Center LaneBy Christine Clemetson
Hammond Stone swiped his forearm across the grimy mirror. He dabbed his index finger to the tip of his tongue and smoothed back a sprig of loose hair. Clutching the sink edge with both hands, he hung his head.
Focus.
8:02 am. Carla would just be getting into her Mercedes.
He straightened his shoulders and patted the ID number embroidered on his left breast pocket. Today he was finally going to a better hell. Whether she knew it or not, Carla was going to help him get there.
Hammond yanked a tattered notebook from under his mattress and thumbed through the dates and times on each page. On the last page, he circled 8:51 a.m. in red.
“I’ll be there, my love,” he whispered.
A siren pierced the concrete walls, releasing the cell gates. Hammond returned t
