Lucky(24)

“You love her a little bit, don’t you?” she asked. “Darla? The way she loves you?”

He looked sad when he said, “No. I can’t. You get it, don’t you, the way it feels with a mark?” Lucky refused to nod. “I feel disdain for her. For being so trusting. When a person falls for something like this, hook, line, and sinker—well, I could never, ever love someone like that. You get it, Lucky.”

“No.”

Except she did. She felt the same way about Darla and sometimes, in dark, upsetting moments, she even felt that way about Steph, wanted to shake her and say, Hello, aren’t you paying attention? Why are you just buying all this?

“You could go, and I could stay,” she whispered. “You could just… take off.”

He switched on a lamp, and she could see his face. He looked sad, and she felt guilty for suggesting they part ways. “Kiddo. I understand how badly you want this. But do you really think she would treat you the same if I just took off? She’d look at you and think of me.”

“Never mind. Forget it.”

“You and me, we need each other. You know that.”

Lucky swallowed hard. But the lump in her throat now felt permanent. What if lies wedged themselves inside you and turned into something ugly? What if she really did get sick? “I do know that,” she said. “But I just want a year. One whole year in a single place, being Andi. And then we can go.”

“The longer we stay, the harder it will be.”

“I don’t care,” Lucky said. “I don’t see how it could be any harder than it already is. Every day, I wonder if you’re going to tell me it’s time. I need an end date, and I need it to be a long enough time that I at least feel… that I at least feel like this really happened.”

During his long silence, she was sure he was thinking of a million different excuses, all of the explanations airtight and impossible to argue with. But instead he said, “All right, leave it with me. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Lucky said, and she turned and left the room feeling, for the first time in her life, like she’d won the lottery—and it wasn’t going to be enough to sustain her.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Lucky stood still, arms out, as the guard patted her down just inside the tall barbed-wire gate of San Quentin State Prison. The lottery ticket was tucked into her wallet, perfectly innocent.

“All right, that way,” the guard said when he was done, and Lucky moved forward with the rest of the crowd. She followed the gravel path inside and was soon in a reception area where she was to present her ID for a second time. She was Sarah Armstrong, John Armstrong’s niece. She lived in San Francisco, worked at a bank. She had been using this ID to visit her father for the past decade. He had served less than half his sentence so far.

The guard glanced at the driver’s license, then back up at Lucky. “Haircut?” she asked. Lucky nodded. “He has another visitor. She’s just gone in. So you’ll have to wait in the area outside the visiting room until it’s your turn.”

Lucky sat down in a cracked plastic chair. Who was visiting her father? She clenched her jaw with frustration as the minutes ticked past.

Nearly an hour later, a woman emerged from the visiting room. It had been nine years since Lucky had last seen her. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a low, stubby ponytail, shaved underneath. She was wearing loose jeans and a tank top, and work boots with scuffed toes. Marisol Reyes. One of her father’s former “business partners” from the grift that had landed him in prison.

“Lucky?”

She stood. “What’s up? Recruiting John for another risky job, if he ever gets out? Are you even allowed to be here, Reyes?”

“My parole doesn’t restrict prison visits. And no, of course I’m not recruiting him.” She was reaching into her pocket.

The guard stepped forward and said, “Hey,” as she held up a rectangle of cardstock.

“Just giving her my business card,” Reyes said. The guard approached and examined it before handing it to Lucky and returning to the other side of the room. Marisol Reyes, it read. Driver San Diego Third-Strikers Foundation.

“What is this?”

“It’s the organization I work for now. A nonprofit—”

“Are you serious, Reyes?”

At least Reyes had the good grace to flush and look away. “This is legit. It’s a group of lawyers who help third-strikers—like your dad—get released from prison. I’m a driver, like the card says. I pick people up if the lawyers are successful in getting them out, help get them identification, clothes, a meal, leads on places to live—”

“And maybe recruit them? For your so-called charity? Maybe pawn them off on Priscilla? You should be ashamed—”

“I don’t work for Priscilla anymore. You know how badly I always wanted to get away from her. But listen, we don’t have time to discuss any of that. Your dad is struggling.” Reyes glanced at the clock behind them. “You should get in there.”

“Struggling how?”

“Forgetting things. A lot of things. Just call me, okay? To talk about your dad, but…” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I saw you on TV. And I promised your dad I’d always look out for you. Call me.”