Текст книги "Depraved devotion"
Автор книги: Morgan Bridges
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
CHAPTER 24
GHOST
Geneva is a worthy adversary.
It’s been a week since she last visited or texted me back. Seven days of silence, no matter how many different numbers I use to contact her, or how many provoking messages I send.
It’s fucking frustrating. But I admire the strength of her resistance.
After she confronted me over Mason’s death, I thought I’d pushed too hard. Dug too deep. But Geneva, however rattled, didn’t break.
Even so, it’s time for a change in strategy.
I sit up on my bed at the sound of footsteps approaching. The gait is distinct, a familiar cadence with a subtle drag every third step. There’s a slight hitch in the rhythm that most wouldn’t notice.
Ah, the perks of being a genius.
Duncan Carr is his name, the guard that drags his left foot. I clocked that when I first arrived and stored that tidbit of information, along with every other observation I’ve made about this place and the men inside it.
The uneven gait is the result of an old injury, most likely picked up on the job. Carr tries to hide the discomfort, but every time he steps down on it, the skin around his mouth tightens. All it would take is one well-placed kick and he’d go down faster than a prostitute getting on her knees for a dollar.
Most people don’t understand just how much they reveal in the smallest, unguarded moments of their lives.
Carr appears outside my cell a moment later. The package in his hands is at odds with the masculinity of this place and the man holding it. The box is a pure white, decorated with a Bordeaux-colored ribbon that’s gathered into a large, voluminous bow on top. To complete the look, there’s an ivory card, snuggled underneath the strips of silk.
“You have a package,” Carr says.
I offer a lascivious grin. “Oh, boy, do I.”
“Not that kind of package, you pervert.”
“Rude.”
The guard lifts the box. “This one.”
When I make no move to retrieve the delivered item, Carr frowns. “What is this anyway? You going to tell me?”
I shrug, taking on a neutral expression. “That depends… Are you going to come with me to deliver it?”
Carr grips the box a little too hard. The ribbon flutters with the movement, the deep Bordeaux bow absurdly out of place against the backdrop of cold metal and grim concrete.
He frowns. “Deliver it?”
“I didn’t stutter.”
“You think this is funny?” he asks, a thread of nervousness weaving its way into his tone.
“Funny?” I give him my best wide-eyed innocent look. “Not at all, Officer Carr. Just trying to gauge how far your job description extends. Carrying my little gift all the way to its intended recipient? That’s above and beyond the call of duty, don’t you think?”
He shifts his weight, the faint drag of his left foot betraying him once again. “Your recipient better be in this prison, or I’ll—”
I shoot to my feet. “Or you’ll what?”
Carr jerks back at my sudden movement, his eyes widening with alarm. Before he can fully process the idea of me threatening him, I rush to the door with a speed that makes him suck in a breath of disbelief. The sound of my palms slapping metal as I grip the bars is sharp and his gaze snaps to my hands.
A costly mistake.
“Or you’ll what?” I repeat, my voice low, dangerous, curling around him like a noose.
When he shifts his weight, his focus still on my hands, I lift and extend my leg through the bars. The sole of my boot now rests against his left shin, right below the knee on the spot where his old wound lingers, an unspoken weakness.
The second I apply pressure, his composure shatters. Carr’s face twists in pain, and he stumbles back, the box in his hands nearly slipping from his grip.
“Be careful,” I say, my tone laced with amusement as he struggles to right himself. “Wouldn’t want you to drop that. It’s fragile, you know.”
Carr’s breathing quickens, his shoulders heaving as he regains his balance, but the damage is done. He’s not looking at me with the usual disdain, but with something deeper. Fear. Not the kind that keeps you up at night, but the kind that makes you piss yourself before you start sobbing.
“Do you really believe you have authority over me?” I tilt my head. “Do you think these bars will protect you? That I can’t get to you whenever I want? I wouldn’t make that mistake again, if I were you.”
Carr doesn’t acknowledge my threat with a verbal response, but the nod he gives me is enough. His submission has been acquired.
He thrusts the package through the bars, his voice tight. “Here.”
I take it with deliberate slowness, brushing my fingers against his as I pull it into my grasp. He flinches at the contact, stepping back quickly, his left leg dragging more than usual as he retreats. I smile, watching the way he hurries to put distance between us.
“Wait. I need a pen.”
The guard stops. It’s against the rules, but after my demonstration of power, we both know they don’t apply to me.
He nods. “I’ll get you one.”
“Thanks, Carr,” I call after him, my tone light, almost cheerful. “You’ve been such a big help. Really above and beyond.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps walking with his shoulders stiff and his footsteps echoing unevenly down the corridor. I watch him until he’s out of sight, then turn my attention to the box in my hands. The ribbon is soft beneath my fingers and the scent of magnolia seeps through the packaging to waft under my nose.
I walk over to my bed and sit down before opening the box with care. Inside lies the candle I ordered, white and pristine, the wax so smooth it practically gleams. I run my finger along the surface and the scent intensifies, making me smile.
This candle is a more personal approach to luring Geneva back to me. It’ll be a soft but undeniable reminder of my presence, something she’ll breathe in with every flicker of the flame.
I set the candle back in its box, wrapping it in the folds of Bordeaux ribbon, draping the rich silk around it like a garment. Once the packaging is restored, I get to my feet and walk to the door.
“Officer Carr,” I sing-song. “Hurry up. I have shit to do.”
CHAPTER 25
GENEVA
Sarah and I settle into the backseat of the ride share. The hum of the engine vibrates through the seats as the driver pulls onto the quiet street. The air smells of the spicy dish Sarah insisted I try tonight, clinging to our clothes, a reminder of the good food and even better company.
The city is dark, dotted with the warm glow of streetlights and passing headlights. Despite the calm surrounding me, there’s a tightness in my chest, one I’ve been trying to ignore all evening. Sarah’s been good at keeping me distracted, but the silence between us now allows my thoughts to creep back in.
André Bisset and Luis Dominguez.
Their names have been replaying in my mind like a broken record since the moment Ghost gave them to me. I looked them up, using every government database at my disposal. Tools I wasn’t supposed to touch for something this personal, making every keystroke a gamble, a risk to my job.
And what did I find?
Nothing.
Not a single record. No criminal histories, no financial ties, nothing in the databases I’ve trusted for years. These men are ghosts, just like the man who gave me their names.
The disappointment lingers, a constant ache in the pit of my stomach. I can’t decide if it’s the failure itself or the thought that Ghost might have been lying. Maybe this was all just another game to him, another way to fuck with me.
I glance out the window, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across my face. My reflection stares back at me, distorted in the glass, and I wonder for the hundredth time if asking Ghost for information was worth this heartache.
Yes. I’ll chase any lead if there’s even the smallest chance it will bring me closer to the truth behind my parents’ murders. No matter what it does to me emotionally.
Sarah snaps her fingers in front of my face, dragging me back. “Earth to Geneva. Are you listening?”
I blink, forcing a smile. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
She narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t press. “I was saying you need to loosen up. Seriously, when’s the last time you had a little fun that didn’t involve analyzing someone’s psyche or reading some depressing case study?”
“I’m literally having fun right now,” I counter, waving my hand toward her as proof.
She scoffs. “This isn’t just fun. This is fun and me dragging you out of your self-imposed hermit hole for some basic human interaction. Bare minimum, Geneva.”
“Harsh.” I roll my eyes, but her words hit closer than I’d like to admit. She’s not wrong. Lately, my life has felt like an endless cycle of work and avoidance, as if I’m trying to outrun something. Or someone.
“Okay, let me rephrase,” she says, her voice softening. “I miss you. Like, really miss you. You’ve been… distant. Even for you. And that’s saying a lot.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, guilt tugging at the edges of my thoughts. “I know. I’m sorry. Things have just been… a lot.”
Sarah reaches over and squeezes my hand, her warmth cutting through the chill that’s been following me. “I know, but don’t let those things stop you from living your life. You deserve to be happy.”
“Thank you.”
“And nothing brings joy like shopping.” She grabs her phone, scrunching her forehead in concentration. “By the way, you still haven’t picked a dress. What about this one? It says, ‘sexy professional that wants to get bent over a desk,’ but without being too slutty.”
I laugh, not only in amusement, but out of pure happiness. Tonight is the first time that my best friend has acted like her old self. The person she was before the assault.
“Try again, but with less skin showing.”
“You’re no fun. Okay, hear me out. This one.” She tilts her phone toward me. The dress is sleek, floor-length, and emerald green, with just the right balance of elegance and edge.
I glance at it and shake my head. “Too bold.”
“Too bold?” Sarah’s jaw drops as if I’ve just insulted her personally. “You’re literally the keynote speaker for one of the biggest fundraising events of the year. You’re the university’s star alumna, Geneva. You need bold. You’re not supposed to blend into the background like you do at work in that depressing office of yours.”
“First of all, ouch. Second, I’m not trying to blend in,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “I just don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
She smacks my leg and looks at me as if I’m the one who just slapped her. “Trying too hard? You’re going to stand in front of a room full of high-profile donors, alumni, and university hotshots because they’re basically worshipping you for being the only person who’s ever created a psych profile on him.” She lowers her voice on the last word, leaning in closer like we’re swapping secrets. “I mean, come on. Own it.”
I shift in my seat, glancing out the window as the city lights streak past. “It’s not just about Ghost. They’re asking me to talk about my work in general. Convictions, profiles, and how psychology intersects with criminal justice. Those types of things.”
Sarah rolls her eyes dramatically. “Puh-lease. They’re asking you because you’ve put away, what? Thirty? Forty criminals? And because you’re the only person in the world who’s had a front-row seat to the inside of that psycho’s mind.” She pokes me lightly in the arm, grinning. “Face it, bestie, you’re a big deal.”
“I’m not—” I sigh, cutting myself off before I can finish the sentence. There’s no point in arguing. Sarah’s right. The university has made it clear that my keynote isn’t just about my achievements as a criminal psychologist; it’s about my connection to him. Ghost. The man whose mind I dissected and mapped like some dark, endless labyrinth.
Except I never finished the psych profile.
And I won’t.
“They don’t even care about the speech,” I murmur, more to myself than to Sarah. “They care about the name attached to it. Ghost’s name is more than famous. It’s legendary now.”
“They asked you because you’ve worked your ass off.” Sarah softens, the note of teasing in her voice fading. “You’ve earned this. Yes, the Ghost thing is part of it, but it’s not the whole picture. Don’t discredit all the work you’ve done. Or all the people you’ve helped. Including me.”
Her words hit a tender spot. On impulse, I throw my arms around her. She hugs me back and pats my back as if I’m the victim. Not her.
Sarah doesn’t bring it up often, but when she mentions the way I testified in court, I want to smile and throw up. Prison is too good for Frank “Skinner” Burns. The serial rapist deserves to burn in hell and have his dick cut off. Not necessarily in that order.
When Sarah was crumbling under the weight of her trauma, I was there. I helped her find her footing again, guided her through the storm she thought she’d never escape. She’s always credited me for that, though I’ve never felt like I did anything extraordinary. Listening, supporting, or even testifying—that’s what you’re supposed to do for the people you care about.
In the end, Sarah’s right. I’ve done important work that was due to my profession, and I should be recognized.
After pulling back, I exhale slowly, leaning my head against the headrest. “You’re right. They’re lucky to have me. I just hate public speaking.”
“I’m always right. Which is why you should let me pick your dress.”
“Fine.”
Sarah claps her hands, releasing a tiny squeal, and I immediately regret my decision. Or I would if her face wasn’t so joyful. I’d give that keynote speech butt-naked to make my best friend happy. Hopefully, she doesn’t consider that as an option.
The driver clears his throat, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “This your stop?”
I look out the window at my apartment building, the familiar silhouette looming in the dark. “Yeah.” I reach for the door handle but pause, turning to Sarah. “Promise me the dress will be something appropriate.”
Sarah grins, shaking her head. “Appropriate is not in my vocabulary. I’ll find you something that screams, ‘Professional who likes to get railed on the regular.’” She winks.
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “Thanks. I think.”
She waves me off, but her smile is warm. “Text me later, okay? And seriously, stop underestimating yourself. You’re going to kill it.”
“Thanks.”
I exit the car and step into the crisp night air. As the ride share pulls away, taking Sarah with it, I stand there for a moment, staring up at my building. The windows are dark, save for the glow of the one that belongs to me. Everything looks as it should, but there’s an unease that crawls up my spine. It’s something I’ve been experiencing ever since I first laid eyes on Ghost.
I shake off the unpleasant feeling and head toward the entrance. It’s just nerves from thinking about the keynote. Nothing more. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I walk into the elevator and press the button for my floor.
The doors slide open a minute later, and I step into the dimly lit hallway. My footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor as I make my way to my apartment, fishing my keys from my purse. I unlock the door and push it open with a sigh of relief. The familiar scent of lavender greets me, coming from the diffuser I forgot to turn off.
Everything seems normal…
I lock the door behind me and set my purse down on the counter, flicking on the rest of the lights. My apartment is quiet and peaceful. It’s my sanctuary from the evil in the world that I face every day. But the longer I stand there, the more the sense of foreboding grows, until the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and my breath catches in my throat.
Something’s different.
I can’t pinpoint it immediately, but the air is dense now, charged with an invisible tension. My heart rate picks up as I scan the room, my gaze darting to every corner. Finding nothing doesn’t stop me from striding across the room to grab the baseball bat by the back door. Hefting it into a defensive stance, I make my way to my bedroom.
When I push the door open, I freeze.
On my bed, next to my stuffed elephant, sits a box. It’s pristine and beautiful, white and tied with a maroon ribbon that gleams in the soft light of the room. My stomach drops, and my pulse roars in my ears.
Eyes locked on the package, I take a step forward, my breathing shallow. The stuffed elephant, usually perched on my dresser, has been moved. The sight of it, paired with the box, makes my hands shake and the bat wobbles in my grasp.
I approach the bed slowly and reach out on instinct but stop just short of touching the ribbon. Who sent this to me? And how in the fuck did they get into my apartment?
My first thought is Sarah. It’s hopelessly naïve of me, but that doesn’t stop my train of thought. She’s the only person who has a key. My friend could’ve snuck in earlier and left this gift here to cheer me up or to celebrate my achievements.
But I know Sarah. She wouldn’t do this. She knows how much I need my home to feel safe and untouched. On the off chance it was her, she wouldn’t have moved the elephant.
After setting my bat on the bed, I reach down and pick up the ivory card tucked under the ribbon. My fingers tremble as I open it, the elegant script staring back at me like a taunt.
Magnolias bloom, masking death’s decay.
Illuminating the shadows, where I wait.
Never let the flame that binds us fade.
Every breath you take is mine to claim.
The words blur as a wave of nausea washes over me. My knees go weak, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, clutching the card in my hands. My heart pounds against my ribs, hard and fast, as if trying to escape my chest.
He was here.
Ghost was here, in my home. In my bedroom. The thought is paralyzing, and my body stiffens although my mind races with questions I can’t answer. How did he get in? How long was he here?
I glance around the room as if every shadow is alive and threatening. My breath comes in shallow pants as I clutch the card tighter, its words like a brand seared into my mind. The walls press in and the faint scent of magnolias fills the air. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s undeniable.
My eyes dart to the corners of the room, to the closet, the curtains, the doorframe. Every creak, every distant sound from the building amplified, echoing in my ears like a war cry.
Is he still here?
The bat is within reach and I grab it, rising to my feet despite the unsteadiness in my legs. The card flutters to the mattress, forgotten as my survival instinct takes over. If he’s here, I have to know.
The closet is my first choice. I slowly open the door like there’s a bomb about to detonate. And… nothing but my clothes and shoes.
I move to the bathroom next, ripping open the door with less hesitation this time. The space is empty, but that doesn’t stop my heart from jumping in my throat.
“Get your shit together, Geneva,” I mutter. “Ghost wouldn’t have left the box if he was planning on talking to you.”
I sweep through the rest of the apartment, checking every corner, every hiding place, until I’m certain there’s no one here. The sense of being invaded, of having my space violated, clings to me. The magnolia scent lingers, stronger now, filling the air with its oppressive sweetness.
Back in the bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed with the bat resting against my knees. I look at the box again, the ribbon still perfectly tied, the pristine white surface untouched. Curiosity rises, too strong for me to ignore.
“Damn it.”
My hands tremble as I untie the bow and lift the lid, revealing the candle inside. It’s smooth, polished, and elegant. A benign object, yet so deadly because of the giver.
“Why?” I whisper, the word barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Ghost wouldn’t send a meaningless token of affection. Everything he does has a purpose. It’s part of an ongoing strategy.
This candle is a message.
So, what is he trying to tell me?
CHAPTER 26
GHOST
It’s go time!
If only I could get some popcorn for the main event.
I lean against the wall flush to my bed, my attention solely fixed on the small screen in my hand. I’m cradling the phone, not just to keep it hidden from curious glances aimed at my cell, but because it’s my only link to Geneva.
The camera outside her building flickers to life as the ride share pulls up to the curb and my skin prickles. I don’t need the grainy image to tell me she’s arrived, since I was notified the moment her location pinged nearby. Still, I watch as she steps out of the vehicle, hungry for the sight of her.
My cell is musty and cold, but that doesn’t matter. Not with the way my blood heats whenever I look at Geneva. Even the stale air around me now vibrates with my anticipation. This might be the closest to happiness I’ve ever been…
Aside from the first time I saw her.
When Geneva reaches her apartment, I sit up straight, my fingers gripping the phone tightly as I watch her unlock the door. Her hesitation is subtle but there, the slightest pause before she steps inside. The second the door is locked behind her, she exhales, releasing a bit of stress.
I shift on the mattress, adjusting the brightness setting as the cameras inside her apartment flicker to life. After a quick sweep of the room, she strides to the back door, and I grin. I know what she’s after. Sure enough, she grabs the baseball bat propped in the corner.
“That’s my girl,” I murmur.
Geneva hefts the bat in her hands, testing its weight, tightening her grip as she moves through the apartment. The rigidity of her stance and the thorough sweep of her gaze over every inch of the place is entertaining. She’s preparing for a fight that isn’t coming.
At least, not yet.
When she finally moves to her bedroom, my breathing accelerates, my pulse drumming an unsteady cadence. The first camera angle in this room isn’t quite right, so I cycle through three more until it is. Until I can easily make out the stiffening of her body and the way her lips part on a gasp.
Her reaction is exquisite. The rush of satisfaction that slams into me is euphoric, and I groan from the pleasure. “Go ahead, Geneva,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “See what I’ve left for you.”
When she finally sets the bat down to reach for the card, I bite my lip to keep from moaning again. Although, that doesn’t stop my dick from getting hard.
Her hands tremble as she unfolds the note, her lips moving silently as she reads my poem. Watching her unravel, caught between fear and anger, is perfection. I love the way her fingers tighten around the card right before her knees buckle and she sinks onto the mattress. I love the way she stares at the parchment in desperation, every fiber of her being dying to know why I left it and what it all means.
If she wants answers, she’ll have to come to me.
Geneva grabs the bat and jumps to her feet. She moves like a ghost herself, quiet, methodical, scanning her apartment for threats she’ll never find. It’s fascinating, really, how she’s caught between instinct and reason, how her mind tries to rationalize what her gut already knows…
I was there.
The camera allows me to follow her through every space until she returns to her bedroom and opens the box. She doesn’t destroy the candle. I knew she wouldn’t. She’s too curious, too tied to the connection she refuses to acknowledge. Instead, she sets it down carefully, like she’s afraid of breaking it, and clutches the card tightly.
“Why?” Her voice is barely audible, but I don’t need sound to know it’s filled with frustration.
I watch as she sits there, the bat forgotten at her side. The candle, the card, the scent—they’re all pieces of me, woven into her home, her life, her very breath. A satisfied smile spreads across my face. They’re not just a message. They’re a promise.
Geneva is mine.
The need to touch her gnaws at me, but I shove it aside. Patience is the result of control. And control means knowing when to wait. I may not be able to fuck Geneva yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not time for the next step in my plan.
The clanging of metal echoes through the corridor, jolting me from my thoughts of Geneva. The sound grows louder as someone approaches my cell. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The rhythm of the steps and the faint drag of a worn sole tell me it’s Officer Jennings. A man who prides himself on his authority but who’s insecure enough to overcompensate with posturing.
Although if we had a dick-measuring contest, he’d cry for sure.
When Jennings reaches my cell, he pauses, one hand gripping the bars while the other rests on the baton at his hip. He’s stocky, with a gut that spills over his belt, and a face that’s permanently red from alcohol consumption. His uniform is crisp, but his boots are scuffed and muddy. Attention to detail is only plausible when it suits him.
“Yard time,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”
A slow, easy smile spreads across my face. “You’re hurting my feelings, Jennings. When have I been problematic?”
His eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Don’t play games with me. We both know you’ve got a reputation.”
“Reputation?” I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “I’m nothing if not a model inmate.”
Jennings snorts, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one else is listening. “Model inmate, my ass. I’m letting you out because it’s protocol, but the second you do anything sketchy, I’m throwing your ass in the hole.”
Here’s the thing about Jennings… he talks tough, but he’s easy to read. The way his fingers twitch near the baton and the way his gaze darts to the corners of the room when he thinks I might be watching too closely tells me he’s scared. Not enough to keep him from doing his job, but enough to put him on edge. He’s not afraid of a riot or a fight.
He’s afraid of me.
And I intend to keep it that way.
“I’ll behave,” I say smoothly, rising and sauntering over to the door. “Scout’s honor.”
“You’re no boy scout,” he mutters, unlocking the door and stepping back quickly, keeping a safe distance as I walk out. “Don’t do anything stupid. You don’t want to test me.”
I flash him another smile, this one colder. “Oh, Jennings. You act like I wouldn’t kill you just for the fun of it.”
He doesn’t respond, just jerks his head toward the corridor. I follow, my pace measured, my hands loose at my sides. He’s watching me closely, his body tense, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.
As we step into the yard, the air shifts. It’s charged, but what else can you expect when there’s a large group of murderers gathered? Inmates linger in small clusters, their voices low and their gazes sharp. The sun beats down on cracked concrete and deadened grass, and the smell of sweat clings to everything.
I scan the space, my gaze slipping over the clusters of inmates with practiced ease. They’re predictable, every group adhering to their roles: the posturing thugs, the opportunists watching for weakness, and the loners who think invisibility equals safety.
Off in the far corner is a lanky, wide-eyed inmate who’s pacing, his boots trampling the grass underneath. His movements are methodical, almost rhythmic, and his fingers twitch as he walks, like he’s counting steps or running calculations in his head.
Hello again, Junior.
I watch him for a moment longer, my mind already working. He’s perfect for what I have planned. Someone like him doesn’t need to be threatened. This guy just needs the right kind of pressure, the right kind of promise.
“Jennings,” I say without looking at the guard. “You can relax now. I’m just here to enjoy the fresh air.”
He grunts in response, but I can feel his gaze on me, his skepticism hanging in the air like a challenge. Let him doubt me. Let him watch. By the time I’m finished, he won’t even realize he’s part of the plan too.
For now, though, my focus is on Junior. This one’s not a fighter by choice. He’s cerebral, but not in a way that makes him immune to manipulation. In fact, it makes him ideal.
Junior’s anxiety is a tangible thing, wrapping around him like a shroud. It’s in the way his shoulders hunch and how his gaze darts to every shadow as though expecting something to leap out at him. He’s already trapped in his own mind.
I approach slowly, unhurried, as though I’m just taking in the sun like everyone else. Junior glances up as I draw closer, his eyes locking onto mine for half a second before darting away.
“Afternoon,” I say smoothly, keeping my tone light. I stop a few feet away, close enough to get his attention but far enough not to spook him.
Junior slows his pacing but doesn’t stop. “What do you want?” His voice is low and guarded. He doesn’t look at me again, his focus shifting to the ground as his fingers wiggle at his sides.
I let out a soft chuckle, crossing my arms. “Relax, Junior. I’m not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite, actually.”
His jaw tightens at my nickname for him, but he doesn’t correct me. That’s good. He’s pliable, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. “I’m not interested.” He picks up his pace, his movements more erratic now.
I step closer, just enough to cut into his path, forcing him to stop. He stiffens, his gaze darting to the groups of inmates scattered across the yard as though looking for an escape.
“Someone’s been messing with your stuff, haven’t they?” I say.
His head snaps up, his wide eyes brightening with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?” I tilt my head, studying him. “The way your stuff has been moved, your space violated. The books with missing pages, so you can’t fully understand the text. Then there’s that note you found yesterday.”
His lips part, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he schools his expression. “How do you—”
“Let’s just say I notice things. I also see patterns, Junior. And the pattern here? Someone’s fucking with you.”
He swallows hard, his fingers twitching again as he looks away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb,” I say, my tone sharpening just enough to pierce through his denial. “You’ve felt it. The looks. The whispers. They’re closing in, and you’re running out of time.”
I take a step back, giving him space to process. It’s important not to crowd him. Not yet.
