Chapter 1 – Gemma
I deserve to be here. That’s what I keep telling myself when things get tough, and today is a tough day. I took a life. I deserve this.
I’m reading the card that arrived in the mail this morning, fighting the wave of emotions that always comes with any contact from the outside world.
“Happy Birthday, honey,” the card reads. “I wish you would let me visit today. Just know that I’m thinking of you. Hang in there. Not long to go now. Love always, Mom.”
I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. Crying is a weakness I can’t afford to show here, so I’ve learned to keep my emotions locked away. It’s the only way to survive.
I appreciate my mother’s words, but they also sting. Not long to go now. It’s bittersweet. Even a day in this place feels like an eternity, and now another year has passed. Another year wasted.
The buzzer sounds with an ear-piercing screech, jolting me out of my bunk. It’s lunchtime at Perryville Prison. I put away the card, rub my eyes, and pull on my navy blue scrubs and white slip-on shoes. The fabric is coarse and worn thin from too many washes. My cellie Tonya is snoring softly on the bottom bunk, and I nudge her awake before I shuffle out into the concrete hallway already swarming with inmates.
I join the throng of women in blue flowing toward the cafeteria, careful to keep my distance and eyes fixed straight ahead. You learn fast in here not to make eye contact unless you’re looking for trouble. The noise builds as we march through the double doors into the massive, high-ceilinged dining hall. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, glinting off the stainless steel tables bolted to the floor in uniform rows.
I grab a red plastic tray from the stack and get in line, inching slowly forward as the kitchen workers, inmates themselves in white aprons and hairnets, slop food onto each tray. Today’s lunch is a cold bologna sandwich, potato chips, beans, a bruised apple, and Bug Juice, the overly sweet red drink that claims to be “fruit punch.” My stomach protests, but I’ve learned to choke this stuff down.
Tray in hand, I scan the cafeteria for a safe place to sit. Perryville is worse than Lumley Max where I spent the last six years before being transferred here a year and a half ago. At least in Lumley, I had the protective walls of my private cell twenty-one hours a day. I only had to deal with other inmates during chow time and rec hour in the yard.
Here in Perryville, a medium–security prison, there’s a lot more “freedom.” Our cells are left unlocked most of the day so we can access the day room with its worn couches and staticky TV. We can sign up for classes and job assignments to earn time off our sentences. But with the additional privileges comes more risk. More time to interact with unpredictable inmates and end up in fights that could send me to the hole or get more time tacked onto my sentence. I’ve seen it happen and I’m determined to keep my head down. I’ve got six weeks left on my ninety-two-month sentence and I’m not going to blow it now.
I finally spot an empty table in the corner, far away from the cackling cluster of Norteñas gang members holding court near the cafeteria entrance. I keep my back to the wall as I sit down, always vigilant. My eyes dart from table to table, marking potential threats. You never really relax in prison.
There’s the cadre of meth heads with their pockmarked faces and jittery fingers drumming the tables, twitching for their next fix. They’re mostly in for drug offenses, burglary, identity theft—the things addicts do to get money for that next hit. I steer clear of them and their drama.
Then there’s the OG lifers, mostly in their forties and fifties, in for violent crimes. They look hard, joyless, their faces etched from decades behind bars. But they keep to themselves unless you cross them. I give them a wide berth.
At the next table over is a group of young women, barely eighteen. The detention officers call them “babies.” They’re pretty, with their long hair and thick eyeliner. They’re giggling and throwing food at each other. They haven’t been in long enough for this place to grind them down.
A tray clatters down across from me and I nearly jump out of my skin before I register it’s just my cellie, Tonya. She grins, flashing the gold front tooth I’ve never asked about.
“Gemma. Damn, girl, you look more uptight than usual today,” Tonya says, digging into her bologna sandwich.
“Just counting down.”
“Eyes on the prize,” she says. “And then what?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” I mutter. “I suppose I’ll have to move in with Mom until I find a job.” The thought alone exhausts me. Not because I don’t want to work, but it’s no secret how hard it is to find a job with a conviction. Especially one as serious as mine.
“Same,” she says. “I’m moving in with my cousin to look after her children while she’s at work and I might look for a job in a coffee shop since I’m a certified barista now.”
“You finished your training? Congratulations.”
“Yeah. Just in time. I figured I’d need something to fall back on.” She regards me. “Are you going back into real estate?”
“No chance. No company would hire me, but I’m hoping to find a job as an electrician.”
Tonya chuckles. “Oh yeah, I forgot you got your degree.”
“Why is that so funny?” I ask, arching a brow at her.
“I don’t know. It’s just…” Tonya looks me up and down. “You look nothing like an electrician. I’d peg you for a beautician with your long hair and flawless skin.”
I shrug. “The course gave me something to do, but again, it’s unlikely someone will hire me, so I might start my own business and hope for the best.”
“You’ll get there,” she says. “We both will.”
Tonya’s been somewhat of a friend to me since I transferred to Perryville, as much as you can have friends in here. More of an ally. Someone to watch your back. We keep each other sane, make sure neither of us catches a disciplinary case that will delay our release. She’s short-timing it too and will be out a few weeks after me.
We eat quickly, talking through mouthfuls. In prison, you learn to devour your food before someone bigger and hungrier comes and takes it from you. Mealtimes are when trouble starts, as the chow hall is one of the few places where rival gang members can get within striking distance of each other. The detention officers patrol the aisles, but things happen fast. Trays start flying, and if you’re not careful, you can catch a blindside blow to the head and wake up in the infirmary.
I keep my head on a swivel as I force the food down. The trick is to look aware without looking scared. Here, fear is like blood in the water; it draws the sharks. You have to armor yourself in a hardened facade, even if you’re quaking inside.
“This is gross,” I say, scraping the last of the beans from my tray when a commotion breaks out across the cafeteria. An alarm blares and a swarm of detention officers sprint toward a heap of flailing limbs and guttural screams on the floor.
Tonya looks up. “What’s going on?” Two women are ripping into each other, blood spattering the white tiles. I can’t make out who they are before the guards wrench them apart and haul them off, still kicking and cursing.
The alarm shuts off and a deafening silence follows. Every eye follows the guards as they march the two prisoners out, each held firmly by an arm. The rest of us keep our eyes down and mechanically continue eating as if nothing happened.
A few minutes later, the guards bark at us to line up and clear out. I bus my tray and take my place in line. I was hopeful when I first got transferred here. I thought things would be better, easier. Now I know there’s no such thing as an easy prison bid. You just trade one set of dangers for another.
Chapter 2 – Lori
The tires crunch on the gravel driveway as I pull up to the farmhouse, dust billowing in my wake. I cut the engine and for a moment, I sit in silence, staring at the property that is now mine.
My friend Charlotte gets out of her car behind me and I follow suit.
“It looks just like I remember, only a bit more weathered. And bigger,” I say, trying to inject some optimism into my voice. “My new home.”
Charlotte peers at the farmhouse through oversize shades, her glossy black ponytail swishing as she cocks her head. “It’s got potential, Lor. A little TLC and this place could be gorgeous.”
“I’m not so sure about the ‘little’ part.” I bite my lip as I study the peeling white paint and sagging porch. When Aunt Maggie left me her farmhouse and orchard in her will, I had visions of living in a quaint, idyllic hideaway. A place to start fresh after leaving my controlling ex and quitting my soul-sucking corporate job. Confronted with the reality, I feel a swell of doubts. I haven’t been here in thirty years, and I’ve clearly romanticized it in my head.
With a fortifying breath, I head to Rosefield Farm with Charlotte on my heel. We follow the overgrown path to the front porch, and I fumble with the unfamiliar keys before finding the one that fits the rusted lock. The door creaks open, revealing a dim interior that smells of dust and neglect.
“Oh…” Charlotte winces as she peers in. “How long has it been empty?”
“A year,” I say. “Aunt Maggie got sick and had to go to a home. She didn’t have kids or close family apart from my mother, so no one’s been here since. I didn’t even know she’d passed away until I got the call a few months ago.”
I step inside, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Faded floral wallpaper peels above the chair rails. A layer of dust coats every surface like a shroud. Charlotte moves past me, her heels clicking decisively as she throws open the heavy brocade curtains, sending dust motes dancing into the sudden flood of light.
“These windows are amazing,” she says, gesturing to the ceiling-height casements that overlook the orchards. “You’ve got a killer view.”
I join her at the window, taking in the neat rows of trees across the landscape, the red rocks of Sedona rising behind them in the distance. It looks like a postcard, but all I can think about is how much work those hundreds of trees must need.
“I don’t know the first thing about growing fruit,” I admit, my voice small. “What if I kill the trees? They’re probably dead already. No one’s been taking care of them.”
Charlotte spins to face me, hands on her hips. “They don’t look dead to me, and you’re not going to kill anything. How hard can it be?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Harder than being an attorney, I’m guessing. At least for me.”
“You hated that job,” Charlotte reminds me. “This is your chance for a totally different life, so just sit back and let nature do its thing.”
I wish I had Charlotte’s breezy confidence. But then, she’s not the one who just staked her entire future on a farm she knows nothing about.
We continue our exploration, moving from room to room. The kitchen looks like a time capsule from the 1970s with its mint-green refrigerator and Formica countertops edged in chrome. I open the oven and a family of mice skitters out, making Charlotte and me yelp and jump back.
“Okay, so it needs some updating,” Charlotte says, warily eyeing the dark recess of the oven.
That’s an understatement. The linoleum floor is gummy with decades of grime. The sink is stained with rust, and I don’t even want to think about what the bathroom looks like.
We drift back into the living room with its hulking stone fireplace. I run my hand along the mantelpiece, raising a layer of dust. Above the mantel, a large painting depicts the farm in its prime—rows of trees heavy with apples, peaches, and pears, and a golden sun hanging low over the hills.
“I was eight last time I visited Aunt Maggie and Uncle Frank. They were so proud of their farm.”
“What happened?” Charlotte asks. “Why did you lose contact?”
“My mom had a fight with Aunt Maggie. It must have been a serious one because she broke off all contact, and with that, I lost contact with them too. I could have visited later, when I was older, but by then, I felt so far removed from them that I never did.” I sigh. “I feel guilty about that now.”
“But they didn’t try to contact you either, right?” Charlotte squeezes my shoulder. “Whatever happened. Maggie wanted you to have the farm, so you must have had a special place in her heart.”
“She didn’t have much choice,” I mumble. “Apart from Mom, she didn’t have any other living family members.” I blow out my cheeks as I tally the repairs—the outdated electrical work, the stained walls, the chipped paint around the windows. Not to mention all the work the orchards likely need. New trees planted, old ones pruned. And what about irrigation? Pest control? Harvesting? My head spins with all the unknowns.
I sink onto the sofa, sending up a puff of mustiness. “I’m in over my head, Char. I thought I’d have enough savings to fix the place up, but this is beyond a cosmetic update. The plumbing, the electric…it’s too much.”
Charlotte plops down beside me, nudging me with her shoulder. “Hey. You’re doing something really brave, you know that?” She looks me square in the eye, her expression earnest. “And you’re not alone in this. I’m here. I’ll help however I can. We’ll rally the troops and throw a painting party. We’ll hit up yard sales for furniture. Poco a poco, right? You’ve got this. And it’s clear you can’t sleep here tonight. Not until we’ve done a thorough clean, so you can stay with me until it’s a little more livable.”
“Thanks, Char. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Let’s hope you never have to find out,” she says, flashing me a cheeky grin. She hops to her feet, offering me her hands. “Now, let’s see what kind of treasures Aunt Maggie left upstairs. I’m feeling vintage chic decor vibes.”
Laughing despite myself, I let her pull me up. She threads her arm through mine as we climb the creaky stairs. The whole house seems to exhale, as if it’s been holding its breath for a long time. I know the feeling.
As I open the curtains in the master bedroom, dust swirls in the slants of light from the grimy dormer windows. The bed is made up and a hairbrush lies on a dressing table. The sight makes me sad, so I turn my attention to the wardrobe where I find Aunt Maggie’s clothes. “It looks like most of her stuff is still here. I think she was expecting to return to the farm.”
“Poor Maggie.” Charlotte flicks through the garments. “She had some nice clothes. You could definitely sell these online.” She puts on a silk dressing gown and strikes a pose. “I’ll be your model.”
“I might have to take you up on that offer,” I say. I sold a ton of stuff when I moved out of my ex’s apartment in Prescott. I wanted to start fresh with as little clutter as possible, but now I’ve inherited ten times more. “Let’s check out the other rooms.” I pull Charlotte along, and she sneezes explosively as we enter another bedroom, the sound muffled by the insulating press of old clothes, stacked paintings, and shrouded furniture. It’s like an antique store exploded in here.
“Looks like Maggie had a hoarding room.” She rubs her hands together. “Let’s get to rummaging!”
For the next hour, we pick through Aunt Maggie’s belongings, unearthing a rusty birdcage, a gilt-edged mirror, a chipped enamel bread box. Charlotte dives into a trunk of clothes, emerging with a faded calico dress and straw sun hat.
“Oh my God, Lor!” She pulls the dress over my tank top and shimmies it over my shorts. “It’s straight out of Little House on the Prairie! This is so your farm–girl aesthetic!” She plops the sun hat on my head at a jaunty angle before stepping back to assess the effect. “Yep, it’s official. Farmer Lori is in the house! Those chickens won’t know what hit ’em!”
“There are no chickens,” I remind her, laughing as I straighten the hat. “It’s a fruit farm, remember? And I think you’re more farm-girl chic than I am.”
She purses her lips. “You know what? I could totally rock the gingham and clogs.”
We dissolve into giggles just as her phone chimes from her back pocket. She wrestles it out and glances at the screen, her grin fading.
“It’s work. Some emergency with the Barton account.” She heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry, Lor. I have to deal with this.”
A pang of guilt twists in my stomach. Here I am, running off to play farmer while Charlotte picks up my slack at the office.
“Hey,” she says, reading my expression. “I’m thrilled to cover for you, and a new guy is starting next week so things should calm down.” She pulls me into a hug that smells of L’Occitane. “You’ve got this,” she murmurs in my ear. “Poco a poco, remember?”
We head back downstairs and out into the afternoon sun. The orchard shimmers in the heat, the leaves on the apple and peach trees trembling like a mirage. Cicadas drone in the brush, and the air smells of baked earth and the slightly fermenting tang of fallen fruit.
Charlotte pauses beside her sleek Audi parked behind my sensible Corolla. Her oversize sunglasses are back in place, but I can still see the concern pinching her brow.
“You sure you’re going to be okay out here today?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I say, glancing at my car that’s packed to the brim. “I’ll unload and drive back and forth to the storage a few times. I want to get that out of the way first.”
“Sure. Well, you have my key, so just let yourself in,” Charlotte chimes before waving me off. “I’ll see you later.”
She drives off and then it’s just me. Just me and rows upon rows of trees and a ramshackle house full of ghosts and dust. I take a deep breath, the hot, dry air searing my lungs. I have no idea what I’m doing. No idea if I can actually pull this off. I left a successful career for an unknown life, and I don’t even know where to start. Poco a poco, I remind myself, and open the trunk to my car.
Chapter 3 – Gemma
The sun beats down mercilessly as Tonya and I walk slow laps around the yard. The recreation area is a stretch of flagstones hemmed in by towering razor-wire fences that glint menacingly in the harsh Arizona light. There’s a handful of metal picnic tables bolted to the ground, their surfaces hot enough to blister skin, and a few withered patches of grass that crunch beneath our feet.
Despite the oppressive heat and the watchful eyes of the guards, I cherish this small slice of outdoor time. After so many years, the bleak yard feels like a gift, a tiny taste of freedom.
Tonya fans herself with her hand, her dark skin gleaming with sweat. “Girl, it’s hotter than Satan’s armpit out here.”
I nod in agreement, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. It’s rare to have a heatwave so early on in the year, and the air shimmers, distorting the figures of the other inmates trudging around the yard.
We keep walking, hugging the perimeter. Yard time is when all the prison politics play out, when scores get settled, deals get done, and pecking orders get reinforced. I’ve seen fights break out in a blink, and although Tonya and I do our best to steer clear, sometimes trouble finds you whether you’re looking for it or not.
Case in point—the new girl, a beefy redhead with sleeve tattoos and a hardened stare, is headed straight for us. She’s been throwing her weight around since she got here last week, trying to assert herself as top dog.
I tense as she approaches, my footsteps faltering. Tonya shoots me a warning look. “Eyes forward. Keep walking.”
But the new girl has other ideas. She veers into our path at the last second, her shoulder slamming into mine with enough force to bruise. I stumble, biting back a yelp of pain.
Tonya catches my arm, steadying me. She glares at the new girl’s retreating back. “Bitch,” she mutters under her breath.
I rub my throbbing shoulder, my heart hammering against my ribs. A part of me wants to whirl around and confront her, to show her I’m not some pushover, but I force myself to keep walking. I can’t afford to catch a case, not now when I’m so close to the door.
“Just ignore her,” I mutter. “We’ll be out soon. She’s not worth it.”
Tonya shakes her head. “Damn straight. I can’t wait to walk freely without bitches like her making me look over my shoulder twenty-four seven.” She sighs. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get out?”
“Hmm…” I smile. “You first.”
A slow grin spreads across Tonya’s face. “Fried chicken,” she says matter-of-factly. “A whole bucket, extra crispy. And then I’m going to find me a man and ride him like a buckin’ bronco.”
I snort with laughter, picturing Tonya tearing into a drumstick, grease dripping down her chin while ogling men. “Food and sex, huh? You’ve thought about this.”
“Of course. Haven’t you?” She waggles her eyebrows. “Hey, a girl’s got needs! Two years is a long time.”
I can’t argue with that. My time inside has felt like an eternity, and the ache of loneliness is a constant companion, as familiar as the scratchy sheets on my bunk.
Tonya nudges me with her elbow. “Your turn. What’s top of your list?”
I tilt my face toward the cloudless sky, squinting against the brutal glare of the sun. “Being outdoors. Like really outdoors, not just this cage. Feeling grass under my bare feet. Watching a sunset.”
“Mm-hmm. And what else?”
“A long, hot shower in a bathroom with a door that locks and my favorite shampoo and shower gel. And no one timing me or yelling at me to hurry up.”
Tonya makes a low sound of agreement. “Amen to that. I’m going to soak in a Jacuzzi till I turn into a prune. I’ve just gotta find me a man who has one,” she jokes.
We walk in silence for a bit, both lost in visions of the luxuries we once took for granted.
Then Tonya gives me a sly look. “You didn’t mention sex. Or dating.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the sky, my jaw tight. “Nah. I think I’m done with all that. Relationships. Love. It’s brought me nothing but trouble.”
“Men can be dicks,” she says.
“So can women.”
Tonya frowns. “What? You’re gay?”
“Yeah. Is that so surprising?” Now that I’m close to getting out, I don’t care if she knows, and I don’t think she’ll tell anyone.
“Kind of. You look so straight. Like I said, I pegged you for a beautician.”
I can feel Tonya’s gaze boring into the side of my face, curious and intrigued. I don’t talk much about my life before Perryville, about what landed me here. Most people assume it was drugs. I’ve never corrected them.
I don’t tell Tonya how I fell for a woman with a smile like the devil and a temper like a volcano. How she could make me feel like the center of the universe one minute and a worthless piece of shit the next. How I thought I could fix her, change her, how I kept forgiving and forgetting, just like my mother used to. Until I became a ticking time bomb of anxiety. I don’t tell her about my mother’s abusive boyfriend, that last night when my anxiety got the better of me and my world blacked out. When I caught him attacking my mother, when I hit him over the head with the first thing in sight. When the world turned red and wet and my future shattered in a single, irrevocable instant. I don’t tell her what I’m capable of.
“I miss pizza too,” I say instead, changing the subject. “And wine.”
“I’m with you on the pizza,” Tonya says. “But I’m done with drinking. Like women for you, alcohol has done me no favors, and I’m going to be a better person. Third time lucky.”
“Third time?” Her comment makes me realize how little we know about each other. I always assumed it was her first time in prison; our conversations have never been that personal until now, until the end was in sight. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot we don’t know about each other. I’ve been around. Done bad stuff. Not bad-bad though,” she corrects herself. “It’s not like I killed anyone.” I flinch, but she doesn’t notice. “Do you think we’ll see each other when we’re out?”
“I hope so,” I say honestly, because Tonya is the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in the past seven years and six months. Before I did what I did, I—a squeaky-clean realtor—would never have exchanged a word with someone like Tonya—a streetwise serial offender. But in here, in the confines of these concrete walls, we’re all the same. Names reduced to numbers etched on uniforms. The lives we once led, the identities we claimed, stripped away like layers of weathered paint.
I always believed I was different. I navigated a world of manicured lawns and polite chitchat, my growing pain and anxiety hidden beneath a smile. I looked at the faces of the condemned on the evening news and thought, That could never be me.
But I’m no different. Prison has a way of distilling us down to our rawest elements. Here, there is no pretense, no artifice. The labels that defined us on the outside—mother, daughter, wife, criminal—fade away, leaving only the essential truth of our humanity.
“How about ice cream?” Tonya asks, unaware of my mental reflection. “We could meet up and get ice cream together. What’s your favorite flavor?”
Before I can respond, a sharp whistle cuts through the shimmering air. “Yard time’s over, ladies! Line up for count!”
Tonya and I exchange a rueful look before falling into line with the other inmates. As we wait to be ushered back into the bowels of Perryville, I stare out at the sky over the razor wire.
I’ll walk out of here soon. I’ll step into the blinding Arizona sun a free woman. But a part of me will always be imprisoned by the choices that brought me here. By the things I’ve done that I can never undo.
The heavy metal door clangs shut behind us as we shuffle back inside, and the AC hits my sweat-slicked skin, raising goose bumps on my arms. My armpits and back are sweaty, and my shrubs will smell as soon as the synthetic fabric dries. I’m dying for a shower but I have to wait another four hours to scrub off the remnants of the day so I can feel clean again. A deeper part of me knows better, though. Knows that some stains never come out, no matter how hard you scrub.
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Lise Gold 