Chapter Six

Simmering Anger

O nce a month, Joan drove four hours to see her granddaughter, Willow, and it never got easier. But this time, her thoughts were scattered. Carrie’s gaunt face kept flashing in her mind, the tremor in her hands, the fever in her eyes. Something was wrong with that child, and it gnawed at Joan even before she left home.

Max whined from the doorway as if sensing her unease. He pawed at the floor, restless.

“I know,” Joan said softly, bending down to scratch behind his ears. “I’ll be back tonight, and you’ll be just fine. I can’t trust Jeb not to come around, so you’re staying inside.”

Big brown eyes stared at her, his ears pinned back, giving her the saddest look imaginable. He understood. He always had. Besides her favorite garden shoes when he was a puppy, he’d never chewed on another item of hers. She gave him one last empathetic look and locked the heavy security door, ensuring her house was safe before heading to the truck.

Lucy, her old Ford, had been with her for decades. It sputtered as she turned the key but roared to life after a couple of grumbles. Eva Cassidy’s soft, haunting voice filled the cab after Joan slid a cassette into the player. The music soothed her nerves as she headed out, the wide, barren desert landscape unfolding around her.

She tried to focus on the road ahead, but her mind kept circling back to Carrie. The child’s flushed face had seemed even more fragile than usual. She was always too thin, too quiet, but this time was different. The jerky movements, the fever. It was strange. Things like hantavirus were a very real possibility, especially with their homestead likely mouse- and rat-infested.

Joan tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She had done what she could, but it never felt like enough. The thought of leaving Carrie behind made her stomach twist. For a fleeting moment, she considered turning around, going back to check on her. But what would she do? Jeb would never let her help, and calling the sheriff felt useless. Still, the doubt lingered.

As she drove, her thoughts shifted to Willow. Her granddaughter was trapped in that horrible place, locked behind concrete walls and steel bars. Joan tried not to dwell on the past, but the memories were always there, haunting the edges of her thoughts, especially during these long drives.

Joan’s husband, Larry, died when Sammy was four years old. Joan thought she loved him when they married, but it was soon apparent he was not the man he pretended to be. He didn’t want her to work or attend college, which had been her dream. He’d outright refused and demanded she stay home. They barely had enough to get by, and she became good at juggling the monthly bills.

After Larry’s death in a freak accident, she’d needed money. There were few full-time jobs available for women in the fifties, and secretary work was all she could find. It did, however, pay the bills, and she didn’t spend money at the bar each night like he had, so she found herself slightly better off financially, and far better mentally.

Sammy, as a teenager, had been wild and rebellious. Their fights had often ended in shouting matches that left them both exhausted. Joan had held firm on curfew and a few rules, but it had never been enough to keep Sammy from repeatedly testing every limit.

Her daughter met Todd and introduced him to Joan only once. A week later, they took off in the middle of the night, leaving only a foul-worded note behind. It broke Joan’s heart, but Sammy was now eighteen, and there was nothing she could do. The consequences of Sammy’s actions would eventually kill her.

The justice system had twisted the story of Sammy and Todd’s violent deaths, and the media had mangled it even further. But it was Joan’s guilt that haunted her the most. What if she had done something different? What if she had been softer in some places and harder in others? Would Sammy still be alive? Those same questions pushed her to keep trying for Willow, to be someone who wouldn’t give up.

There was no going back, no changing the past. But Joan still carried the weight of those unanswered questions. She often wondered how much Sammy had suffered. Joan knew Willow continued to endure horrible circumstances. She had seen it in her granddaughter’s eyes during every visit: the guilt, the sadness, and the fierce strength it had taken to survive.

The miles stretched on, the barren road leading her into the tall trees of the mountains, and next into the lower desert. At a small gas station about an hour and a half from her destination, Joan stopped to use the restroom. She grabbed a pack of breath mints at the counter, feeling a slight pang of guilt for not bringing anything to Willow. But they didn’t allow visitors to bring gifts. The only time she could send anything was on holidays and birthdays, and even then, the process was filled with rigid rules.

She climbed back into Lucy, starting the final leg of the journey. The prison loomed in the distance, rising out of the landscape like a menacing monument, barbed wire curling along the tops of the fences like a crown of thorns. Joan’s stomach twisted in knots. She hated seeing Willow in this place. Hated knowing her granddaughter was locked away, treated like a criminal when she had only done what she’d had to do to stay alive.

Joan pulled into the parking lot; her heart heavy as she stepped out of the truck. The sun beat down, but the air was much hotter here, as if the weight of the sun sucked all enjoyment from the world.

She approached the entrance gate, pressing the button for the intercom.

“I’m Joan Morgan, here to visit Willow Humphrey,” she said, her tone steady despite the tightness in her chest.

The disembodied voice on the other end rattled off the usual instructions: what she could and couldn’t bring inside, the penalties for breaking the rules. Joan had heard it all before, so many times that the words had become background noise.

The buzzer sounded, and Joan pushed the door open, stepping inside. The sterile smell of the lobby hit her immediately, and she approached the desk to hand over her driver’s license. The guard behind the counter was new, she didn’t recognize him. It didn’t matter. They all rotated out eventually, and Joan had long since stopped keeping track of the faces.

“I’ll buzz you through once the inmate is ready,” the guard said, his tone flat.

Joan nodded and moved to the side, waiting in the sparse lobby. There were no chairs, no comforts. This place wasn’t designed for visitors to feel welcome. She shifted on her feet, glancing at the clock as the minutes ticked by.

Soon, she would see Willow. She would wrap her arms around her granddaughter and feel that fleeting moment of connection, the warmth of family that was so rare in this place. Joan couldn’t stop the thoughts racing through her mind. Carrie’s condition, Sammy’s fate, and Willow’s resilience. It all tangled together in the stillness.

For now, all she could do was wait. She had already waited so many years, but worse, so had Willow.