Sister's Revenge

By Rita Delude

Alicia Stamois's family is damaged. One dark night shattered their world. She loves her family beyond measure and is willing to go to irrational extremes to put her broken loved ones back together. Alicia's a shrink who knows how to play head games better than most, so she puts her training to work on a scheme.

Her plot includes a pen pal, a prison, and a proper punishment. For Alicia, love matters most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Nov 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393274193

Book preview

Rita Delude

Trigger Alert

This book involves the subjects of rape and assault.

Those who might be triggered by these subjects are advised to avoid this read.

Dedication

To my sister Mary, who is Alicia for me.

Acknowledgements

Without the continuous encouragement of Erin Lee of Crazy Ink Publishing, this journey would not have started and would not continue. Your love and support means more than you will ever know. To Ron, my first reader and true love, thank you for supporting all my ventures over the years. Kimberly Lee, thank you for your constant efforts on my behalf. Thank you to my editor, Samantha Talarico, who catches the tricky things. To my readers and supporters, thank you for your appreciation of my words. You are why I keep writing. You inspire me.

Chapter One

George

Iwas sitting on my bunk in my cell, clipping my toe nails, waiting for the meal whistle to blow when the first of Amanda Perkins’ letters arrived. I had been at the Concord Correctional Facility for two years and two months. The first two years I spent waiting around, without being able to post bail, while the system got its act together and brought me to trial. Things move real slowly in Cow Hampshire. Since the trial for rape and attempted manslaughter proved me guilty, it had been two more months. I have less than five years left on my seven year term because the state counts the time spent while waiting for the damned trial to happen. Do they somehow give those years and months while they farted around if you’re proven innocent back to you? Fuck no. You just scratch that stolen time off your life like you scratch your ass because you’ll never see it again. In all this time, I hadn’t received a single piece of mail, so a thrill of surprise and gratitude shot up my spine and raised the hair on my arms when a trustee yelled, Hey, George, you got yourself a piece of mail.

I hopped up from the bunk as though it was on fire and reached through the bars to receive the precious gift.

Who the hell was writing to me? I wondered. My parents were dead, which really didn’t matter much. They wouldn’t have written anyway. My dad beat my mom so often that she drank herself to death. My old man stuck around and kept me busy cooking meals, cleaning clothes, and generally being his personal house servant. Then my old man dragged one slutty woman after another into our shabby house each night. Most of them were staggeringly drunk, so I turned up the sound on my Metallica music to drown out the noise of his moans and their screams. My dad liked his sex frightening, fast, and frequent. The women never stayed long.

Once my mom was gone, my old man also bought plenty of sex tools that he stored in what used to be Mom’s underwear and sweater drawers.

Your mom was a fucking prude, he told me once when he caught me rummaging through the drawers in his bedroom.

Don’t talk about her that way, I told him.

Shut up. You’re just a kid. What do you know anyway?

I know you beat her. You made her drink.

He punched me in the gut then like he often did, so he didn’t leave marks on my face that the school would ask questions about.

I made a permanent break from home and from him when I enlisted in the Army after high school. Two years after my discharge, I learned my father was dead. Cancer from the three cartons a week he inhaled. So fuck him too.

Being an only child, there really was no one to write to me. During my rape/attempted manslaughter trial, the only one on my side was my court appointed, baby-faced kid attorney. When he spoke in court, his voice quivered. It was his first jury trial. I didn’t stand a chance of getting off. But, I did get off that night when I raped her.

They found that seventeen-year-old at Westin Park and immediately went looking for her rapist. I wore knitted Army gloves that night, not because I planned to rape anyone, but because it was cold. But that bitch ripped one off in her final struggle, and they found my fingerprints on the rock I’d used to knock her out and stop her incessant screaming. Those hollers sounded too much like the whores my father had taken to his bed. I had to make the noise stop. So, the police had me. Plus they had the DNA from my semen, of course. My prints were on file for a possession of marijuana arrest when I was a senior in high school. They suspected a local; they got one—George Tyler Spigelman.

I admit; I did it. I enjoyed every minute of it, except the screaming. It gave me my power back. I needed that. I needed to feel in control. I admit it to myself every day. But to the world, I cried to the high heavens that I was innocent. I told them I was framed because the incompetent police couldn’t do their damn jobs right, and my attorney was too stupid to get me off. Out of guilt, I think that attorney will appeal my case. Even though I think he thinks I’m as guilty as I really am.

So, before I tore open the thin, white envelope with the curvy cursive lettering that could only be a woman’s, I hesitated. It must be hate mail, I thought. No one cared about me. No one has since my mom died. Never did I fit in much of anywhere. In school, I was in the shop classes. There weren’t many chances to meet girls there. Plus I was always covered in grease, and no girls like that much. The thought of how many times girls turned me down when I asked them out in high school crossed my mind as I held that envelope. Did I even want to open it and deal with that shit? Probably not, but the suspense was killing me.

My shaking fingers slipped the letter from the envelope that had already been checked by the prison dicks, and I began reading:

Mr. George Spigelman,

You don’t know me. My name is Amanda Perkins. I’m a senior at the University of Southern Maine. I’m majoring in psychology and sociology. My psychology teacher recommended that all of us students pick a person who is incarcerated to write to so that we can get to know something about the prison system, the reasons why people do what they do to get sent to prison, and what it is like once a prisoner goes to jail.

I’m hoping you might participate in this project with me. We were just supposed to say hello and ask you to write back, but I like to be brutally honest. So I wanted to let you know what we’d be writing about, so you could decide if you wanted to participate or not.

Please let me know one way or the other by responding to me at the address below.

Amanda Perkins

The address was actually a