Read an Excerpt
Sister Dear
By Laura McNeill Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2016 Laura McNeill
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7180-3093-3
CHAPTER 1
ALLIE
2016
In her final minutes as an inmate at Arrendale State Prison, Allie Marshall's body pulsed with tension. Eyes averted, managing any movements with robotic precision, she remained on guard.
Only moments to go.
A sliver of time. Not even a quarter hour. An unremarkable measurement, when held up against the billion other moments in any person's natural life. But after a decade inside, those last twelve minutes seemed the longest span in all of eternity.
To her right, rows of monitors blinked and recorded everything across the sprawling campus in Habersham County. Though the angles differed, the subject never changed: women in identical tan-collared shirts and shapeless pants. Inmates on work detail, in the cafeteria, in dormitories.
A corrections officer sat nearby, her pale blue eyes scanning the screens. To this worker, to all of them, Allie was GDC ID, followed by ten numbers. Nothing more. Inside the thick metal bars, Allie's life was suspended, a delicate fossil in amber.
Until now. Ten more minutes.
Her reflection stared back, unblinking, in the shatterproof glass window near the door. Green eyes flecked with gold, dark-blonde hair tucked in a loose ponytail, barely visible brackets at the corners of her lips.
Maybe, Allie thought, she'd forgotten how to smile and laugh. Happiness seemed unreachable, as if the feeling itself existed on the summit of an ice-tipped mountain shrouded by storm clouds. Indeed, the rush of pure, unadulterated joy belonged only to those with freedom. Allie's memories of it — her daughter's birth, Caroline's first smile, first steps — were fleeting and distant.
Instead, the perpetual motion of prison, the waking, sleeping, and sameness, all blended together, like a silent black-and-white movie on a continuous loop.
Until the news of her parole.
At first, the concept of liberty seemed impossible — a hand trying to catch and hold vapor. The judge had sentenced Allie to sixteen years, and she fully anticipated serving each and every one of them. She didn't believe she'd be granted an early release — she couldn't — until she stepped beyond the walls and barbed wire and chain-link fence, barriers that kept her from everyone and everything she'd ever loved.
Allie focused on breathing, stretching her lungs, exhaling to slow her pulse. Her own belongings, a decade old, lay nearby. Keys that wouldn't open doors. A watch with a dead battery. A light khaki jacket with a photo of then five-year-old Caroline tucked in the pocket, one pair of broken-in Levis, and a white cotton shirt. Gingerly, with her fingertips, she reached for the clothing, then gripped the bundle tight to her chest.
A second guard motioned for Allie to change quickly in a holding room. With the door shut, she pulled the shapeless prison garb over her head and picked up the shirt. The material, cool and light, brushed against her skin like gauze. Allie shivered.
For ten years, all she'd known was the rasp of her standard-issue navy jacket, the scrape of her worn white tennis shoes along the sidewalk.
Back in Brunswick, Allie had filled her closet with easy summer shifts and crisp linen pants. Now her body was different too — the soft curves had dissolved, leaving lean muscle behind. The jeans hung loosely around her waist and hips. The top billowed out in waves from her shoulders.
Nothing would fit, she reminded herself. Not much in her past life would.
And that was all right.
When she walked out of Lee Arrendale State Prison, home to thousands of female inmates, Allie didn't want reminders. No indigo tattoo inked down her back or neck. No numbers or symbols etched into her arms or fingers. The only external validation of time served was a faint scar that traced her eyebrow.
The real proof of her internment lay underneath it all. Below the seashell white of Allie's skin, hidden in blood, tendons, and muscle, the experience indelibly marked on her soul. An imprint made by incident, mistake, and tragedy.
Evidence, and lack of it.
"I'm innocent," she'd insisted to everyone who would listen. Her lawyers fought hard, rallied a few times, but in the end, the jury convicted her. Voluntary manslaughter.
A year later, Allie's appeal failed. Then money ran out. Her father turned his attention back to his veterinary practice after his cardiologist warned the stress of another trial might kill him. Her mother did her best to minimize worry while Emma, her tempestuous and fun-loving sister, assumed the role of doting aunt and guardian to Caroline.
And there was Ben. Sweet, thoughtful Ben. The man who'd wanted to marry her, who said he would love her always. Even after her arrest, he'd promised to wait for her if the worst happened. Allie couldn't live with herself if he'd sacrificed everything — his rising political career, his reputation, and his life for a decade or more. She'd broken it off, knowing it would wound him terribly. When he'd finally left, when she saw him for the last time, it was as if the very core of her being had been torn away, leaving a vast, gaping emptiness she couldn't fill, despite how hard she tried. Allie closed her eyes. She'd convinced herself it was the logical thing, what made sense. She had done her best to forget him. It hadn't worked in the least.
The days and months blurred. Entire seasons dissolved, shapeless and gray, like the ink of fine calligraphy smeared by the rain.
The squawk of the prison intercom barely registered in Allie's brain. Sharp insults and threats were routine, eruptions of violence expected. Even along the brown scrub grass and wooden benches of the prison yard, there was no escape. Allie always tried to disappear — pressing her body close to the concrete walls, becoming a chameleon against the barren landscape.
The women in Arrendale weren't afraid of punishment; most had nothing left. Some bonded with other inmates for favors; others paid for protection with cigarettes, food, and stamps. For those prisoners who had lost everything, inmates with little hope of parole, life was almost unthinkable.
Clutching her hands in her lap to keep from shaking, Allie watched as a woman collapsed in the cafeteria, stabbed in the jugular with a plastic fork. The next week, a fellow inmate in her dormitory was choked to death, purple fingerprints visible on the woman's throat when the guards discovered her body. Allie was haunted with grief for weeks after a young girl, only four years older than Caroline, tried to hang herself with a scrap of fabric.
Despite it all, despite the desperation that seemed to permeate the very air she breathed, Allie had survived.
In another few minutes, her younger sister, Emma, would arrive, as bus service didn't run from Alto to Brunswick. Tomorrow she'd meet her parole officer at noon. And like every parolee, she would receive a check, courtesy of the Georgia Department of Corrections, enough to buy shampoo, a bar of soap, and a comb for her hair.
Allie blinked up at the clock, almost afraid the time might start going backward. She forced her eyes away, squeezed them shut. If she tried hard enough, her mind formed a picture of her grown daughter's face. In her daydreams, she'd imagined their reunion a million times, rehearsed every possible scenario. She worried about the right words to say, how to act, and whether it was all right to cry. The enormity of it was impossible to contain, like holding back the ocean with a single fingertip.
All that mattered now was seeing Caroline.
The buzzer sounded long and loud; its vibration shook the floor. The burly guard sighed and lumbered to her boot-clad feet. She stood inches from Allie's shoulder, her breath hot and rank from a half-eaten roast beef sandwich.
Locks clicked and keys rattled. The barrier, with its heavy bars, groaned under its own weight. An inch at a time, the metal gate heaved open. Soon, there would be nothing but empty space standing between Allie and the rest of the world.
She felt a nudge.
In that moment, Allie heard four words, precious and sweet.
"You're free to go."
CHAPTER 2
ALLIE
2016
As the gate closed behind her, Allie blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bright blue midday sky. Heat rose in waves off the blacktop. Sunlight reflected from windows along the campus.
Standing outside the gates of Lee Arrendale was surreal. Allie thought about running, maybe all of the way to Brunswick. She would sprint until her lungs burst and her heart exploded, feeling the rush of wind on her cheeks, putting miles between her and the prison.
Of course, she didn't have to run. Her sister stood there, waiting. Lithe and slender, dark hair catching in the breeze, wrapped in a white dress that hugged her curves, Emma stood out against Arrendale's red clay and gravel.
"Finally!" Her sister opened her arms to offer an awkward embrace. As Emma pulled her closer, Allie caught a whiff of coconut, of the ocean and sun. She smelled like home. "Let's get out of here," Emma said, pulling back with a lopsided smile. "This place gives me the creeps."
Allie sucked in a breath of air. After ten years of following orders, standing at attention, and being counted, the pure silence of the open road sounded like a chorus of angels from heaven. There were no overhead announcements, no inmate complaints, and no scrape of shoes along cement. Just the late model BMW's wheels on asphalt, the steady whoosh of air from bumper to taillight, and the heat through the window warming her arm and hand.
Allie glanced over at her sister. Emma had been the constant in the last decade, her only regular visitor. Morgan Hicks, her best friend, had vanished along with everyone else the moment the police announced the arrest.
Her prison sentence changed everyone. Even living outside the imposing walls and curling barbed wire, Emma morphed into someone else. Someone reliable. Responsible. Allie's rock.
Gone was the boy-crazy teenager who'd sneak out on school nights and drink Boone's Farm on the beach. The girl who took double dares and learned to surf at fourteen. The girl who hadn't ever hesitated to flirt with men twice her age.
Allie had been the safe one, the rule-follower; her sister, the rogue. But every month since her incarceration, Emma drove from Brunswick on Highway 95 to Savannah, then made the remaining trek to Alto. No matter how stilted or strange the visit, Allie was grateful that Emma made the effort. The twelve-hour round-trip took planning, not to mention the cost of an overnight stay.
At first, Allie's parents, Lily and Paul, came on holidays and brought Caroline, who seemed to sprout an inch every few months. The visits, short and uncomfortable, became intolerable for her parents when her daughter developed an uncontrollable phobia to prisons and chain-link fencing. Caroline broke out in hives, the skin on her neck and face getting blotchy and red. According to her mother, she would complain of stomach pain — piercing, stabbing agony — in the hours before a scheduled drive.
It had hurt, but Caroline's aversion didn't surprise anyone. The prison, even on visitation days, was a loud and frightening place. The population, restless and violent, often swelled to collective anger, especially in the summer's heat. Lockdowns were frequent. Shouts reverberated through the walls. Days were filled with the clank of metal on metal, locks clicking into place, the grind of mechanized gates.
When they drove by the turnoff to Commerce, Allie shuddered and turned, tucking her meager belongings behind the seat. The wheels hit a bump in the road and rumbled over deep ruts. The plastic crinkled, then settled into place.
Allie glanced down at her sister's purse, wedged between them. The designer leather satchel, packed full, held Emma's cell phone, an embossed address book, and lipstick. An empty Starbucks mug sat in the cup holder next to an extra pair of Wayfarers.
A long time ago, Allie enjoyed the same indulgences. But for a decade, she had existed without any of it. Maybe, in some ways, she was better off, with all the time in the world to think. She laid her head back and let her gaze drift, absorbing the passing fields, rolling green-and-gold hills, and towering pines.
It was thirty-two miles outside the barbed-wire gates of Arrendale State Prison, in Jackson County, when Allie finally wanted to speak. She wanted to ask about Caroline. She was desperate to know everything, hear every detail. But she swallowed the million questions for just a few moments more, letting the silence envelop the space. Breathe, Allie told herself.
"Like the car?" Emma asked finally, glancing in the rearview mirror. "It's a few years old — snapped it up after one of my friends told me it was sitting on the lot outside town." She winked. "A bit of a step up, don't you think?"
Allie swallowed back the sand-dry roughness in her throat. "Definitely." She tried to smile. "Where's the Chevelle?" Allie asked, thinking back to her sister's first car, a sleek throwback to the seventies. She ran a hand along the seat, supple and firm, thinking back to the shiny vinyl interior of the old vehicle. "I miss it."
"Junkyard." Emma laughed at the comment, pursing her glossed lips into a wry bow.
"Too bad." Allie fiddled with the edge of her shirt. Her own daughter was old enough for a learner's permit. She'd be driving soon, if she wasn't already.
"How is Caroline?" Allie asked, the question bursting from her mouth before she could stop it.
Emma's grip tightened on the wheel. Her sister turned her head slightly, flashing a too-bright smile. "She's doing fine," she said, her voice strained but even. "Everything's really good." But then Emma trained her eyes straight forward, as if she could only see the lines on the empty road ahead. She swallowed, licked her lips, and lifted her chin. "I think Mom and Dad are going to try to bring her by."
Try. It wasn't what Allie wanted to hear, but she had learned to be patient. After ten years inside Arrendale, anticipation, which used to be excruciating, was now a dull ache. She could wait a little longer for Caroline.
After a few minutes, Emma changed the subject, offering details about Caroline's school, a guy named Jake she'd had a crush on this year, the clubs she'd joined. Emma kept talking, filling the space above, in, around, and below, the invisible question hovering in the car between the two of them.
How was Caroline? Really?
Was she okay? Was she safe?
But Allie let her sister talk. She'd waited forever already. They'd be home soon and she would find out for herself.
As with all family matters, Allie knew the truth was complicated — more intricate than a spider's web and just as sticky.
CHAPTER 3
CAROLINE
2016
Caroline believed there was safety in numbers. A circle of friends, like a pride of lions, offered protection and relief from the torture that was high school. The tiled walls, the endless eyes, the scanning and scrutinizing.
Caroline held her breath to slow her racing heartbeat. In her head, she counted back from ten. She began to perspire and wiped a hand across her damp forehead. She wrinkled her nose. Classroom doors yawned open into the hallway, sending out air scented with dry-erase markers and pencil shavings.
The catcalls and gossip floated in streams above her head. Words bounced off lockers, twisting in midair. And words, Caroline knew, could hurt. Words could kill. Not in a take-your-life kind of way, Caroline thought. More like a reputation-bombing, forever-outcast sort of way.
One shot. Aimed right.
Bang. You were dead.
Caroline swallowed back a quiver of worry. She'd seen it happen. When Mansfield Academy's elite zoned in on a particular target, it was all-out war. The victims were random. A nerd with braces. A girl with thick charcoal eyeliner whose clothes always faintly smelled of curry. An awkward freshman unlucky enough to trip over his own Chuck Taylors.
Worst of all, there was no warning. No flashing lights. No danger sign in the road. By a small miracle, Caroline had been saved. In the seventh grade, Madeline Anderson had plucked her from obscurity and drew her into Mansfield Academy's inner circle. Selected Caroline from hundreds of other girls who drove Range Rovers, had trust funds, and spent spring break in the Caribbean. For Maddie, the girl who lived to shock her mother and her Stepford-wife friends, Caroline's family scandal worked perfectly.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sister Dear by Laura McNeill. Copyright © 2016 Laura McNeill. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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