door and a backyard with a maple tree.
And I was married to Trevor Mallory, a man I’d thought of as my closest friend.
When I walked out of that prison gate, everything I owned fit inside a clear plastic bag. Two pairs of jeans. Three shirts. Some underwear. A hairbrush. A paperback book with the cover torn off.
And seventy-five dollars in release money, in an envelope with my name typed on it.
That was it. That was what was left of my whole life.
Nobody came to pick
