SATURDAY, MARCH 30
8 days left

We get to McGreavy Correctional Facility in the midafternoon. The sun's hot on my face as we walk toward the entrance. The place looks less threatening than I'd envisioned. It's a large, one-story brick building. Sure, it's surrounded by two less-than-appealing outdoor spaces that are framed by high-wire fences, but if it weren't for the barbed-wire curls at the tops of the fences, I wouldn't have even known it was a prison yard.
Harry grabs my hand. "You sure you want to do this?"
I grip his hand and then drop it, trying to signal that I'm okay. But my mouth is dry and the honest answer is I don't know if I want to do this, if I can do this. I've become so attached to this thought—the idea that I needed to see my dad one last time before I offed myself—but now, I'm not sure what I was thinking. I don't know what I was hoping to find here at McGreavy, but the longer I stare at the building in front of me, the less I think that whatever it is I'm looking for is here. If I'm even looking for anything at all. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe I am just trying to find excuses to live.
McGreavy Correctional Facility is not somewhere I'm going to find an excuse to live.
My knees buckle and I have a sinking feeling that the man I'm about to face won't match up with the father I remember. The father who taught me to love Mozart and who shared candy bars with me on lazy afternoons. But I guess that father never really existed, because that man never would've killed someone in cold blood.
So maybe that's the point of all this. For me to finally face that fact, face him, the real him. Maybe.

Harry holds the door open for me and we walk in. A metal detector and four security guards greet us. We make it through the first security check with no problem. I walk up to the front desk.
"You don't look like you should be here," the man at the desk says. He's dressed in an officer uniform but has added some panache to his style by sporting a Kentucky Wildcats baseball cap. The name tag on his uniform reads JACOB WILSON.
Jacob Wilson is awfully presumptuous. "I'm looking for my father," I say, and fumble around in my purse for my wallet. I pull my driver's license out of my wallet, place it on the counter, and slide it to him. "His name is Connor Swift. I called a few days ago and was told you have visiting on Saturday until four p.m. I think I should be on his approved list of visitors. I'm his daughter."
I don't have any idea about the list, but it seems like the right thing to say. I glance at my phone to check the time: 2:17. Visiting hours aren't over yet.
Jacob Wilson types something into the computer. The computer is large and bulky, like the ones we use at DMC. Jacob pushes a few more buttons and frowns. He clicks the mouse and then lets out a sighing whistle.
I brace myself for the fact that I'm not on the mythical list of approved visitors. Great. My dad's not even going to give me the chance to confront him, to demand answers about what made him snap. Before I can say anything, Harry interjects, "What's wrong?"
"Your dad's no longer here," Jacob says to me.
"Huh?" I'm not processing what he's saying.
"He was transferred."
I blink a few more times but tuck my hands at my side. Show some restraint. The goal of this trip was not to get locked up. "How is that possible?"
He holds his hands out, flips his palms up, and shrugs. "I don't have the details, sweetheart. I only know what's in the computer. And the computer says he's been transferred."
Harry steps up closer to the desk. He slaps his hands down and leans in toward Jacob. "Don't you have to inform the family before you transfer someone?"
"Easy there," Jacob says with a chuckle. "Dial it down a notch, will you?"
"Sorry." Harry backs up.
"But you're right, son. We do inform the family." He squints at the computer screen, scooting forward in his chair. Then he looks back at me "Says here that a phone call was placed to Mrs. Andrea Jenner. A letter was sent, too." He frowns and stares at the screen again. "Jenner ?"
"That's my mom."
The guard raises an eyebrow at me, so I add, "Remarried."
He raises the right side of his upper lip over his teeth, making a semi-grimace. "It happens a lot when guys get locked up. Tough break."
I wouldn't describe anything in my dad's life as a "tough break." From my perspective, his life was more of a "tough break" for other people than it was for him. "So where is he now?"
"According to the computer he's at Saint Anne's Behavioral Health Hospital."
Behavioral Health Hospital. "Where is that?"
"Not sure," Jacob says. "My guess is it's in-state since I don't see them transferring him out of Kentucky, but you never know."
"Do you have any idea how she could get in touch with him?" Harry interjects again.
I don't know why Harry thinks it's his place to take over this conversation, but I'm oddly grateful. Usually, I'd be annoyed, but right now, I can hardly see straight. All I can think is: My dad's locked away in a mental institution.
Jacob gives us a sad smile. "Like I already told you, he's at Saint Anne's Behavioral Health Hospital. If you want, I can place a call there for you and see if someone there can get you some information on how you could contact your father."
"Okay," I say weakly. "Can you please do that?"
He glances over his shoulder like he's looking for his supervisor or something. "I can't do it right now, but I can do it later. You could probably call the facility, too, but it might take you longer to find out the information you need. Red tape and all that." He gives me a small wink. "I'm really not supposed to do stuff like this, kid, but I want to help you out."
He rips off a sheet of paper from a legal notepad and pushes it toward me. He hands me a pen. "Here. Write down your number. I'll see whether I can find someone who knows how to get in touch with your dad. I'll give you a ring if I do."
I scribble my number down quickly. The paper is bright gold. It seems like the wrong color for this type of occasion. Whoever orders the prison's office supplies should really think about these kinds of things.
I hand him my number. "Thank you so much."
"Sorry I couldn't help more. I know how frustrating it can be when your parents keep things from you." He adjusts his baseball cap. "You should really talk to your mother about that."
I nod. I would if I talked to her about anything. "Yeah, I probably should. Thanks for all your help."
"No problem. I hope you end up finding what you're looking for." The way he looks at me makes me think that maybe he understands my situation more than he's letting on. I stare at him for a moment and then tug on Harry's shirt and drag the sorry pair of us out of McGreavy Correctional Facility.
Once we're outside, Harry's shades his eyes with his hands and looks off into the distance like he's staring out over the Grand Canyon or something other than an empty prison yard. "I thought you called."
"I did. I asked about visiting hours."
"You didn't think to ask if your dad was still here?"
I chew on the inside of my cheek. "I had no reason to think he wouldn't be." I pause and look at him. He doesn't turn to look at me—he keeps staring off into the distance. "Wait, are you accusing me of something?"
He drags his sneaker along the cement. The sun glints off his hair, making it look less brown and more blond. The air feels thicker than it did before, like the steam after a hot shower. It doesn't feel like March air. Maybe spring is here. Maybe Mrs. Styles' flowers will bloom soon. "I don't know, Taylor." He scratches the back of his neck. "It just seems like you're searching for reasons to delay it."
"Delay what?"
"Never mind."
I cross my arms over my chest. "No. Say it."
He turns to look straight at me, his eyes wide but empty. "If you don't talk to your dad before April seventh, you're still going to jump with me, right?"

"Yes." I say without looking in his eyes.
But I know, I can't.