When Mr. Morrison returned three weeks later, Tristan immediately demanded, “So? What’ve they found?”
“Patience, Tristan,” Mr. Morrison said. This time they were seated at the visiting room near the front of the detention center, which had the benefit of feeling less claustrophobic than his cell. “We have heard nothing from the seismographers yet. There are none working in North Dakota, so we have been attempting to work with a team in California. But I came with a different piece of news.”
Tristan sat forward in his chair, muscles tense with impatience. “What?”
“You’ve been offered a place at an experimental rehabilitation facility. It would be a less difficult place to live than this, but that is all I know about the program.”
“It’s not a mental hospital?” Tristan asked swiftly. He was afraid Mr. Morrison was trying to trick him.
“No. It is not.”
“How long would I have to stay?”
“Until the staff decide you have been sufficiently rehabilitated, I believe,” Mr. Morrison said. “In my opinion, you do not act like a criminal, and you certainly show remorse for your brother’s death. I suspect your stay would be no longer than your time at Cass County Detention Center.”
“What about the trial?”
Mr. Morrison sighed. “Your parents wish you only the best, but I’m afraid I was wrong to raise your hopes. I am ninety-nine percent certain there was no earthquake on the night of your arrest. In my opinion, it would be better to place your trust in something definite, rather than hope for a miracle. However, you will need to decide today, one way or another. This opportunity is a rare and fortunate one, and the rehabilitation center would be happy to invite someone else in your place.”
Tristan put his chin in his hands and stared at the wall. What was he supposed to say?
As certain as he was that the earthquake had been real, he knew he had a very slim chance of proving it in court. The hope that had resurfaced over the past weeks fled.
Anything would be better than Cass—save a mental hospital, of course. But if he chose the rehabilitation facility, he might be there another three years. He would never graduate from high school, which meant he would never go to college. If this went on his permanent record, his future might be over.
Of course, if the earthquake was never proven, he had no future regardless.
What was better? Three years in the hell that was Cass, or an unknown span of time spent somewhere that had a slim chance of being better?
Or it could be worse.
“What are your thoughts?” Mr. Morrison asked.
“I don’t know,” Tristan said miserably. “Do you really think the seismographers won’t find anything?”
Mr. Morrison shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Tristan swallowed. He was scared. “I guess the rehabilitation program would be okay. It can’t be any worse than this.”
“Should I tell them you’ve accepted their offer?”
Very slowly, Tristan nodded.
His future was sealed.
As Mr. Morrison stood, he said, “Oh. One more thing. Your parents thought this might be important to you—I’ve secured you a chance to visit your brother’s grave. Provided you want it.”
A lump knotted itself in Tristan’s throat. “Of course,” he said weakly. He wished he could bring a fitting tribute for Marcus. Flowers, perhaps. Or a puzzle.
“Take care, Tristan,” Mr. Morrison said. Tristan wondered if this was the last time he would see him. He was grateful for Mr. Morrison’s unflinching help; he always spoke the truth, no matter how unfortunate, and he treated Tristan as a rational, intelligent equal. “The rehabilitation center will be in touch.”
But he never heard a word from them.
Two weeks passed, and then a third, and when Tristan asked the staff at Cass Detention Center whether they knew anything about the program, they acted as though he was crazy. He began to doubt Mr. Morrison, and then to doubt himself. Was he really losing his mind?
He resigned himself to an eternity at Cass.
At least the bullies were leaving him alone now. He could easily go about his day without speaking a single word, sullen and solitary. The end of August drew near, and with it a sudden bout of rain that did nothing to slow their garden work. It was one evening after a particularly muddy session of weeding, as Tristan was heading to the showers to half-drown himself in the lukewarm jet, that the receptionist-guard stopped him.
“You’re a mess,” he said sharply. “I want you cleaning up every scrap of that mud.”
“Sure,” Tristan said dully.
When he turned, the guard seized his shoulder. “You’ve been granted permission to visit your brother’s grave tomorrow. One of our security guards will take you.”
Tristan reeled. In his misery over his eternal stay in Cass, he had forgotten all about that particular promise of Mr. Morrison’s. He had begun to think he had imagined that as well.
“What time?” he asked after too long a pause.
“One o’clock sharp. If you’re late, you won’t go.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said. “May I go shower now?”
“Please do.” The guard released him and turned back towards the office, grumbling loudly about the filth.
That night Tristan took his longest shower yet. He made certain to scrub every last speck of dust from inside his ears, and to lather away the grease in his hair as best he could. He even picked the dirt from beneath his fingernails. It was the only way he could think to properly pay his respects to Marcus.
As he filled the mop bucket and began scrubbing mud from the hallway, the memories began slipping free of their crate, hitting him full in the stomach when he finally slouched back to his room. Marcus’s last words echoed back at him—I trust you.
Tristan retched and fell facedown onto his bed, clutching his pillow as though it would ward off the darkness.
What if it doesn’t work? What if I die?
Tristan punched his pillow, tears burning his eyes. “You should’ve killed me, Marcus,” he said in a strangled whisper. “I reassured you. I just wanted to keep you safe. I’m a bastard.”
I trust you.
Tristan didn’t sleep that night. He was afraid even to close his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, numb with misery, and tried to banish Marcus from his head.
When one o’clock rolled around the next day, Tristan’s eyes were raw and aching from exhaustion. He splashed water in his face before reporting to the front office, hoping no one would notice his distress.
“Tristan Fairholm, eh?” said an unfamiliar disciplinary officer. “You ready, kid?”
Tristan nodded solemnly.
“Let’s go.”
As Tristan walked through the detention center gates for the first time in three months, the officer said, “You’re lucky, you know that, right? You’ve got a very persuasive defender. Not many kids get privileges like these.”
“Thanks,” Tristan mumbled.
“Don’t thank me! Thank your defender.” The officer stopped outside of a black car rigged with hidden police lights. “You’re in back.”
Tristan slid into the back seat, where a set of bars separated him from the driver. Once they turned the block leading away from the detention center, which was the only building for miles in a barren expanse of plains, the officer rolled down his window and lit a cigar. Fresh breeze notwithstanding, the oily, thick smoke filled the back of the car. Tristan tried his best not to cough, worried it would give the officer a reason to dislike him.
He had forgotten how open the countryside looked outside of Juvie. The sky stretched on forever, dotted with a few puffy clouds, and a light wind sent waves rustling through the brown grass.
Before long they passed the first houses on the outskirts of the nearest town, their manicured lawns
a shocking shade of green against the dry prairie. Tristan felt uncomfortable as soon as the country lanes turned into city streets, afraid everyone would be able to see him in the back of the police car and would know him for a criminal. The car certainly drew stares—it was sleeker than most in that part of the city, and the hidden police lights were not that well-hidden.
“Heard a funny thing yesterday,” the detention officer said offhandedly as he pulled to a stop at an intersection. “Apparently they’ve been looking into your case a bit more closely, and some earthquake-monitors from California figured out there’d actually been a small tremor on the night you were arrested! Crazy, isn’t it? We never get earthquakes here!”
Tristan went cold.
Had they found the records, then? That was impossible. Had there truly been an earthquake on that terrible night?
But it was too late for another trial.
Tristan had gambled that option away.
The end
Eager to read more?
Tristan has nearly given up hope when a stranger invites him to study magic along with fifteen other young criminals.
As he learns to harvest magic in the wild Canadian Rockies, Tristan finds surprising friendship in his fellow students, from lovable Rusty Lennox to shy, mysterious Amber Ashton. But when the school is threatened, Tristan must decide whether his freedom is more important than his morals.
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And, because you’re amazing…
Thank you so much for reading this prologue. I hope it whetted your appetite for more!
It’s true that authors can’t survive today without reviews. I would love to hear your thoughts—
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A million thanks!!!
~R.J. Vickers
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.J. Vickers is the author of the YA fantasy series The Natural Order, as well as the advice book, College Can Wait! She is a photographer, world traveler, and chef; though she grew up in Colorado, she now calls New Zealand home.
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