it’s a daydream that keeps me sane, especially when I feel like throwing my hands up at what’s become of my life.
At least I can say I did one part of my job really well. I definitely got into the Crew. I’m all the way up in it. Being framed for murder doesn’t just happen to normal people, so perhaps I should be patting myself on the back for doing that one thing really, really well.
I mean, I would, except I still can’t rid my thoughts of the girl’s picture Detective Reynolds showed me. Knowing her life is gone… That’s just something I can’t take pleasure in.
The bus comes to a stop in front of me, and I climb aboard, dropping the bus money in the slot I’ve earned from doing various housework at the Reformatory. We’re all on a schedule, and as long as we do our share, we’re given twenty bucks a week. The older residents have actual jobs, but they’re still mandated to help out around the house, as well.
Greenlawn Reformatory is a temporary arrangement for everyone who has to stay there. I’m just hoping it’s even more temporary for me, and not because I’m getting my ass carted to prison.
Soon, Finn’s voice reverberates in my head again.
Johnny must’ve run into a snag because I doubt he’d send Finn if he wasn’t sure of the timeline. He knows I’d be going crazy here, me and my anti-Kardashian ass. The only thing that’s ended up in my favor is that the distance learning schooling I’ve been doing is far better than the shithole they call Rawley Heights High, but that doesn’t mean I miss school any less.
The bus vibrates as it runs its normal route through the streets of Haddonfield. The small, mostly industrial town is forty-five minutes away from the Heights, a stipulation of Detective Reynolds. He didn’t want me anywhere near Rawley Heights. His men trail me every now and then. I’m not allowed to leave the county, let alone the state. I’m not even allowed to contact anyone in the Heights. In fact, I don’t have access to a phone since mine was either lost in the accident or taken as evidence. Brawler has the only real phone I worry about, though, and I’m sure he’s keeping it safe for me. The phone I’m allowed to use is in Greenlawn’s living room. Fifteen-minute cap per night, and the house manager parks her ass on the threadbare sofa to listen to everything that’s said. I haven’t used my time yet. The only people I would call are currently off-limits on Detective Reynolds’ orders, and the last thing I would do is call my aunt and uncle to bring them into this mess. Since Reynolds has my fingerprints, he’s most certainly tracing the calls made out of the house.
After ten minutes of motoring through the city, my stop comes into view, so I stand, arching my neck. Today, they hooked me up to some sort of contraption that used electrical stimulation. I preferred it to the massage even though the areas where they hooked the lines up burn like hell. The best part about it was I wasn’t subjected to that douchebag PT guy today, so I’m counting it as a win whether it helps my neck or not.
I reach up, pulling down on the cord to signal my stop. The driver doesn’t need to look up because we’ve been doing this same routine for over a month. He pulls over to the side of the road right in front of a dilapidated, overgrown bus stop with glass that’s milky white from nature’s elements. The driver nods, and I work my way down the steps and start toward the block Greenlawn is situated.
I smooth my hands down over my pockets, checking to make sure my knife is in a good position should I need to use it. My cast is off now, thankfully. I don’t think it’s ready for me to start punching bags, but I sure as fuck will use my fists in self-protection if I need.
In my room at the home, I took my bed off the cinderblocks it was raised up on and have been using the hunks of concrete to keep in shape as much as I can. It was difficult with the cast on, but I haven’t let up now that it’s off. My arm gets sore from time-to-time, but it’s healing nicely. I only hope the whiplash tweak in my neck