hair and skin ultra tanned—I hope it’s spray on. If not, can we say skin cancer?—is very adoring to her daughter, listening contently as she babbles and whines.

I can’t help looking around at all the faces before me. We’re an interesting mix, the young mother/daughter duo, a man in a crisp, clean business suit, graying hair combed over a balding head, a lawyer perhaps, a slim, lanky man in coveralls, clutching a hardhat, me and don’t forget my ghostboy. Never have I seen so many walks of life in such a tiny room. It manages to ease my mind somehow, knowing it doesn’t necessarily matter where you come from. Anyone can know someone in prison. Criminals can be made from anyone.

The thick metal door opens with a loud click, and a guard comes into the room. She’s tall, buxom, and very, very serious looking. She gives a spiel I’m only half listening to because in that instance I notice Embry’s presence is gone. Suddenly, the heat of an un-air-conditioned room hits me.
Where could he be?

I don’t get the chance to wonder long, because quickly, silently everyone forms a single file line and follows the guard out the door. Slipping into formation, I follow everyone’s lead. We trek down a hallway, through two other thick metal doors—they’re manned by more guards with holstered pistols—each opening with a loud buzz that rattles the walls and sears my eardrums with irritation. Eventually, still in a tight single line, we find ourselves at our final destination.

This
is
like the movies. A long hallway, split in half by thick, shatterproof glass with tiny holes—for talking—and tiny stools. The female guard tells each one of us which booth we’re in. I’m last. “Booth twelve,” she says, her voice matching her stern expression. Stiffly, I make my way down the row of people until I get to the end. I take a seat and desperately wish Embry was here with me.

My booth has a small stool, two small jutted out walls that separate me from the person to my left. Hardly the amount of privacy I wish I had to call out to Embry. Instead I’m forced to wait. Suddenly my bitten off fingernails seem like the most important thing in the room. I inspect them, pick and tear at the cuticles, and even chew the nubs as if they are a light snack.

 The rattle of a door rocks me from my stupor. Faintly, chains jingle as dozens of feet shuffle against the cement floor just as bright orange reflects off the window. I stand and stare down at Elliot Winston. He’s Embry’s twin, if that were possible. They’re only one year apart, but identical in features—bright ocean blue eyes, sandy blond hair, tall, slim but muscular build. And the same sharp line of the jaw and perfectly manicured eyebrows.

Like the other inmates, Elliot is clad in an orange jumpsuit, thick block numbers emblazoned across his chest, and shackles around his wrists—and probably his ankles. He looks at me with complete confusion, eyes narrowed as they sweep up and down my body.

Elliot finally sits down, resting his elbows on the small ledge of the table. I too sit, ignore the pounding in my chest, and lean in towards the small holes in the glass.

Taking a deep breath, I begin, “I’m here about your brother, Embry.”

Elliot takes his arms off the table, leans back on his stool, and a tortured, distressed look crosses his face. “Oh man, is he—did he...die?” He scrapes a shaky hand through his shaggy blond hair.

Embry where are you?
I scream inside my head, but say, “No, no, he’s not dead.” My own voice is just as shaky as the hand Elliot pulled through his hair. You can have an entire conversation built up inside your head, swear up and down you know the right and wrong words to say, and yet, when you are in the moment, everything disappears. Which seems to be happening to me a lot lately.

Immediately Elliot relaxes, re-folding his arms across the ledge. “Then who are you? What are you doing here?”

I’ve been asking myself that same question.

But I don’t get a chance to respond as Elliot quickly adds in a hard tone, “I’ve told your people a hundred times—I don’t know where my parents are. So if you’re here—” His eyes, so similar to Embry’s, scrutinize me "—to get me to pull the plug, I won’t. I won’t let him go.”

“Uh—” I stutter in confusion. Then, a breath of frigid air blows through the room, and I sigh with relief.
He’s back.
Just knowing Embry’s here, all my confidence comes flooding back. “No, that’s not why I’m here. But—the hospital wants you to take your brother off life-support?”

Suddenly, Elliot’s face becomes hard.“What’s it to you? You still haven’t told me who you are.”

Quickly I say, “An old friend of Embry’s. I’m here to get the story straight, if you will.”

Elliot’s eyes narrow. “An old friend you say? I sure don’t remember you comin’ around.” He gives me a grin that makes my skin crawl, makes me feel...dirty. “I’m sure I’d remember you.” And then he winks.

He’s just trying to scare me,
or make me uncomfortable. And it’s working, but I push the feelings aside.

“Obviously your memory’s been tainted by this place,” I say, motioning to the room. “’Cause I sure remember you.”
I hope he can’t see through my lies because I have no idea who
he
is.

Elliot shifts in his seat, slips his hands from the table and I watch them disappear beneath the ledge. It’s only a second or two before they resurface. I don’t know what that’s about, but I’m disgusted.

 “Must have made an impression then.” He smiles. And in that moment, I’m so sure he did it. Everything that comes out of his mouth just sounds...wrong.

Sitting up straighter, I say in a terse tone, “Not the kind of impression you’re thinking about.”

“Ooo ouch,” he mocks. “So, what story then do you want straight?”

“I want to know why you tried to kill your brother.”

Elliot leans closer to the glass. “Tried and failed, I did.” Then he laughs, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

But it’s not. I can hear through it, and just like that, I think I get it.
He has to be putting on a show, right?
This isn’t really him. When I told him I was here about Embry, for that moment, he was genuinely upset; it was in his face, his voice, and the shaky hand. That concerned emotion disappeared so quickly when I told him Embry wasn’t dead. Elliot then changed his demeanor.
But why?

“Yeah you did, but I want to know
why
you did it.”

He waves me off. As both hands slice through the air, the cuffs around his wrists clank. “What’s it to you anyways? I’m sure you can read. The papers covered that story three years ago.”

I never read past the first two articles. The one that broke the story and the one that said Embry was alive. At the time, that was enough for me to go on. It never occurred to me to read further.
Shit.

“They did. But I want to hear it from you—” I decide right then and there Elliot’s going to be hard to break. If I’m going to get any answers from him, I have to play the game, like he is. I suck in a breath of cool air—
forgive me Embry
—“What made you finally decide to do what the rest of us only dreamed about doing?”

“Ahh. So you’re a hater, too. It’s nice to meet you—”

“Alex.”

“Well, Alex, it’s really rather simple. I saw a chance so I took it. Case closed.”

“No. Not that simple. Why?”

Through gritted teeth, Elliot says, “I hated him.”

I’m taken aback by the sudden anger in his tone. “Not good enough. I want to know what finally made you
snap
.” Just for that extra amount of emphasis I snap my fingers.

Elliot shakes his head. “Nope. That is classified information, just for me—” he looks up to the ceiling “—and the man upstairs to know.”

My shoulders shrug as I sigh. “I see. So that’s it. You’re not sharing. Clearly the shame of failure has made you weak.”

This tweaks a bit of anger in him. “No! It hasn’t. You don’t know—”

I smile.
Got ya
. “Don’t know what?”

Before I get an answer, I swear I see Embry’s reflection in the glass. He’s shaking his head at me. Elliot shifts in his seat again. From here I can see the tiny goose-bumps rising over his forearms and the exposed flesh of his biceps.

“Time’s up,” a voice roars through the room.

“Saved by the bell. Better luck next time, girly.” Elliot chuckles as he stands and shuffles towards the door.