Chapter 4

Prison was a shock to the system. The noise, the smell, the constant, simmering threat of violence. On my first day, a woman twice my size cornered me in the yard and tried to take my shoes. I gave them to her. I learned quickly: keep your head down, don't make eye contact, don't attract attention. My only goal was to get out. Get my sentence reduced for good behavior. Get back to Melody.

Every day was a fight for survival, but I wasn't just fighting for myself anymore. I was fighting for her.

I spent my time in the library. I found a copy of an old indie music magazine and saw a name I recognized: Ben Carter. He was a music blogger, a podcaster now, with a respected voice on the Nashville scene. Years ago, before the Clarks, before Ethan, he had written a glowing review of a demo I had recorded in my bedroom. He called my songwriting "raw" and "painfully authentic."

I found his P.O. box address. I started writing to him.

At first, I just told him I was a fan. Then, I told him I was a songwriter, too. I didn't use my name. I just signed the letters "Ghost."

I started writing songs again. I didn't have a guitar, so I wrote lyrics. I poured all the pain, the betrayal, the fire, and the ice-cold injustice into stanzas and choruses. I wrote about a man with two souls, a sister who was a thief, and parents who threw their child away. I wrote about a baby named Melody.

I sent the lyrics to Ben.

A few weeks later, a letter came back.

"Ghost," it read. "I don't know who you are, but this is the realest stuff I've read in a decade. This is more than just music. This is a testimony. Who are you?"

That letter was a lifeline. It was the first time in months that someone had seen me, the real me, not the criminal they had all created. It gave me a new purpose. I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was creating my weapon.

Then, the visits started.

Ethan. He would appear on the other side of the plexiglass during visiting hours, a smug look on his face. And he always brought Sabrina with him.

And Sabrina was always holding Melody.

My daughter. She was getting bigger, her hair a soft brown fuzz, her eyes wide and curious.

They would sit there, playing the happy family. Ethan would kiss Sabrina's cheek. Sabrina would bounce Melody on her knee, cooing at her. They did it all for my benefit, trying to get a reaction. Trying to break me.

I refused to give them the satisfaction. I ignored them completely. I pressed my hand to the glass and looked only at my daughter. I would whisper her name. "Melody. Mommy's here. I love you."

She couldn't hear me, but I didn't care. I focused all my energy, all my love, on that little girl on the other side of the barrier.

Ethan' s frustration grew with each visit. "She doesn't know you, Jennifer," he'd say through the crackly speaker. "She thinks Sabrina is her mother. When you get out, you'll be nothing to her. Just a stranger. A criminal."

I never answered. I just kept my eyes on Melody. My silence was its own kind of weapon. It drove him crazy that he couldn't get to me.

Finally, he stopped coming. The last time I saw him, his face was dark with anger. "Fine," he snarled. "You'll never see her again. She'll call Sabrina 'Mama' and she'll call you nothing at all."

He thought it was his victory. He didn't know that my parole hearing was in two weeks. He didn't know that the warden had already approved my request for early release based on exemplary behavior. He didn't know that I was getting out.