I park my truck outside of the drab brick building and sit there with the engine running for a couple minutes, staring out the window.

Everything’s familiar, but it’s different. Five years passed by in the blink of an eye and I feel like the whole world’s left me behind, especially this fucking town. I can’t say I missed it, but I can’t imagine going anywhere else.

Not when I have this anger inside of me and no other place to put it.

I kill the engine and climb out. I grab my bag from the passenger seat. It’s filled with my only possessions in this whole world: a beat up laptop, some extra clothes, and my father’s revolver.

I walk slowly up the concrete stairs until I get to the front door. I swipe the pod on my keys and it buzzes, letting me inside. I head up another staircase, down an unfamiliar hallway, until I’m finally standing outside of my apartment.

I take a deep breath and let it out. This is home sweet fucking home.

I unlock the door and step inside. It’s about as bad as I figured it’d be. Clean enough, though drafty and musty. One bedroom, one tiny kitchen with a refrigerator that looks like it’s on its last legs, and a tiny living room. Not a stick of furniture in the whole damn place, not even a bed.

Doesn’t matter. I’m used to some bad living conditions. I put my bag on the top of the counter and slide the laptop out. I plug it in, boot it up, and look out the big window.

Never thought I’d be back in Coldwyn. They told me I’d rot for at least twenty-five years, probably my whole fucking life. They told me I wouldn’t last a month behind bars.

Five years later, they let me out. I don’t know how or why, but someone talked and admitted to hiding evidence. I got a new trial, and I was acquitted. I got an apology and a kick in the ass, and now here I am, back in Coldwyn, in the place that turned its back on me, called me a killer, and locked me up for a crime I didn’t commit.

I log into Facebook and type in her name. Avery Seller’s profile shows up on my screen. I can’t see much about her, since it’s set to private, but I can see her picture. It’s Avery, the same Avery I remember, hugging a little boy close against her. I feel my heart flutter as I recognize his deep green eyes, his jaw, his nose. I stare at that picture for what feels like an eternity.

My mouse hovers over the “Add Friend” button. I stare at it, dare myself to click it. I haven’t heard a word from her in five years, which doesn’t exactly surprise me, but it still hurts. She had my baby, my fucking son, and I didn’t hear a peep. She knew I was innocent. She was the only one who believed it.

But when I told her to move the fuck on, I guess she actually listened. I guess she felt she couldn’t so much as write me a letter, see how I was doing.

I would’ve told her this: I’m doing fucking fine. I’m surviving. I’m counting the days until I can get my revenge.

And now that day’s here a little sooner than I thought it would be.

I want to click that button. I want to get a phone and call her old number, see if she picks up just to hear her voice. I don’t want to see her, but I do. Avery was everything to me, the only girl I’ve ever loved, and she’s the mother of my child. I miss her lips, the way she laughs, her hands on my body. I miss the way we’d sit up talking after we fucked, bodies dripping sweat, but all we’d want to do was talk, talk, talk, unable to get enough of each other.

I haven’t felt that in a long time. Five long years in a concrete cell.

I slam the laptop lid shut and look at the clock over the stove. It’s a little after nine in the morning. I need to get going. I leave the laptop and my bag, grab my keys, and head back outside.

Back in fucking Coldwyn. Never thought it would happen, but they better watch out.

* * *

“You’re late.” Uncle Nick looks up from his computer and frowns.

“Sorry,” I say. “Dropped my stuff off at the apartment first.”

He nods a bit. “How is it?”

“Shit,” I say. “But better than prison.”

He cracks a little smile. “Good. Got your first job in there.” He nods back toward the garage.

I cross my arms and hesitate. “Listen, I hate to ask this. But can I get an advance? I need to pay rent, get some furniture, some groceries. I’ll work it off, overtime if I gotta.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “On the desk there.” He nods at a little white envelope. “Go ahead, take it.”

I pick it up. There must be a few hundred dollars in cash. “This is too much.”

He watches me for a second. “Son, you rotted in jail for five years for a murder you didn’t commit. And now they toss you out here, no help, no nothing. Someone’s got to look out for you.”

I glance away from him. I hate the way people look at me sometimes. Like I’m some fucking charity case. Like they have to pity me. But truth is, I need Uncle Nick’s help right now.

My parents are dead now. Dad died years ago, when I was still a kid. Smoked his whole life and it caught up with him. Mom died when I was behind bars, I think of a broken heart, or at least that’s what Uncle Nick tells me. I think it was just from plain old drinking, which she always did even before I went away. I guess she hit the bottle harder, and she couldn’t handle it.

Now I’m alone in this world, and so be it. Uncle Nick picked me up from prison, let me crash on his couch, even gave me my father’s gun and some other stuff. I tossed the rest, kept the revolver, found an apartment, and now here I am, working in Uncle Nick’s garage. Fortunately, I’ve always been good at fixing cars, so I’m not a total fucking leech.

“I appreciate this,” I say. “I’ll work it off.”

He shrugs. “Do or don’t, I don’t care. Consider it a welcome home gift if you want.”

“I’ll pay you back.” I slip the envelope into my jeans.

“Anyway,” he says, glancing back at his computer. “Better get to work.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

He shrugs and goes back to whatever he was doing. Uncle Nick is like that, the strong and silent type. He’s getting heavier in his old age, with a thick white beard and light blue eyes. He almost looks like Santa Claus, if it weren’t for the pockmarks that pit his face from when he was a kid.

The marks made him ugly, probably kept him from finding a wife, so now he lives alone and owns his garage, fixing cars, drinking on the weekends, just getting by.

I turn away and get to work. I don’t know where I’d be without Uncle Nick. Probably homeless. Instead, I’ve got a job, and I’ve got an apartment. Now I’ve got some money to start putting my life together.

And to start trying to find the bastards that set me up.