BooksBarbecue
Back The Neighbor
Chapters (39)
  1. CHAPTER ONE
  2. CHAPTER TWO
  3. CHAPTER THREE
  4. CHAPTER FOUR
  5. CHAPTER FIVE
  6. CHAPTER SIX
  7. CHAPTER SEVEN
  8. CHAPTER EIGHT
  9. CHAPTER NINE
  10. CHAPTER TEN
  11. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  12. CHAPTER TWELVE
  13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  20. CHAPTER TWENTY
  21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  30. CHAPTER THIRTY
  31. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  32. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  33. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  38. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND DEDICATION
  39. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jason pushed away from the desk. He crumpled up the duffel bag and stuffed it in the back of a metal filing cabinet. Then he picked up his sleeping daughter and, very gently carried her back out to the car.

Five forty-five A.M. Sun would be coming up soon, he thought. He wondered if Sandra could see it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m working on a letter. In order to graduate from my treatment program, I need to write a letter to the victim, in which I take responsibility for my actions and express my remorse. This letter is never sent; wouldn’t be fair to the victim, we’re told. Dredging up bad business and all that. But we have to write it.

So far, I have two words: Dear Rachel.

Rachel is an alias, of course—no confidentiality in group therapy, remember? So basically, after six weeks of work, I have two words, one of which is a lie.

Tonight, however, I think I can make some progress on my Dear Rachel letter. Tonight, I’m learning what it feels like to be a victim.

I wanted to run. Thought about it. Tried it out in my head. Couldn’t see how it could be done. Running away involves some serious logistics in this post-9/11 world where Big Brother is always watching. Can’t catch a plane or train without a license, and I don’t have a car. What am I supposed to do, walk my way across Massachusetts state lines?

Truth is, I don’t have the cash or the wheels for a hard-core disappearing act. I’ve been paying for polygraphs and support group, not to mention the hundred a week I send straight to Jerry. He calls it restitution. I call it insurance that he doesn’t track me to South Boston and break every goddamn bone in my miserable body.

So the bank account is a little low on exit funds.

What can I do? After support group, I headed home.

Colleen knocked on my door just thirty minutes later.

“Can I come in?” my parole officer asks, very polite, very firm. Her red hair is spiked tonight, but it doesn’t distract from the serious look on her face.

“Sure,” I say, and hold the door wide open. Colleen has visited once before, in the very beginning when she was confirming my address. It’s been two years now, but not much has changed. I’m not exactly big on interior decorating.