Trust
Title:Trust
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Michael, Linc, LJ, Sara, Mahone,Jane
Rating:G
Summary:Lincoln and Michael are still on the run and having to make decisions as to who they do and don't trust. Post S213, but will veer off pretty quickly.
Spoilers:None after S213
Chapter 15: Metcalfe, Fuss and Seal
Michael explored his new apartment. It didn’t take long. The first door he opened led to a small closet, he tried the light. It didn’t work. He frowned and closed the door. The second door was almost as disappointing. It led to a small shower room, the tiles were cracked and grimy and it smelt damp and musty. Michael screwed up his nose then leant his head into the small area again. He noticed a wall fan that didn’t appear to be working and reaching in tapped the case. It grumbled into life accompanied by a loud whirring nose. He sighed, knowing he would be visiting the hardware store before the week was out. He closed the door and wandered across the room and picked up the bundle of papers still resting on top of the paper bag he had brought with him from Statesville. He sat down on the sofa, then stopped and moved his nose closer sniffing the fabric. He pulled away quickly his nose now wrinkled up in disgust for the second time in as many minutes.
The place was filthy, and it was frustrating that he had nothing to clean it with and no other furniture.
Then he suddenly sat back, what an idiot, of course he had furniture. He had furniture and bedding and crockery and cutlery and everything else that would normally be found in an upmarket loft in downtown Chicago. He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. The contents of his loft were in storage, the rent paid twelve months in advance. All he had to do was go over and sign the papers and arrange delivery.
Except, the warehouse was unfortunately on the other side of town and Socurto had made it clear he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. He balled his hand into a fist in frustration. He didn’t even have a phone to call them. He breathed in slowly and deeply. There would be a solution. He always found one. It just needed a bit more thinking out.
He turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. There was an envelope filled with information about his electronic monitoring sentence and the many ways he could screw it up. The notes were unequivocal, any minor misdemeanour, any breach of his release conditions would result in immediate transfer back to Statesville. There was some further technical information about the tag itself and how it didn’t emit microwaves or anything else lethal to health and safety. He smiled at the thought of a prisoner suing the state for exposing them to dangerous rays and being sent back to prison for his pains as the only alternative to tagging. He emptied the remaining documents out of the envelope and onto the table. They included several forms for claiming various kinds of assistance from the state and a surprising $200 worth of food and clothing coupons that could be used at specified stores. It appeared he wasn’t going to be trusted with actual cash. Finally he found a small card, the same size as a credit card that explained the electronic monitoring system on one side and contained Socurto’s contact details on the other. This apparently was in case he was stopped by police or if the tag needed explaining to others in authority. The statement ‘Please keep this with you at all times as you may be asked for it’
was typed in large letters across one side.
He had been trying to ignore the tag, almost pretend it wasn’t attached to his right ankle, the strap even now slightly rubbing across the top of his sock.
Michael pursed his lips, and raised his right foot up until it rested on this left thigh. He pulled up his jeans and hesitantly touched the small tag. The casing was smooth, and as his thumb moved backwards and forwards over the grey plastic, his other hand tapped the info card absent-mindedly on his left knee. He hadn’t really given the tag much thought, yet it was responsible for him no longer being in Statesville and he realised his first day of comparative freedom had almost gone unacknowledged. He should be celebrating, drinking beers, eating pizza watching something mindless on TV, sharing it with friends and family…
He stopped tapping the card and surveyed the room again. No beer, no TV, no food (suddenly realising how hungry he was) and most damning of all, no friends and family.
He sighed and stood up and walked towards the window and after struggling several seconds with the lock finally opened one of the small side windows. The noise of the evening traffic cascaded into the room and he leaned on the sill and breathed in slowly. He was being stupid, yes the apartment was crap, and he didn’t have any of the things he’d expected on his first night out but he reminded himself, he was actually out. No CO’s bellowing at him, no chains and cuffs, tomorrow he would start to pull things together, tomorrow he would start building a life again.
He turned, leaving the window open, sat down again and slipped the elastic band off the bundle of letters. Being the systematic person that he was, he carefully laid them out in front of him then re-arranged them on the table. The first letter received was positioned at the very left and the most recent at the right. Three were handwritten, one typed. All the handwriting was different, but three of them had noticeable Indianapolis postal markings. Most people would have lost patience by now but Michael continued to just scrutinise the envelopes. He moved the second letter a little higher up the table so they all lined up neatly.
He really wanted a drink, a coffee, but he doubted there was anything in the small kitchen cupboard he had yet to open. So he licked his lips in consolation and clasped his hands together briefly, his elbows resting on his knees, his lips grazing his knuckles in contemplation. Then he reached for the first letter. It was addressed to
Michael Scofield,
c/o Fox River Penitentiary
Joliet
Illinois
The handwriting was small and some of the letters were shakily formed, the lines veering down towards the right. It was postmarked the day after his capture. Someone had crossed out Fox River and added in thick black marker pen ‘Transferred to Statesville’. He opened the envelope and pulled out a small sheet of yellow writing paper. Stamped at the top was Sacred Heart Hospital, Indianapolis.
Dear Michael
I’ve just seen the news, your name on the newsreader’s lips cut through the drowsy state I seem to exist in for most of the day now. I was so shocked and saddened that they had found you, captured you. In my mind’s eye you and your brother were somewhere safe, breathing in the air of freedom. There was no mention of Lincoln, I can only hope that you have at least the comfort of knowing he did make it out. I know that was so important for you.
I want to write much more, to thank you for your kindness in coming here, to tell you that you have friends who will work hard to ensure you spend not a day longer than necessary in prison. But writing is hard. Everything is hard for me now.
I’m sending this letter to Fox River; firstly because I fear that’s where they will send you, secondly, it’s an address I know off by heart. I will write again, I know you will be strong.
Anne
P.S. I was just about to seal the envelope; the nurse had kindly gone off to look for a stamp when another broadcast announced the wonderful news about Lincoln. Now every station is carrying the story of the President’s not so dead brother, and Lincoln’s possible exoneration. I’m not clear from the stories where he is at the moment but it sounds so hopeful. I know you will be so relieved that Lincoln is finally safe. I am now sure you will also find freedom with you brother helping you. I’m afraid I‘m not very popular as I’ve refused to take any more sedatives. I don’t want to miss another broadcast, it’s so exciting and I’m so full of hope now. I will write again soon, I hope you will consider writing back and make a new friend very happy.
Michael closed his eyes and rubbed the side of his head with one hand slowly. Why had he been so stubborn about refusing all mail? Anne must be wondering why there had been no response. He shook his head slowly and carefully placed the letter back onto the table.
He picked up the second letter. It was addressed to him C/o Statesville Penitentiary and dated two weeks later. The handwriting was large and clear and with strong loops on some of the letters. He opened the envelope and was surprised to see a couple of sheets of the same yellow hospital writing paper.
Dear Michael,
I’ve had to ask a nurse to write this, I just don’t have the strength any longer to sit. I hope you don’t mind, but I think you will find it easier to read.
I know you didn’t reply to my first letter, I heard they moved you pretty quickly to Statesville and it probably got lost in the confusion.
I watched another programme on the Reynolds Affair last night. It was so hard to believe all the things that woman had done to protect her brother and their fraud. The last ten minutes of the special report was about Lincoln, and at the very end about you. The FBI had made a statement about your brother’s exoneration, how he was released as soon as the miscarriage of justice became evident. How he was cooperating as a free man with them in unravelling even more of the conspiracy. Then in an almost throw away line they stated ‘Mr Burrows continues to assist the Bureau in tying up loose ends and in tracking down the remaining Fox River Eight fugitives. His information has already led to the recapture of his brother Michael Scofield.’
I was stunned, gawping at the screen; I rewound it on my TIVO just to make sure I hadn’t misheard.
Michael I can only begin to feel what you must have gone through, and be going through right now. I know you see many things in black and white, good and bad. If people you love need your help, then you help them. And I know you struggle with the moral murkiness that resulted in you rescuing Lincoln from the chair. At the time you made that decision it must have seemed such a simple one. I know you will view his actions as a betrayal of trust, the black and the white of it. But you have to try and see the greyness of his actions. There will have been reasons; the deep bond you have with your brother was so obvious when you spoke about him. That had to come from somewhere within you and him. He has to be more than a man who gives up his brother for no reason, remember that.
I didn’t tell you about one part of my life when we talked last time. It was a time I was not proud of. I was growing up, finishing High School and trying to find a way to afford college on the little my Mother had. This had made me so angry with my father, I blamed him for my limited choices, my second rate education due to lack of funds. I stopped writing, stopped visiting. I sent back the letters, I knew he spent so much time writing unopened. I knew it would hurt him. My mother tried to intervene, but I wouldn’t listen, I was tearing up inside and thrashing out at the one I thought I could hurt the most.
This lasted for two years, but inside I was hurting so much. I missed the contact, the long letters full of stories about his youth. I could see what it was doing to my mother as well. Eventually I think I just grew up, realised I was not enjoying being this martyr and started writing to him again. He replied, as if there had never been a break. He never mentioned the two years gap in letters and visits and when I went to see him at Easter break from college he smiled and listened avidly to my stories about my new life. He never once threw my actions back at me and I loved him so much for that.
What I’m trying to explain, and probably rather badly was, the person who suffered the most, was me. I felt bad, I felt bad for trying to punish my father and for causing my mother so much grief. My family was small and I realised that it was so very precious to me. My mum and my dad, and yet I had been so reckless with their feelings.
I have made few friends in this life really, I was always too cautious; too worried they would be judgemental about my family, my father. But it didn’t really matter since I always had my family. Even if I only really had a shadow of my father, he was still part of my life. I recognised the same in you Michael, you are your family, and you need them now more than ever. Don’t make a ghost of Lincoln. Don’t let him slip into the shadows. Try and find a way to understand why he did what he did.
Yours,
Anne.
Michael dropped the letter onto the table and sat back into the sofa. So much of what Anne had written made sense, but he was still battling with his anger towards Lincoln. It had taken her two years to think things through and change. He’d had less than two months to question his brother’s actions. He wanted to visit her, talk things through with her but the realities of tagging were beginning to hit home. He had such limited freedom, the world was out there through the open window, but Indianapolis might as well be in another galaxy.
He picked up the third letter and tore it open. He recognised the handwriting on the envelope, LJ had replied to his letter. The date suggested he’d replied pretty quickly as well.
The letter inside was typed, but started off informally enough.
Dear Uncle Mike,
Thanks for your letter, I tried to call you when I got it, because I’m not a great letter writer but they said you were still refusing phone calls. I hope you don’t mind me typing it out on the PC because my handwriting is crap. I must admit I was really surprised to get it as Dad hadn’t had any replies to his. I understand I think what you were trying to say in yours. I know things are tough between you and Dad at the moment and that you didn’t want that to mess up things between us.
I think it sucks that you’re still inside when we all got released. I know it tears Dad up. He just spends a lot of time drinking now. I know it stops him thinking which is what he wants. Sara your Doctor friend came by last night. She said she’d visited you but it hadn’t gone well. I don’t know what that meant because Dad told me to go to my room at that point.
Anyway the thing is, you asked in your letter if I would write and perhaps visit occasionally. But the problem is you don’t want me to tell Dad. I just don’t think I can do that to him right now. If he found out I know it would destroy him. I will come out and see you but only if I can tell Dad, I guess that’s the deal.
I’m back at school and it sucks big time. The guys treat me like some kind of freak because of what happened to you me and Dad. However I think some of the girls kinda like my notoriety, I can only hope! Write and let me know if I can tell Dad.
LJ.
Michael smiled. LJ was the oldest sixteen year old he had ever met. His nephew was right, what he had asked him to do was unfair. LJ and Lincoln were a package. He’d been crazy to think he could compartmentalise them and isolate one from the other. He sighed again and re-read the letter. He could now see that Sara had just tried to help, she’d come out to see him to try and make things better and all he had done was shout at her and block her out. God he was such an idiot.
He reached for the final letter and as the notepaper emerged and he saw the name of a lawyer typed across the top his heart sank.
Dear Mr Scofield
I’m afraid I have to pass on the sad news of the recent death of Miss Anne Westmoreland, who we understand you were acquainted with. She passed away last Friday and we are acting as her executors.
Her funeral will take place on Thursday and you should contact the funeral home (details are enclosed) if you wish to send any floral tributes. However she did request donations to the Sacred Heart Foundation would be preferable to flowers.
I must also inform you that Miss Westmoreland had made a will and you are names as one of her beneficiaries. I would like you to attend these offices at your earliest convenience to discuss this and other matters.
Yours truly,
William Metcalfe
Senior Partner
Metcalfe, Fuss and Seal
Michael swallowed and his eyes quickly filled with tears. Anne had finally lost her battle with cancer. He felt so bad he had not replied to either of her letters. He felt bad that he couldn’t have seen her one more time, he felt even worse when he realised her funeral was tomorrow and he had no chance of going.
He was beginning to recognise that being tagged was like living in limbo. He wasn’t in a cell but neither was he part of the normal world. He got up slowly and closed the window, shutting out the sounds from the street below. He walked over to the door and locked it feeling instantly more secure. Then he crossed over to the sink in the kitchen and running the tap splashed some water on his face. Then he curled up on the sofa, no pillow or blanket and tried to sleep away his first night of ‘freedom’.
tbc
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Michael, Linc, LJ, Sara, Mahone,Jane
Rating:G
Summary:Lincoln and Michael are still on the run and having to make decisions as to who they do and don't trust. Post S213, but will veer off pretty quickly.
Spoilers:None after S213
Chapter 15: Metcalfe, Fuss and Seal
Michael explored his new apartment. It didn’t take long. The first door he opened led to a small closet, he tried the light. It didn’t work. He frowned and closed the door. The second door was almost as disappointing. It led to a small shower room, the tiles were cracked and grimy and it smelt damp and musty. Michael screwed up his nose then leant his head into the small area again. He noticed a wall fan that didn’t appear to be working and reaching in tapped the case. It grumbled into life accompanied by a loud whirring nose. He sighed, knowing he would be visiting the hardware store before the week was out. He closed the door and wandered across the room and picked up the bundle of papers still resting on top of the paper bag he had brought with him from Statesville. He sat down on the sofa, then stopped and moved his nose closer sniffing the fabric. He pulled away quickly his nose now wrinkled up in disgust for the second time in as many minutes.
The place was filthy, and it was frustrating that he had nothing to clean it with and no other furniture.
Then he suddenly sat back, what an idiot, of course he had furniture. He had furniture and bedding and crockery and cutlery and everything else that would normally be found in an upmarket loft in downtown Chicago. He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. The contents of his loft were in storage, the rent paid twelve months in advance. All he had to do was go over and sign the papers and arrange delivery.
Except, the warehouse was unfortunately on the other side of town and Socurto had made it clear he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near it. He balled his hand into a fist in frustration. He didn’t even have a phone to call them. He breathed in slowly and deeply. There would be a solution. He always found one. It just needed a bit more thinking out.
He turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. There was an envelope filled with information about his electronic monitoring sentence and the many ways he could screw it up. The notes were unequivocal, any minor misdemeanour, any breach of his release conditions would result in immediate transfer back to Statesville. There was some further technical information about the tag itself and how it didn’t emit microwaves or anything else lethal to health and safety. He smiled at the thought of a prisoner suing the state for exposing them to dangerous rays and being sent back to prison for his pains as the only alternative to tagging. He emptied the remaining documents out of the envelope and onto the table. They included several forms for claiming various kinds of assistance from the state and a surprising $200 worth of food and clothing coupons that could be used at specified stores. It appeared he wasn’t going to be trusted with actual cash. Finally he found a small card, the same size as a credit card that explained the electronic monitoring system on one side and contained Socurto’s contact details on the other. This apparently was in case he was stopped by police or if the tag needed explaining to others in authority. The statement ‘Please keep this with you at all times as you may be asked for it’
was typed in large letters across one side.
He had been trying to ignore the tag, almost pretend it wasn’t attached to his right ankle, the strap even now slightly rubbing across the top of his sock.
Michael pursed his lips, and raised his right foot up until it rested on this left thigh. He pulled up his jeans and hesitantly touched the small tag. The casing was smooth, and as his thumb moved backwards and forwards over the grey plastic, his other hand tapped the info card absent-mindedly on his left knee. He hadn’t really given the tag much thought, yet it was responsible for him no longer being in Statesville and he realised his first day of comparative freedom had almost gone unacknowledged. He should be celebrating, drinking beers, eating pizza watching something mindless on TV, sharing it with friends and family…
He stopped tapping the card and surveyed the room again. No beer, no TV, no food (suddenly realising how hungry he was) and most damning of all, no friends and family.
He sighed and stood up and walked towards the window and after struggling several seconds with the lock finally opened one of the small side windows. The noise of the evening traffic cascaded into the room and he leaned on the sill and breathed in slowly. He was being stupid, yes the apartment was crap, and he didn’t have any of the things he’d expected on his first night out but he reminded himself, he was actually out. No CO’s bellowing at him, no chains and cuffs, tomorrow he would start to pull things together, tomorrow he would start building a life again.
He turned, leaving the window open, sat down again and slipped the elastic band off the bundle of letters. Being the systematic person that he was, he carefully laid them out in front of him then re-arranged them on the table. The first letter received was positioned at the very left and the most recent at the right. Three were handwritten, one typed. All the handwriting was different, but three of them had noticeable Indianapolis postal markings. Most people would have lost patience by now but Michael continued to just scrutinise the envelopes. He moved the second letter a little higher up the table so they all lined up neatly.
He really wanted a drink, a coffee, but he doubted there was anything in the small kitchen cupboard he had yet to open. So he licked his lips in consolation and clasped his hands together briefly, his elbows resting on his knees, his lips grazing his knuckles in contemplation. Then he reached for the first letter. It was addressed to
Michael Scofield,
c/o Fox River Penitentiary
Joliet
Illinois
The handwriting was small and some of the letters were shakily formed, the lines veering down towards the right. It was postmarked the day after his capture. Someone had crossed out Fox River and added in thick black marker pen ‘Transferred to Statesville’. He opened the envelope and pulled out a small sheet of yellow writing paper. Stamped at the top was Sacred Heart Hospital, Indianapolis.
Dear Michael
I’ve just seen the news, your name on the newsreader’s lips cut through the drowsy state I seem to exist in for most of the day now. I was so shocked and saddened that they had found you, captured you. In my mind’s eye you and your brother were somewhere safe, breathing in the air of freedom. There was no mention of Lincoln, I can only hope that you have at least the comfort of knowing he did make it out. I know that was so important for you.
I want to write much more, to thank you for your kindness in coming here, to tell you that you have friends who will work hard to ensure you spend not a day longer than necessary in prison. But writing is hard. Everything is hard for me now.
I’m sending this letter to Fox River; firstly because I fear that’s where they will send you, secondly, it’s an address I know off by heart. I will write again, I know you will be strong.
Anne
P.S. I was just about to seal the envelope; the nurse had kindly gone off to look for a stamp when another broadcast announced the wonderful news about Lincoln. Now every station is carrying the story of the President’s not so dead brother, and Lincoln’s possible exoneration. I’m not clear from the stories where he is at the moment but it sounds so hopeful. I know you will be so relieved that Lincoln is finally safe. I am now sure you will also find freedom with you brother helping you. I’m afraid I‘m not very popular as I’ve refused to take any more sedatives. I don’t want to miss another broadcast, it’s so exciting and I’m so full of hope now. I will write again soon, I hope you will consider writing back and make a new friend very happy.
Michael closed his eyes and rubbed the side of his head with one hand slowly. Why had he been so stubborn about refusing all mail? Anne must be wondering why there had been no response. He shook his head slowly and carefully placed the letter back onto the table.
He picked up the second letter. It was addressed to him C/o Statesville Penitentiary and dated two weeks later. The handwriting was large and clear and with strong loops on some of the letters. He opened the envelope and was surprised to see a couple of sheets of the same yellow hospital writing paper.
Dear Michael,
I’ve had to ask a nurse to write this, I just don’t have the strength any longer to sit. I hope you don’t mind, but I think you will find it easier to read.
I know you didn’t reply to my first letter, I heard they moved you pretty quickly to Statesville and it probably got lost in the confusion.
I watched another programme on the Reynolds Affair last night. It was so hard to believe all the things that woman had done to protect her brother and their fraud. The last ten minutes of the special report was about Lincoln, and at the very end about you. The FBI had made a statement about your brother’s exoneration, how he was released as soon as the miscarriage of justice became evident. How he was cooperating as a free man with them in unravelling even more of the conspiracy. Then in an almost throw away line they stated ‘Mr Burrows continues to assist the Bureau in tying up loose ends and in tracking down the remaining Fox River Eight fugitives. His information has already led to the recapture of his brother Michael Scofield.’
I was stunned, gawping at the screen; I rewound it on my TIVO just to make sure I hadn’t misheard.
Michael I can only begin to feel what you must have gone through, and be going through right now. I know you see many things in black and white, good and bad. If people you love need your help, then you help them. And I know you struggle with the moral murkiness that resulted in you rescuing Lincoln from the chair. At the time you made that decision it must have seemed such a simple one. I know you will view his actions as a betrayal of trust, the black and the white of it. But you have to try and see the greyness of his actions. There will have been reasons; the deep bond you have with your brother was so obvious when you spoke about him. That had to come from somewhere within you and him. He has to be more than a man who gives up his brother for no reason, remember that.
I didn’t tell you about one part of my life when we talked last time. It was a time I was not proud of. I was growing up, finishing High School and trying to find a way to afford college on the little my Mother had. This had made me so angry with my father, I blamed him for my limited choices, my second rate education due to lack of funds. I stopped writing, stopped visiting. I sent back the letters, I knew he spent so much time writing unopened. I knew it would hurt him. My mother tried to intervene, but I wouldn’t listen, I was tearing up inside and thrashing out at the one I thought I could hurt the most.
This lasted for two years, but inside I was hurting so much. I missed the contact, the long letters full of stories about his youth. I could see what it was doing to my mother as well. Eventually I think I just grew up, realised I was not enjoying being this martyr and started writing to him again. He replied, as if there had never been a break. He never mentioned the two years gap in letters and visits and when I went to see him at Easter break from college he smiled and listened avidly to my stories about my new life. He never once threw my actions back at me and I loved him so much for that.
What I’m trying to explain, and probably rather badly was, the person who suffered the most, was me. I felt bad, I felt bad for trying to punish my father and for causing my mother so much grief. My family was small and I realised that it was so very precious to me. My mum and my dad, and yet I had been so reckless with their feelings.
I have made few friends in this life really, I was always too cautious; too worried they would be judgemental about my family, my father. But it didn’t really matter since I always had my family. Even if I only really had a shadow of my father, he was still part of my life. I recognised the same in you Michael, you are your family, and you need them now more than ever. Don’t make a ghost of Lincoln. Don’t let him slip into the shadows. Try and find a way to understand why he did what he did.
Yours,
Anne.
Michael dropped the letter onto the table and sat back into the sofa. So much of what Anne had written made sense, but he was still battling with his anger towards Lincoln. It had taken her two years to think things through and change. He’d had less than two months to question his brother’s actions. He wanted to visit her, talk things through with her but the realities of tagging were beginning to hit home. He had such limited freedom, the world was out there through the open window, but Indianapolis might as well be in another galaxy.
He picked up the third letter and tore it open. He recognised the handwriting on the envelope, LJ had replied to his letter. The date suggested he’d replied pretty quickly as well.
The letter inside was typed, but started off informally enough.
Dear Uncle Mike,
Thanks for your letter, I tried to call you when I got it, because I’m not a great letter writer but they said you were still refusing phone calls. I hope you don’t mind me typing it out on the PC because my handwriting is crap. I must admit I was really surprised to get it as Dad hadn’t had any replies to his. I understand I think what you were trying to say in yours. I know things are tough between you and Dad at the moment and that you didn’t want that to mess up things between us.
I think it sucks that you’re still inside when we all got released. I know it tears Dad up. He just spends a lot of time drinking now. I know it stops him thinking which is what he wants. Sara your Doctor friend came by last night. She said she’d visited you but it hadn’t gone well. I don’t know what that meant because Dad told me to go to my room at that point.
Anyway the thing is, you asked in your letter if I would write and perhaps visit occasionally. But the problem is you don’t want me to tell Dad. I just don’t think I can do that to him right now. If he found out I know it would destroy him. I will come out and see you but only if I can tell Dad, I guess that’s the deal.
I’m back at school and it sucks big time. The guys treat me like some kind of freak because of what happened to you me and Dad. However I think some of the girls kinda like my notoriety, I can only hope! Write and let me know if I can tell Dad.
LJ.
Michael smiled. LJ was the oldest sixteen year old he had ever met. His nephew was right, what he had asked him to do was unfair. LJ and Lincoln were a package. He’d been crazy to think he could compartmentalise them and isolate one from the other. He sighed again and re-read the letter. He could now see that Sara had just tried to help, she’d come out to see him to try and make things better and all he had done was shout at her and block her out. God he was such an idiot.
He reached for the final letter and as the notepaper emerged and he saw the name of a lawyer typed across the top his heart sank.
Dear Mr Scofield
I’m afraid I have to pass on the sad news of the recent death of Miss Anne Westmoreland, who we understand you were acquainted with. She passed away last Friday and we are acting as her executors.
Her funeral will take place on Thursday and you should contact the funeral home (details are enclosed) if you wish to send any floral tributes. However she did request donations to the Sacred Heart Foundation would be preferable to flowers.
I must also inform you that Miss Westmoreland had made a will and you are names as one of her beneficiaries. I would like you to attend these offices at your earliest convenience to discuss this and other matters.
Yours truly,
William Metcalfe
Senior Partner
Metcalfe, Fuss and Seal
Michael swallowed and his eyes quickly filled with tears. Anne had finally lost her battle with cancer. He felt so bad he had not replied to either of her letters. He felt bad that he couldn’t have seen her one more time, he felt even worse when he realised her funeral was tomorrow and he had no chance of going.
He was beginning to recognise that being tagged was like living in limbo. He wasn’t in a cell but neither was he part of the normal world. He got up slowly and closed the window, shutting out the sounds from the street below. He walked over to the door and locked it feeling instantly more secure. Then he crossed over to the sink in the kitchen and running the tap splashed some water on his face. Then he curled up on the sofa, no pillow or blanket and tried to sleep away his first night of ‘freedom’.
tbc