Prologue:

Cassia's serving time for 18 months

I don't deal with "what if's", anymore. I did, once, when I was a child facing monsters that lived in the master bedroom. I wanted to be saved. Most nights, it didn't matter who played Savior. In my wildest dreams, all I'd ever wanted was to trade prisons. But over the course of 18 months, I learned I preferred the cold solace of the state penitentiary. 3 meals a day and living off Ramen suited me nearly as much as the ball gowns had. Suffering in silent meditation, broken up by visits from my kids or brothers, gave me time to consider my life's achievements. Miss America first runner up turned lethal Outlaw.

I watched my cellmates sob to a God who'd long stopped listening, begging for a second coming. I witnessed women who'd never learned to survive without a man figure out that their pussy didn't work miracles when the guard they serviced ratted them out to save themselves. Just like a man. Self serving, over inflated absorption wrapped in whatever fabrics they could afford. Cheap polyester correction's officers uniforms or million dollar suits or well worn leather, most men were the same. They'd use you, tease you, take from you, but they wouldn't prop you up when you sagged. They wouldn't mop your tears when you begged for mercy.

Some were loyal, sure. The Redwood Originals were the true meaning of ride or die. But they were the exceptions to many rules. Their letters held space for me to laugh. Their photos served as a reminder of great times. But the person who planted hope deep inside concrete walls was Jennifer Grace Andrews. She wrote daily. Sometimes a novel, sometimes a semi poetic couplet. She sent photos of my kids, of my man when he got out, of my Harley, of herself, and of my achievements. Jenny wrote to me about everything from Club life to our childhood. She started each letter with a question.

Would you rather have to take care of 1 elephant sized Tasmanian Devil or 100 Tasmanian Devil sized elephants?

Would you rather spend another year locked up or watch Tig shove a pool ball up his ass?

Would you rather never eat chocolate again or never ride your Harley again?

Would you rather have an emerald cut or oval cut diamond?

Would you rather hear my amazing news now, in a letter, or in person?

Would you rather seek revenge or live in a new normal side by side with your enemies?

Cassia, would you change our childhood and erase our trauma even if it meant erasing our memories of each other?

Do you want Katie to have a sister?

How do you heal when you can't spill blood?

I couldn't remember a time Jenny had been afraid. Not of our father, or heights, not of blood or violence, not even of failure. She charged like a bull and fit herself into the situation. She didn't wait for anyone to make room. She also made me think. The only thing you have to pass time in prison is think. So I thought and then I penned my answers to her questions and saved them for later.

Neither. In what situation am I near either of those animals? Also imagine the headlines: "crazy woman killed by wild animal(s) in what certainly could've been an avoidable situation." I'm going out with more gravitas than that, babe.

That one's hard. On the one hand, I have no interest in seeing Tig's ass hole. On the other, can a pool ball fit up there?

No more chocolate. No question. What part of "motorcycle enthusiast" do you not understand?

Tell Jax to skip the engagement ring and instead start the extension on the house he promised me way back when. But if the ring is a must, or if I totally misread this question, I'd go with oval. Emerald cut is tacky, and also what Miss Iowa's fiance proposed to her with after Miss America my year. She was literally the most annoying human being after that. Even Miss North Dakota, who was crowned Miss Congeniality, told her to shut the fuck up.

Tell me in person, I want something more to look forward to.

Hypothetically speaking, revenge every day and twice on Sundays.

I'd erase our trauma and forget you only if I could guarantee we'd meet again as who we are now. The child versions of ourselves weren't us, not really. We were who we had to be while fighting against demons and trying not to completely lose our sanity. Who we were then isn't how I'm going to remember you. I'm gonna hold you in my memory as the girl who sat on Happy's lap and learned he was a (hypothetical) killer and asked to join us. I'll remember you wrapping Katie in a fuzzy blanket shouting "Burrito con Katherine" or when you strapped Abel to your back with a harness and took him for a ride on your bike around TM. I'll remember you smiling while standing on Adam from Denver's shoulders in the pool, in that photo you sent me. My favorite memory is when you hopped onto the bar on the night that got me here and grinned in the face of the devil. I don't look fondly on the nights we held each other and cried. Or of the pageant titles we had to battle each other to win. But if the only way I got to keep you in my life was to endure those years of abuse, I'd endure it every time.

I think another baby might literally kill Jax and that Abel would be driven crazy by another sister, but it would be nice for Katie to have a little sister.

If you ever figure that out, let me know. Or better yet, don't, because then I might heal myself out of a job. I get out tomorrow. Maybe I'll give these to you then.

18 months in prison is a lot of time to think about the moments that got you here. With Jenny's help, I swelled on every second that I could remember. I didn't ponder what if's, or would you rather's, but I asked myself if creating my ideal life was worth the lives I'd ended and the pain I'd caused.