Chapter 10

As I trudgeup the sandy path back up to the house, I listen to the message the jail left on my voicemail. It’s your standard message, “This message is regarding James Chandler. Please call us back at…”

So I call them back, and I’m immediately dumped into the automated menu from hell. Press one. Press three. Type in the inmate’s number, which I do. I memorized it months ago. By the time I’m placed on hold, I’m walking through the back door of Rush House, calling Lucas’ name.

“Lucas, where the fuck are you?”

He could be upstairs in his room, but I head to the living room. A bunch of people are there, all looking at me with alarm and curiosity.

“Where is Lucas?” I bark.

Someone points to the study, and I head in that direction, storming down the hall. Inside the study, Jackson and Lucas are sitting at the card table, talking intently. They both look at me when I walk in, and Lucas stands up.

I pull the phone away from my ear. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Have you talked to the jail? They said they left you a message,” Lucas says.

I hold my phone up, which is blaring horrendous hold music at ten times the acceptable volume. “They didn’t say anything in the message, just that I needed to call them. What’d they say to you?”

Lucas glances at Jackson, then shrugs. “They couldn’t really tell me much, due to privacy or some shit, but I got the vibe something has happened with James. The lady on the phone mentioned him being sent to medical.”

Shit.

I tilt my head back and pinch the bridge of my nose. This has always been my fear—something happening to James in jail. There are any number of violent guys in the same pod as James, and there’s just no telling what will set someone off. Just stepping inside someone else’s cell without explicit permission can earn you a severe beating. So there’s no telling what could have happened to land James in medical.

“What are you going to do?” Jackson asks.

I drop my head and glance down at my phone. I’m still on hold. “Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice. I’m driving up there.”

Jackson stands up and pulls his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll drive.”

“I’m going, too,” Lucas says.

It’s nice to know my brothers are behind me. That I’m not in this shit alone. “You’re names aren’t on the visitor list,” I point out.

After James got arrested, he was adamant that I be his only visitor. He wouldn’t even let our mom see him. He never said why, but I always got the vibe that he just didn’t want people seeing him in a place like that.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jackson says, already heading toward the door. “We’ll wait outside. Let’s go.”

“Where’s Christian?” I ask as we wend our way through the house to the back, where Jackson’s car is parked.

“Probably up some chick’s skirt somewhere,” Lucas says, looking down at his phone as he walks. That’s some serious skill. “I’m texting him to tell him what’s going on. His dumb ass can hold down the fort.”

We drive the four hours to Northern California in near silence. I did finally talk to someone at the jail, but they were less than helpful, telling me to call yet another number, where again, I was put on hold. After about an hour, I just gave up, figuring I’d be there in person soon anyway.

When we pull up to the jail, Lucas slaps me on the shoulder from the back seat. “We’ll be here, man.”

“Let us know what’s going on,” Jackson says, worry in his eyes. Jackson is usually so stoic, that seeing any emotion in him is rare. And frightening. It means shit must have really gone sideways.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping out. My stomach is in knots as I approach the building, then head inside and walk up to the reception desk. “I’m Roman Rush,” I say. “Next of kin for James Chandler. The jail called and said something about him being transferred to medical.”

After taking all of my information, and verifying it, I’m searched and then led down a long, dingy hallway. The walls were probably white once upon a time, decades ago. Now, they’re scuffed and dirty.

The receptionist knocks on a door with a window, but the blinds are closed, so there’s no seeing inside.

“Come in,” someone calls out from the other side of the door.

The receptionist cracks the door open, sticking her head inside. “Roman Rush is here for James Chandler.”

“Okay, let him in.”

The receptionist opens the door wider, encouraging me to step inside. Beyond the threshold is a small, white office that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 60’s. There’s a metal desk in the center of the room, a metal file cabinet, and a plain white clock bolted to the white brick wall. No personal touches at all.

Behind the metal desk is a middle-aged woman with brown hair, pulled back into a bun, and glasses. I take a seat in the empty chair in front of her desk before being invited to do so, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Mr. Rush,” she says with a stiff smile. “My name is Dr. Ortiz, and I’m the Senior Physician here, and this morning, there was an incident involving your brother.”

“Okay,” I say, my tone urging her to continue. My chest feels tight, and I struggle to pull in a full breath. “Is he okay?”

“He got ahold of a piece of metal, which he was able to fashion into a knife.” She pauses. “He used it to cut himself, so he’s been taken to medical for treatment.”

She glosses over the incident so quickly, I struggle to understand what she’s saying. “What do you mean ‘cut himself?’ How bad is it?”

“The wounds are to his wrists. We think it was a suicide attempt.”

She delivers that blow so matter-of-factly, that I wonder if this woman has any feelings at all.

“You’re sure it wasn’t someone else, making it look like he was trying to hurt himself?” I ask. I’m just struggling to understand why James would do something like that. He hasn’t said anything to me about being suicidal.

“We have cameras in each of the pods, and no one was seen going to his cell during the time of the incident.”

I sink back in the chair and blow out a breath. “Is he okay?” I ask again because she still hasn’t answered that question.

Dr. Ortiz leans forward and clasps her hands together. “He lost a lot of blood,” she says. “And he’s received several transfusions, but he should recover.”

Thank God. I blow out a breath, relieved. “Can I see him?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not possible for security reasons. But as soon as he’s given the all-clear, he’ll be transported back to his pod, and he can participate in regular visits.”

“Wait, transported back to the pod? You just said he tried to hurt himself. Isn’t there any counseling or mental health services you can provide for him?”

“He’ll be placed on a suicide hold for twenty-four hours before he’s given the all-clear to return.”

She says that like it’s meant to placate me. It doesn’t. It does the opposite, actually. It pisses me off. “So, no services. That’s what you’re telling me?”

Dr. Ortiz stands up, pushes her chair back, and holds out her hand. “The nurse will keep in touch. We’ll be sure to let you know of any changes”

I stand as well. “If it’s a cost issue, I can assure you, that’s not a problem. My family is very wealthy. I can make sure you’re personally compensated for any trouble.”

James and I were taught the art of bribery at a young age. We learned it right alongside our ABCs. It’s a necessity in my world. Nothing happens without money. Nothing.

Dr. Ortiz’s eyes narrow, her hand still extended. “Thank you for stopping by. Mr. Rush.”

My jaw tight, I shake her hand because she’s taking care of my brother. Were it not for that, I’d have a lot more to fucking say. Moving to the door, I turn around before pulling it open, remembering the question I’d forgotten to ask. “Did he tell you why he did it?”

“Ah,” she says, holding up a finger, like I’ve reminded her of something. Reaching into her top drawer, she hands me a folded scrap of paper. It has a smear of blood in the corner. “He had that in his hand when he was found. It’s already been through security, so feel free to take it.”

Then she sits back down, and picks up the phone, completely forgetting I even exist. Wow. Fucking cunt. If she hadn’t saved my brother’s life, I’d be tempted to tell her off. People don’t treat me like this in my world.

As I walk back to the car, I open the note, and read it, my hands shaking.

I’m sorry, my love. I haven’t heard from you, and I just can’t bear the silence. This place is killing me, and every day without you is torture. Please forgive me for leaving you in this world alone…

I pause mid-step and close my eyes. I’ve known from the beginning that this place would be the worst possible situation for him. Jail is shit anyway, but here, he has nothing else to think about but the love that will never be returned. Of course, he’s spiraling. Of course, he’s in his fucking head about shit.

As soon as I get back to the car, Jackson and Lucas are on me.

“What happened?” they ask in unison as I slide into the passenger seat.

I relay the whole thing, then hand the note over to Lucas first so he can read it.

“Damn,” Lucas says, reading my brother’s words, then handing the note to Jackson. “This is messed up.”

I lean my head back on the headrest and swallow. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”

Jackson hands the note back to me. “That’s the plan.”

Closing my eyes briefly, I shake my head. “Yeah, before it was just principle. The fact that he shouldn’t be in jail. Now, it’s a matter of life and death.” I hold the note up. “He said it himself, this place is killing him.”

The ride home is silent, all of us deep in our thoughts. James is my blood brother, but he’s their brother, too. And none of us can stand the fact that he’s being caged like an animal, and being denied services for his mental health.

It’s fucked up, and it makes me more determined than ever to fix things. I’d turn to my dad, who definitely has more clout than me, but he’s never really liked James, his own damn stepson. And as far as my dad is concerned, James is exactly where he needs to be.

He’d never admit any of that to my mother, of course, but I can read between the lines. If he wanted James out of jail, he’d throw more money at the issue. He’d pull contracts. He’d put pressure on all the right people, despite the possible implications to their careers. The fact that he’s not doing any of that is very telling.

So it’s up to me. Even more now than before, my brother’s life is in my hands…