When the Night is Over (Blackbird Series Book 1) Read online

Her friend may be shitfaced, but Charlotte is clear-eyed and lucid. Hmm. She’s got her hands full because unless she drove here herself, no one inside is fit to take them home. And she’s a ways from home. Has to make it all the way over to the right side of the tracks. Boo freaking hoo.

  Aw, shit. I can’t seem to move. I’m just standing in place, flipping my key chain around my index finger, listening to her friend make these disgusting belching puke noises.

  I cave. “Do you need me to help get her home?”

  As her friend flops down on the bottom step and says, “Yeah, I gotta get home,” Charlotte squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head.

  “I’m fine to drive. I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”

  The hurt look she delivers when she shakes her head again makes me feel like a failure, like I’ve wounded her. I swallow the feeling down and shake it off. I don’t need this. “Suit yourself.”

  Her voice is so small I can barely make out the words when she says, “It’s just…I already called for a ride.” I turn at that and she cracks a sad half-smile. “But thank you.”

  I imagine the expression I return is the same.

  I look for Charlotte the next morning but she’s missing in action. And that bum Rudy Wallace is practically pacing in front of the diner by the time Sunday afternoon rolls around and there’s still no sign of her.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte

  It’s the most awkward family reunion imaginable. I think on it for the better part of an hour, but can’t remember how long it’s been since the four of us were in one room together.

  I’m the only one who comes to see her. My father and brother have gone on with their lives. They act as if she died years ago and I used to hate them for it. I believed in miracles, and I could prove I still held on to hope by sitting vigil at her bedside, combing her hair and painting her nails.

  I used to talk to her. I’d tell her what was going on in my life, ask her opinion when I had a problem. Or I’d ask her questions about our family, things I couldn’t sort out on my own. All the while I knew it was pointless. She has no answers for me.

  So I come less frequently now—once a month at best since I started high school. Most of the nurses are really nice, but one or two of them, with their false smiles and cheery comments—Your momma’s going to be so happy to have some company today!—they make me feel ashamed for the way I’ve been neglecting her. During my last visit I encountered one of those nurses. She passed a seemingly harmless remark about how much I’d grown, that she hardly recognized me. But it was her tone, the way she said it. She might as well have told me I’m no more than a stranger to my own mother because I don’t care enough to come see her regularly. God, it burned. And she had no right. That lady doesn’t know what it’s like to pine for the kind of mother every other teenage girl has, only to sit here and stare at a corpse that refuses to die.

  On that very day I decided to let my father and brother off the hook, realizing we all handle tragedy and grief in our own way. I was surely no better than them.

  That last visit took place on my birthday. I wanted to show her my car keys, or maybe I just wanted to sit with someone on my special day. I definitely wanted something more than the casual toss of keys on the table and the Happy birthday, kid my father threw my way before heading off to work. After leaving the nursing home that afternoon, I went home and ate a pint of chocolate ice cream while binge-watching some ridiculous reality show where spoiled, obnoxious kids plan their sweet sixteen celebrations for the better part of a year. It’s not like I wanted some over the top party where I changed my outfit three times and had a famous rapper performing just for me—hell no, I’d hate that. I’d have been satisfied with blowing out some candles on a store-bought cake.

  Today we’re all gathered here because my mother has pneumonia. My father got a call sometime last night, letting him know his wife might not have much time left. He was probably in bed with his secretary when he answered the call.

  I cannot bring myself to step foot inside the dealership now, not since my father started dating this one. Liza is only a few years older than my brother. She dresses in tight clothes, dons a full face of makeup every day, and wears the gaudy jewelry my father has gifted her from my mother’s jewelry box. I wanted to scream and rage the first time I saw a gold bracelet of my mother’s on her wrist. It looked so wrong. It is wrong. But I don’t do that. I’m quiet, I’m obedient, I don’t rock the boat. Instead, I went home and sifted through all my mother’s belongings, taking anything that held sentimental value. I can’t believe Liza would want anything of hers anyway. If he proposes, would she want that engagement ring? I left it in the jewelry box, sure in the knowledge that it would curse my union if I ever did decide to go and get married someday.

  He’s a tall man, my father, and he’s imposing, but he looks like a balding, chubby, fawning fool standing next to her. And she’s ridiculous—laughs at everything he says. When she’s not batting her eyelashes at my father, she’s staring at her gel manicured nails as if they hold the secrets of the universe.

  There is one thing that I do have to thank Liza for. Her presence saves me from having to work alongside my father and brother. The one time Dad suggested I work at the dealership answering phones, I shot back in a sweet as sugar tone, “No thanks, Liza seems to have everything you need covered.” That was the end of that. Maybe it was a cheap shot, but sometimes I believe I’m doing him a service. He needs a reminder, someone to tell him he’s wrong to dishonor my mother.

  The air in the room is stale, and the only sound echoing off the walls is the wet, sucking noises my mother makes as she struggles to take in air. My mother was intubated, but they removed the tube earlier this morning. Her eyes are closed. Her chest rises and falls. Lying in that bed, so thin you can practically see the bones beneath the skin of her forearms and fingers, I’ve never seen her look so fragile.

  My father has been sitting in the same chair for hours, staring out the window. My brother, meanwhile, is in constant motion. He’s walking in and out of the room, pacing, making phone calls, distracting himself. They’re both waiting for the doctor to make his rounds and give us some news, perhaps a timeline. Maybe he’ll tell my father he can go home. He wants someone official to let him off the hook. Both of them are itching to get out of here. Can I really blame them?

  I busy myself, rubbing cream into her hands and feet. I look like the dutiful daughter right now, but I’m no better than they are. I’m just going through the motions. I may be physically tending to my dying mother, but my mind is entirely elsewhere.

  Daisy’s parents were pissed when Wes brought us to their doorstep, having driven us home in a squad car. I’ve never seen them mad—not ever. I imagine Daisy isn’t having a very pleasant weekend, but it serves her right. The girl took every shot handed her way. I couldn’t even get Daisy’s attention when I was ready to leave. No, I had to wait until she stumbled outside and spewed chunks. Then I had to call Wes when I realized we had no way to get home. He was the last person I wanted to call but my options were limited. My father was typically occupied with Liza on Friday nights, and I would have walked the five miles home with Daisy on my back in a downpour before calling my brother for help. And Wes was good about the whole thing—better than good. There was no lecture, and when I asked, he looked at me as if I’d grown an extra head when he assured me he would never tell my brother. It put me at ease, erased the concerns I still had over that weird goodnight kiss he laid on me last weekend. He was in good cop, concerned friend mode last night, and I was grateful.

  At least Daisy had fun. I was too fixated on Simon to enjoy myself. And if she wasn’t all giggly and talking too loud at the party, I would have pointed out to her that Simon does not scowl all the time. No, I was watching him, watching him smile with lazy indifference and ooze charm when he was surrounded by his people.

  It’s weird. He doesn’t play sports but he’s friends with all the athletes. The girls flock to
him even though he doesn’t seem like the type to pursue them in return. The stoners are his buddies and I know focus and determination when I see it—he doesn’t partake on a regular basis. He barely even drank from the red cup in his hand.

  Simon is an enigma. He’s at the center of everything but on the fringe at the same time. Everyone is his friend but there’s something about him that screams loner. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to him. He keeps people at arm’s length, like me, and I want to know why.

  Is he looking for me at the diner this morning?

  I hope so.

  When the doctor enters the room, the three of us stand in unison like we’re performing some bizarre synchronized routine. We look ridiculous. Collectively we’re guilty, sad, angry and tired. The verdict? She may not last the night. My father nods his head, half listening as the doctor drones on, describing her condition in detail.

  I know what he’s thinking. We’ve been down this road before, been told she’s on death’s doorstep only to bear witness, mystified and bewildered, as she makes a—well, you can’t really call it a recovery when you’re in a vegetative state. Anyway, the last time this happened was over two years ago. Told the end was imminent, my father went ahead and contacted the funeral home to make arrangements. And I see it in his eyes now, he’s not convinced. He nods his head, tells the doctor to contact him if her condition worsens, blah, blah, blah. He wants to go home. So does my brother.

  I want to stay, though. Something is telling me this is the end.

  “You sure, honey?”

  Honey. The endearment and the tenderness in his voice are so foreign to me that my eyes mist. I swallow the emotion down. “Yeah, Dad, you guys go. There’s no point in all of us sitting here. I’m just gonna hang out.”

  “All right.” He’s got his coat on in seconds flat. “I’ll ride with Christian.” Handing me his car keys, he leans down and kisses my forehead as I fight back the urge to weep. “You call me if you need me.”

  Chapter Five

  Simon

  Her mother is dead.

  Her mother? I sift through my memories of those days, but can’t picture a woman sitting behind that smug piece of shit in the courtroom. I always assumed he didn’t have a mother, as only someone who’d never experienced a mother’s love could carry himself the way he did.

  Christian Mason sat there for all two days of his sham trial, dressed in a tailored suit next to his slick attorney, smirking like the conceited, entitled asshole that he is. His father sat behind him, first row in the gallery. He never looked our way. We sat first row too, right behind the assistant district attorney who interviewed one witness after another without a trace of enthusiasm—none whatsoever. It was clear that each and every person who took the stand was in the Masons’ back pocket. No one saw anything. Couldn’t be certain who it was they saw swinging the bat. Even the woman who’d dialed 911 as they were beating my brother to a bloody pulp was suddenly plagued by amnesia. And the prosecutor asked no hard questions. There was nothing akin to an interrogation and he didn’t question anyone’s integrity. It was nothing like those Law and Order reruns I used to watch, I’ll tell you that.

  I heard about it on Tuesday, listening in as Sienna and the girls discussed taking up a collection to send flowers. The funeral was the next morning and they were asking permission from the principal to attend.

  For a split second I was relieved to hear the news. I’d nearly driven by her house after school on Monday, out of my head with worry. Two days of not showing up to the diner and then no sign of her at school. I looked out for her in the morning and then took a casual stroll through the cafeteria during her lunch period. I didn’t see her or her friend. I was beating myself up for the way I acted on Friday night. Maybe if I’d been a little nicer she would have accepted my offer for a ride home. But I was being stupid. In this county, two rich girls gone missing would’ve been top news. Search parties would have been combing the foothills by now and they would have dragged our stretch of the Monongahela River.

  Over the past three days I’ve had plenty of time to reflect. I’ve reluctantly admitted to myself that I feel something for this girl. In the end, though, none of it matters. Even if she does have an interest in me—and there’s really not so much as one iota of evidence to prove that theory—nothing will come of it. I’m leaving, that’s certain, and her family’s hatred for me and mine is matched only by my hatred for them. Hell, even if I did want to offer her my condolences, there’s no way I’d be welcome within a mile of that church tomorrow.

  And I have other things to focus on.

  Last week I nailed down my scholarship to Northwestern. With the help of Mr. Vargas, my honors program advisor, I’d put together a kick-ass application. His connections also got me an interview with a wealthy benefactor, a lawyer who seemed sympathetic to my plight and impressed with my drive to improve the lives of others.

  I wasn’t looking to pimp out my brother’s life story for my own benefit, but in a way I suppose I had done just that. But it was necessary, a means to an end. Something clicked the day I sat in that courtroom and heard the judge proclaim there was no evidence to proceed with a trial for Christian Mason. That old saying, Money talks, shit walks? Truer words were never spoken. I believed Christian could have bashed my brother’s skull in right then and there, right in front of the jury box, and he still wouldn’t have been convicted. While not one year later, my brother would stand trial and be convicted for possession with intent to distribute, the very same painkillers he was prescribed and became addicted to after he was nearly killed at the hands of the Masons.

  With his court appointed attorney, he sat there and listened to his doomed fate in a threadbare second-hand suit that hung off his thin, wasted frame. So fucking unfair.

  The only thing that gives me peace is to believe that someday I’ll be sitting next to someone wrongly accused, fighting on their behalf. Or even better, that I’ll be wearing the black robe and pounding the gavel, making sure people like the Masons don’t get a free pass just because they have money and privilege on their side.

  Charlotte seems like a sweet girl despite her last name, and I feel bad knowing she’s hurting, I guess, but she’ll survive. And like I said, I have more important things to worry about.

  The drive over to Somerset takes just under an hour. My mother and I make the trip once a month. Occasionally my mother’s boyfriend comes along for the ride, but typically it’s just the two of us. It used to be a sad occasion, these monthly visits, but like everything else in this life, good and bad, you adapt.

  He got five years when he was convicted. If he would have just towed the line, Timmy probably would have been out by now, but drugs are as readily available inside prison as they are out here. He had a year tacked onto his sentence for dealing inside, and now he’ll be serving that full term, screwing himself out of any chance for an early parole.

  Three down, three to go.

  He’s been telling us he’s clean, and for the past few months, he looks it. Even earned his GED and started taking community college classes this year, so I’m hopeful.

  “You’re looking good, little brother.”

  “So are you, Timmy. How’s it going?”

  I don’t say it, but looking around the visiting room, I see an increased guard presence, and the people, both the inmates and their visitors, are more street than I’ve noticed in the past. I mean, this is a prison, those of us who have loved ones in here don’t typically hail from the upper echelons of society and all, but still, I don’t like the energy coming off some of these people.

  “Keeping my head low, staying out of trouble.” Timmy looks up to see my mother still busy getting snacks from the vending machine before continuing. “As you’ve noticed, the clientele is changing around here.”

  “Yeah, and what’s with all the guards? Gotta be twice as many keeping watch in here than usual.”

  “Getting the overflow from Lewisburg and those boys don’t play. A lo
t more gang bullshit in here now. The guards are so tight lately, they’ll shackle you and throw you in solitary just for looking at them sideways.”

  “Assholes.”

  “I don’t know, Simon,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re just people, people who took a real shit job…Maybe the worst job on the planet. They’re taking care of their families, trying to do right, I guess. And some of the bullshit they have to deal with in here?” He offers me a tired smile. “It’d turn the Dalai Lama into a hateful man.”

  My mother approaches, her hands full with cans of soda and these cheese cracker snacks that my brother used to eat when he lived at home. She gets them every time we’re here. Before she sits, I ask him, “So you’re just keeping your head down?”

  “Yeah. I’m working in the library now and spending my free time doing those online classes.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” my mother says as she slides a soda and the snacks across the table towards him.

  He smiles at my mother and shakes his head, because really? Only a mother could tell a convicted felon she’s proud of him while sitting in the visiting room of a correctional facility.

  “Yes, Timmy, I am. You’re turning it around for yourself…Taking classes, mentoring the boys who are trying to get their GEDs.”

  He shrugs. “Well I’m doing it out of spite. It makes me feel better to know I’ll be getting my college degree thanks to the generosity of the Pennsylvania Corrections Bureau.”

  “What are you majoring in?”

  Sometimes things are so sad that I smile at the irony of it all. Here’s my mother, talking like Timmy’s heading off to freshman orientation on the grounds of some leafy, idyllic campus, while every time I look up, I take in his fellow inmates, some of whom look like jacked-up soulless killing machines.

  “Earth to Simon,” Timmy says as he snaps his fingers in front of my face.