Page 107 of Just Ten Seconds

“No,” I correct her. “Being in your home was what kept me sane.”

She smirks. “ ‘Sometimes, the only way to stay sane is to go a little crazy.’ ”

Her quoting my favorite movie makes me smile. “Am I the Angelina or the Winona?”

“You are Girl, Interrupted. Your life was on pause, but now, it’s moving again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You had a shitty night, and you’re not crying in a ball on the floor, so I’m gonna say, you’ve made tremendous progress. So, tell me, what’s the plan for today?” she asks.

My shoulders rise to my ears as I look at my refrigerator and the photo of me and Jackie smiling, ready to take on the world in high school. “Dean says I need closure to heal. Well, there’s only one way I could ever get that.”

Jackie sits up fully. Her blonde hair falls in front of her face, but she’s too surprised to fix it. “You don’t mean what I think you mean.”

With a quivering grimace, I open my hand, look down at the pocket watch, and flip it over to the engraving. May you forever remember the moment time stopped. I didn’t know at the time how potent that message would be.

“For Dean, for myself, I think I’m going to have to try,” I whisper.

Her brows rise in surprise. I tilt my head, wondering why that shocks her.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve had something worth fighting for. It’s good to have you back.”

“I’m not back,” I declare.

“You’re back, Mara. You’ve been back since the moment Dean walked into the café.”

When I think of prison, I have a cinematic idea of what it should be. Movies make it very dark and depressing. Television usually depicts the overcrowded, talking-through-glass scene. I expect to walk into chaos. When I walk into Fishkill Correctional, the atmosphere is anything but.

It’s an open room with windows on two walls, a seating area of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, and a U-shaped counter with a line for people waiting to enter. The place looks more like a bus depot than what I’d expect a prison to be. The corrections officer at the front desk is laughing and talking to the woman in front of me. Apparently, she’s a regular.

As I wait in line, I clutch my purse and stand here, looking out the window. Maybe I should leave. It’s not too late to turn around and go home. This could all end badly.

I don’t have too long to dwell on it because my turn is up, and she asks for my driver’s license.

“Who are you here to see?” she asks as she writes my information on a form.

I clear my throat. “Benjamin Greenfield.”

“Inmate number?” she asks, not looking up as she continues to write.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“I can’t let you in without an inmate number. Three letters with a dash and seven more. If you had any letters it would be written at the top.”

The envelopes I’ve burned pop up in my mind. “Oh. Try 05A-5191120. I think.”

She punches the numbers into a computer on the counter. She writes something else on the form and then stamps it before sliding it back to me. “Okay, take this form and go to security. You’re gonna need to leave your purse in one of the lockers.”

I nod and walk away toward the small, square lockers against the wall near the entrance. I want to ask why I can’t bring my purse in, but that’s probably a dumb question I don’t want the answer to. I slide two coins into the slot to rent a locker and put my bag inside. I remember the meeting I went to months ago, the one where family members of prisoners talked about their loved ones. They mentioned vending machines. I grab my cash and slide it into my back pocket.

With the locker key in my other back pocket, I close the locker and slowly head over to security. An officer scans me with a wand and then sends me through the metal detector. The underwire of my bra makes the scan go off. A female officer has to escort me to a small room behind security. I remove my bra and hand it to her for what I assume is a hands-on inspection. She gives it back and allows me to put it back on.

On this side of security, there’s a solid metal door that’s closed shut. An officer asks to see my paperwork, so I show him. He speaks into a walkie-talkie, and suddenly, the door slides open. It moves slowly as if dragging its weight across the floor. I walk inside into a narrow hallway with a closed metal gate in front of me.

The door closes. It’s just me in the dark hallway, the light from outside the gate at the end the only light in the place. I walk toward it and look around. Suddenly, the gate slides open with the same dragging pace as the other door.

I step outside, and now, I’m in a courtyard of sorts. Barbed wire is on the high fences around me. In front is a building with sliding doors. I don’t know why, but I pick up the pace, not liking the feeling of being in the courtyard. When I’m at the sliding doors, they open up, and I’m in another room with a security desk and an occupier. He asks for my paperwork, and I show him. This time, I don’t get it back.