Текст книги "Inside"

Автор книги: Brenda Novak

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

24

After leaving the infirmary, Peyton had returned to her office. She’d been too unsettled to go home and face Wallace and had needed a place to relax for a few minutes. But then she’d started going through the stack of items awaiting her attention and wound up working another two hours. Fatigue weighed heavily as she packed up to leave.

Her phone rang. Curious as to who would even know she was here, besides the skeleton medical staff working graveyard and the people she’d passed coming and going from the prison, she checked caller ID. It was an internal call.

“Hello?”

“Chief Deputy? It’s Sergeant Hutchinson.”

Peyton made a face. McCalley had given John the word that he was no longer under disciplinary action. He’d left her a voice mail notifying her that it had been handled. But she didn’t feel good about it, so she didn’t want to talk to John. “Yes?”

She wondered if he could hear the dislike in her voice.

“I just transferred Weston Jager to the SHU as you requested.” He sounded like the old John, the one who’d tried so hard to befriend her. But she didn’t understand why he felt he had to call her to report this. He had a line supervisor.

“Thank you. How does his face look?”

He chuckled. “Like he’s been hit by a train. That new guy, he really packs a punch.”

Peyton thought of Virgil’s knife wound. “I think he sustained his share of damage.”

“Still, for three on one, he handled himself pretty good.”

Irritated without fully understanding why, she clenched her teeth. “John, I’ve got to go. I’m exhausted. I was about to leave.”

“I’ll let you get some rest,” he said. “I just called to tell you that Weston passed me a note as I was moving him.”

“A note? What’d it say?” She covered a yawn. “That we have the wrong guy?”

“To ask you to come see him in his new cell as soon as possible.”

She didn’t want to go back inside the prison. “Did this note say why?”

“It said he has something very important to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t he share it with you?”

“I can’t say. Maybe he didn’t want me to hear. He was trying to keep his request to see you on the down low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to find out. I don’t know if it makes any difference to you, but I got the impression it might be worth your time.”

“Don’t tell me the prospect of spending the rest of his sentence in the SHU has caused a change of heart about his gang activities.”

“That’s possible. Maybe he’s ready to debrief.”

She doubted it. Things were never that easy. Not with someone as hardened as Weston. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she said. “But I’ll stop by before I go. Anything else?”

“Nothing, just a quick thank-you.”

“For…?”

“Agreeing to waive disciplinary action,” he said. “I’m really not the kind of person that whole thing made me out to be. And I want you to know I’m going to do everything I can to prove it.”

She felt too guilty taking any of the credit for his reprieve, or even letting him believe she’d been in agreement with it. “I’m afraid that wasn’t me, John. That was Fischer. He overrode my recommendation.”

“I see.” The stilted John was back. “Well, however it came down, I’m grateful.”

“You caught a break. Make it count, huh?”

“Thanks for your faith in me,” he said.

The sarcasm in his parting words echoed in her head long after she hung up. There was something about him she didn’t like, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. But maybe she was being too hard on him. He’d tried to be nice to her. And anyone could make a mistake, especially in the heat of the moment.

She just hoped a simple mistake was the extent of it. Because, inside a prison, mistakes like that could cost lives.

Skin’s sister was the spitting image of him. And that only made what Pretty Boy had to do harder. He couldn’t believe he was finally coming face-to-face with her and it had to be under these circumstances. Over the years, he’d imagined their meeting so differently. Since his own family didn’t give a damn about him, Skin had been generous enough to share her letters and pictures. Pretty Boy felt as if he knew her, and he would’ve liked her even if she wasn’t attractive, simply because he admired Skin so much. There’d even been a time when he’d thought maybe, just maybe, they’d wind up together someday. The idea of becoming Virgil’s brother-in-law, of helping take care of Laurel and her children, made him feel useful, as if he belonged.

And now he was going to kill her? It’d only been eighteen months since he and Virgil were cellies in Tucson. Shortly after he was paroled, Virgil was transferred to Florence and talk of his exoneration began to swirl. Pretty Boy remembered how eagerly he’d embraced the possibility because it meant they’d be able to see each other more often. The future had looked bright—until everything reversed itself. Now no amount of wishing would change it back. Skin had betrayed The Crew—betrayed him. He had to believe that or he couldn’t do what had to be done. The others believed it, didn’t they? Duty, loyalty, the oath he’d given demanded he retaliate. And if he didn’t follow through, he’d be the next to die. Or he’d have to go on the run and ramble around America with no friends, no support group, no job—always looking over his shoulder for fear someone from his past would catch up with him.

If only he’d been able to see this coming….

“Oh, boy, look what I found.” Ink squeezed past him to get into the room. “Pretty, ain’t she?”

Laurel shrank into the corner.

“You gonna tell me you haven’t heard from your brother now?” Ink sauntered closer. “He’s obviously up to somethin’ if you’re hangin’ out with a U.S. marshal.”

“Wh-where is the marshal?” she stammered, shaking.

“Where do you think?” Ink responded.

Terrified though she was, she glared up at him with the same stubborn defiance Pretty Boy had seen so often in Skin. “He’s d-dead?”

“Yep.” He dusted off his hands. “Pointblank made sure of that.”

“And the l-loss of a man’s life means n-nothing to you?”

Ink grinned. “Nothing at all. One minute he was creeping out to check on a noise. The next…” He whistled as he drew an imaginary line across his throat.

What little color there was in Laurel’s face drained away. “You’re an animal, you know th-that? You make the p-perfect argument for c-capital punishment.”

Pretty Boy resisted the urge to intercede as Ink yanked out his gun and strode forward. He told himself to let this happen, to get it over with so they could go back to California and he could try to forget. His situation gave him no other choice.

But Ink didn’t fire. He paused, glanced at the beds, then looked in the closet. “Where’re the kids?”

Hugging herself, she drilled him with another malevolent stare and refused to answer. “I said, where are the kids?”

She must’ve gotten them out of the house, because they’d been here at some point. The bedding was rumpled; there were impressions on all three pillows. She definitely hadn’t been sleeping in this room alone. How she’d done it, Pretty Boy didn’t know. The windows didn’t look as if they opened wide enough, but maybe they did.

Good for you. He could only hope Mia and Jake were well away from this house. He couldn’t tolerate seeing Ink kill a couple of kids, especially these kids. He’d watched them grow from babies via Skin’s pictures. Witnessing what Ink did to Laurel would be bad enough.

The veins bulged in Ink’s neck. “Answer me, bitch!”

“If you th-think I’ll tell you anything, y-you’re crazier than I th-thought!” Ducking her head, she covered up with her arms as if she expected that to be the last thing she ever said.

Ink grabbed her by the hair and dragged her up against him, placing the gun to her temple. “Tell me, or I’ll splatter your brains against the wall.”

She was hyperventilating, but she wasn’t pleading for her life. She wouldn’t give Ink the pleasure.

Virgil would be proud….

Ink struck her with the gun. “Tell me!”

“N-never!” she said, and surprised them both by spitting in his face.

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

Before Ink could make good on his threat, Pointblank poked his head into the room. “You’re not done? Come on, ladies, let’s finish up and get the hell out of here, huh?”

“The kids are gone,” Ink complained.

Pointblank had wiped off the blade of his knife, but the marshal’s blood still stained the handle as well as his fingers. The artery he’d cut when they lured the guy outside had spurted like a geyser, spraying Pointblank’s T-shirt and face, too. Now the marshal’s body was being used as a doorstop as the ever-widening puddle of his blood fanned out on the back porch. “So?”

“So Shady said to do them all.”

Pointblank grimaced. “They’re just kids.”

“Kids who are related to Skin! We didn’t come this far to do half a job, did we? How do you think that’ll go over with Shady? Besides, this bitch just spit in my face. She deserves to see them die.”

With a curse, Pointblank sheathed his knife. “Fine. They can’t be far. I’ll find them. But don’t make a production out of this.”

“What does that mean?” Ink called after him.

“Kill her now and be quick about it. Who cares if she spit on you? This is a job.”

That was the difference, Pretty Boy realized, the reason he put up with other members of The Crew but not Ink. Violence and crime weren’t a means to an end for Ink. He enjoyed inflicting pain on others.

To make sure Pointblank didn’t find those kids, Pretty Boy started into the hall. But before he could reach the door, Ink thrust the gun he’d been waving around into his hands.

“What the hell?” Pretty Boy tried to give it back. “I’ve got my own weapon.” He hadn’t taken his semi-automatic from where he’d shoved it in the waistband of his jeans, and that was telling, but he’d spoken the truth—he did have one.

“Hold it for me.”

“What for?”

Ink was lifting his shirt and undoing his pants, which made his intent clear.

“Come on, man. Don’t be a loser.”

“She deserves this. And I want Skin to see it. Take out that fancy-ass phone of yours and video it.”

“Oh, that’s smart. If the video falls into the wrong hands, they’ll put your ass back in prison and throw away the key.”

He whirled around. “And who’s going to give it to the wrong people? You?”

“I’m just saying you don’t create shit that can prove you’re guilty of a crime like this, man.”

“Which is why you won’t get my head in the frame, jackass!”

“Fuck you! Here, take your damn gun.” Once again Pretty Boy tried to return Ink’s pistol, but Ink wouldn’t take it.

“Film it!” Throwing her on the floor, he started pulling up her nightgown.

Laurel wasn’t going down without a fight. She was frantic—scratching and clawing and biting—but she didn’t scream. She was probably afraid that would draw the children to her, if they were still within earshot.

Pretty Boy felt just as horrified, enraged and helpless as she did. No way was he filming this. He’d seen a lot of sick shit in his life, could tolerate almost anything—except a man beating up on a woman or a child. Being part of The Crew wasn’t supposed to be like this. In prison, they targeted rapists and child molesters, punished them for their actions. Now they were becoming just like them?

“You getting this?” Ink grunted. She’d hit him, connected with his stomach, but it didn’t really faze him. He ripped her panties while trying to get them off her.

Pretty Boy opened his mouth to try and talk Ink out of what he was doing, but before he could make up his mind about what to say, Pointblank yelled from the front door.

“Found the little bastards!”

Crying filled the house. Pointblank was coming through the living room, bringing the kids to the bedroom—probably so Ink could do the honors. Pretty Boy didn’t believe Pointblank wanted to hurt those children any more than he did. But Pointblank had a better position in The Crew, greater authority, and he’d follow any kind of order before he’d lose that.

“They were standing out on the neighbor’s porch, shivering,” he explained with a laugh as they came closer. “No one was home, but they didn’t have the sense to go somewhere else. They just kept pushing the doorbell.”

What’d he expect? They were kids, man. Little kids.

God, he was in the middle of some messed up shit.

A bead of sweat rolled from Pretty Boy’s temple, stinging his eyes. He couldn’t let this happen, didn’t want any part of it or the kind of people who could do this. Ink and Pointblank—neither of them could measure up to Skin, no matter what Skin had done since being released from the joint.

Ink didn’t seem to care whether or not Pointblank had found the children. What Pointblank said, all the crying, none of it seemed to register. Now that he had Laurel’s panties off, he was too busy trying to force her legs apart to care about anything else.

From what he’d seen so far, Pretty Boy thought Ink should thank him for not filming. Ink was too stoned to do much more than punch and fumble.

“It’ll hurt less if you quit fighting,” he panted, and began to choke her.

She did what she could to free herself, but it was no use. In another second Ink would be pumping away—

A child’s voice, full of fear, broke through the melee. “Mommy? Mommy!” And that was the last thing Pretty Boy heard before he pulled the trigger.

His right arm jerked with the recoil, his ears rang from the blast and the smell of gunpowder burned his nose and throat.

Trying to convince himself that he’d really shot Ink and not just imagined it, he blinked several times to clear his vision. There was no blood, nothing like when Pointblank used his knife on the marshal, but Ink lay slumped over Laurel, motionless.

Pretty Boy expected to feel instant remorse, or maybe fear for what his actions would set in motion. Instead, he experienced a rush of satisfaction, a sense of resolution that put the conflict tearing him up to rest. He’d made his choice. Maybe he’d regret it later, but he didn’t regret it now.

“That’s what you get,” he muttered to the inert Ink. Ink was no better than all the other scumbags who’d been in the hat while he was in prison.

Pointblank came charging into the room, dragging the children behind him. “What’s going on?”

There was more blood on Laurel, who was shaking and crying, than on Ink. Pretty Boy wasn’t sure how that’d happened. The bullet must’ve gone all the way through him.

It took Pointblank a second to realize that the gunshot he’d heard had resulted in Ink’s death. When Laurel managed to escape from under his limp body, Pointblank did a double take. Then he gaped at Pretty Boy. “What did you do?”

“What I had to do.” Somehow Pretty Boy felt calmer, more like himself, than he had in weeks. But that calmness disappeared when Pointblank released the kids, who’d been tugging to get free and ran crying for their mother. “Are you crazy?” His voice ominous, Pointblank went for his knife. “Shady will kill you for saving her. He’ll kill me, too!”

Pretty Boy hadn’t thought this part through. He liked Pointblank more than Ink. No doubt Pointblank knew it. Maybe he was counting on their friendship to save him, because it didn’t make much sense to come at him with a knife when he was holding a gun. Or Pointblank understood that he’d better do what he could to defend himself because, after this, Pretty Boy had no choice but to fire. Not if he wanted to save Laurel and the kids. And not if he wanted to get safely away. “Then I guess I should do him a favor and take care of this myself,” he said, and pulled the trigger twice.

The children screamed. Laurel scrambled to her feet but was so unsteady she fell again. Still, she tried to pull her children behind her, to shield them. She didn’t understand why he’d done what he’d done, whether he’d kill again. She’d never met him before. For all she knew, he was on some murderous rampage….

Raising one hand to tell her it was over, he shoved Ink’s pistol in his waistband next to his own. Tears streaked Mia’s and Jake’s faces, but they were too terrified to cry. They’d seen more than any kids should have to see. But at least the blood staining their mother’s clothes wasn’t her own.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You—you were with them. Wh-why did you—?” At a complete loss, she stopped talking but her meaning was clear.

Hesitating in the doorway, he glanced back at her. “Virgil was once my best friend,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, he always will be. You see him, tell him Pretty Boy sends his best.”

“Pretty Boy?” she repeated.

“Rex McCready,” he corrected. He wasn’t Pretty Boy anymore. That was the nickname he’d been given by The Crew.

She gulped for air and dashed a hand across her wet cheeks. “Why d-did you come here w-with them if—?”

“Just be glad I did,” he broke in. “And whatever you do, don’t stay in Colorado. Take your babies far away, and if you want to be safe, don’t ever come back.”

25

It was nearly one in the morning. Except for some hushed talking, the occasional flush of a toilet or the jangle of keys, the Security Housing Unit was quiet this late at night but it wasn’t dark. It was never completely dark. The lights dimmed at 2200 hours after the first-watch shift change, but that was it.

Peyton’s heels clicked as she walked down a corridor fronting eight cells. From inside one of these “pods,” the SHU appeared smaller than it was in reality. Not in terms of building size—the structure was two stories and had a central command post that sat high above both tiers—but in housing capacity. One of the largest and oldest isolation facilities in the country, Pelican Bay’s SHU housed more than twelve hundred men in gray cells made almost entirely of concrete—the bed, the chair, the desk, everything except the stainless-steel combination toilet and sink. There were no bars on these cells like in old prisons. Painted bright orange, the doors were solid steel, except for round nickel-size cutouts and a slot for the meal tray.

Most inmates in this unit lived alone, but thanks to overcrowding more than a few had cell mates. Depending on the cell mate, sometimes it was better to be alone. Peyton couldn’t imagine spending twenty-two and a half hours a day locked in such a small space with the same person for years on end. She wondered how many marriages—even happy ones—could withstand that kind of close, unrelenting contact.

But going without human interaction wasn’t easy, either. Pelican Bay was designed with no windows except a narrow vertical slit in each cell. The convicts couldn’t see trees or earth or sky, or at least no more than a few inches of it. They couldn’t see the outside of the building where they were being held or other inmates because no two cells lined up directly across from each other. Twice a day corrections officers brought trays of food. Every three days they delivered soap, shampoo and toothpaste in little paper cups. Beyond that, SHU residents had very limited contact with officers, and rarely received visitors. For one thing, family and friends had to call ahead, set up an appointment and get clearance, which made it a hassle. For another, Pelican Bay was too remote. Most of the inmates came from L.A., a two-day drive. Even when they did get a visitor, they had to sit in a booth separated by Plexiglas and speak via telephone. There were men in here who hadn’t received a visitor in years.

Some mental health professionals claimed such extreme isolation pushed men over the edge, drove them insane. Pelican Bay was often the target of this kind of criticism. After what she’d witnessed, Peyton wouldn’t argue with that. At a minimum, she believed years in the SHU couldn’t be healthy, that it would do nothing to make these men less angry or less violent. Just the opposite was true. But she didn’t have a better option for curtailing gang activity. As soon as the government provided one, she’d be more than happy to implement it. That was actually one of the things she hoped to achieve in the foreseeable future. She wanted to incorporate more consistent and effective rehabilitation programs to see if that might lower the recidivism rate for Pelican Bay offenders; if so, other prisons might adopt a similar approach. The entire system needed a massive overhaul. Just for starters, Peyton felt the state should provide a structured integration program for offenders who’d be leaving conditions such as these to go back onto the streets. A whopping ninety-five percent of the twelve hundred who called the SHU home were eligible for parole, meaning they’d be free one day.

Weston didn’t have a cellie. Peyton preferred he be alone to reflect on the actions that’d landed him in the SHU. She hoped removing him from gen pop would isolate Buzz, shift the paradigm of power enough that Virgil could make some headway. Weston belonged in the SHU, anyway. This wasn’t a place one was sent by a judge. Only those who acted up on the inside or joined a gang came here.

Clearing her throat, she stopped at his new cell. “Sergeant Hutchinson said you had something to tell me?”

The holes in the door darkened, indicating that he was standing on the other side. “Why you doin’ this to me, boss?”

His voice sounded far more nasal than usual, due to the swelling of his nose. Peyton couldn’t help feeling a bit smug that he hadn’t gotten away with the one-sided beating he’d no doubt intended when he and his three buddies ganged up on Virgil.

“You know why you’re here.”

“No, I don’t!”

She adjusted the goggles she’d donned to protect her eyes, a necessary precaution since so many inmates created homemade projectiles they launched with the elastic taken from the waistbands of their underwear. Although the missiles could be dangerous in their own right, she was less worried about the pointy end of such objects than what might be smeared on them. The inmates used feces, urine, semen, anything they could to spread hepatitis and HIV. She wore a knife-proof vest for the same reason. It not only protected her from blow darts, it covered her vital organs in case someone tried to stab her by shoving a shank through one of the holes in the door. “Come on. You started that fight in the dining hall.”

“Who says it was me?” A flash of white told her Weston hadn’t bothered to dress for this little interview. He was wearing boxers and a T-shirt—standard apparel. Residents of the SHU hardly ever wore the yellow jump-suits they were given, even in the daytime. What Weston had on now, together with a pair of flip-flops, was pretty much what he’d have on tomorrow. There wasn’t a lot of incentive to dress when you never saw anyone. Some of the men in the psych ward refused to wear anything at all.

“You tell her, Wes!” someone shouted.

With so little sensory input, the inmates became very sensitive to any change in their surroundings—and eager for the smallest distraction. No doubt the man who’d just yelled wasn’t the only one listening in. Peyton didn’t have to worry about Detric Whitehead overhearing, though. She’d been careful to put Weston in a different pod than his fearless leader. But that didn’t necessarily mean Detric wouldn’t hear about what Weston had to say, especially if it was at all out of line. “You’re telling me it wasn’t? You didn’t start the fight?”

“No, ma’am. It was that new guy. Bennett.”

She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t even see both eyes at once, but she sensed that he was scowling. “Bennett picked a fight with you—and your three friends?”

“Yes! I’m not lyin’!”

But, of course, he was. That was what he did whenever it suited him. “On his first day inside, when he doesn’t know who you are or what you can do or what the consequences might be? I find that a little difficult to swallow.”

“Then swallow this!” someone yelled, and several others laughed, the sound of it echoing off the concrete walls.

Just as she’d thought she would, Peyton regretted coming. If not for Virgil, she wouldn’t have bothered. “I don’t know very many guys who want to walk into something like that.”

“Because other guys can’t fight like this dude can! He’s not scared of anything. You saw what he did to me, what he did to Doug and Ace.”

Peyton sighed. “You brought me all the way down here for this? So you can whine and complain?”

“To tell you this ain’t fair! Why am I the only one being punished?”

“You’re the ringleader.”

“That’s bullshit!”

Growing impatient, she said, “It’s late and I’m exhausted. Do you have anything to tell me or not?”

“Like what? What do you wanna hear? What did you think I was gonna do? Turn traitor? Snitch?” He sounded convincingly belligerent, but his eye suddenly disappeared from the hole while he slipped a folded piece of paper beneath his door.

“You’re gonna make me go J-Cat in here,” he continued, probably for the benefit of the men on either side of him. “This here is the bowels of hell.”

J-Cat was prison slang for “crazy.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I’m claustrophobic,” he insisted. “I can’t handle doin’ this kinda time.”

She retrieved his note and put it in the pocket of her skirt. “Then I suggest you curb your violent tendencies.”

“That’s all you got for me? That’s it? Oh, man, this is jacked up,” he complained, but when he shuffled back to his bunk, she knew his real message was in her pocket.

Virgil wanted to get some sleep. The painkiller the doctor had given him had made him sleepy. And he needed the rest to help him heal so he could cope with whatever came along tomorrow. But he wasn’t about to close his eyes while his little rat of a cell mate kept scurrying around, pacing and muttering. After what had happened in the dining hall, Virgil doubted Buzz would challenge him, not while they were alone. But if the Hells Fury told Buzz to shank him in his sleep, Buzz would have to do it whether he was scheduled to be paroled next month or not. Buzz had access to the gang’s new enemy, which put him in a tight spot. If he didn’t follow through, his buddies would kill him before he ever got the chance to walk out of Pelican Bay. If he did as they ordered, the authorities would charge him with murder and he’d be looking at another long stay, this time in the SHU. But that was what it meant to belong to a gang. The welfare of the group came before the welfare of the individual.

To ease the pressure on his stitches, Virgil rolled over as Buzz made another pass between the toilet and the door. “What’s your problem?” he asked at last.

Buzz’s eyes darted to him, but he didn’t stop pacing. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Then you’re tweaking, because you haven’t quit moving since I got back. Why don’t you lie down and get some sleep before you make yourself sick?”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Think about it lying down.”

He kicked the toilet. “It’s not that easy! Havin’ you here isn’t good, man. I can feel it. And I’m sittin’ on four weeks, just four weeks, until I get outta this shit hole.”

Virgil shrugged. “So what’s the worst that can happen?”

“You act like you don’t care about your own damn welfare, but you know what? You’re gonna care when they come for you. You got my man sent to the SHU. For that, he’s gonna have you strung up by your balls.”

“I think he already tried.”

Buzz ran his fingers along the wall. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“What, he’ll bring eight guys next time? How many of you pussies does it take to get the job done?”

“Man, you got a death wish!” he cried. Then he surprised Virgil by chuckling and shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe Virgil had actually called the HF pussies.

That was the slight softening Virgil had been hoping for. “If what I saw in the dining hall is the best you got, I’m not afraid of you or your friends,” he said. “Anyway, maybe by the time you come after me again, I’ll have some support of my own.”

Buzz quit laughing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one who told me to clique up. You guys want to cause me trouble? I’ll clique up with the NF and give you trouble.”

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “That gang’s for Mexicans. They won’t want you.”

“You sure?” Virgil felt fairly confident he could convince them. He made a better friend than he did an enemy—at least, that was what he hoped to convince Buzz of. “I could always say I have Mexican blood on my mother’s side.”

Buzz started fidgeting again. “Do you?”

“As long as I’m willing to do what needs to be done and I’m loyal, it won’t matter, right?”

“You’d be loyal to those spic assholes?”

“As long as they were loyal to me.”

“What the hell? What sort of white supremacist are you?”

“One who’ll fight as hard as necessary to come out on top. Nobody in here’s going to push me around, I can tell you that. Not even my own kind. Least of all my own kind.”

Buzz brooded on that for a few minutes, then said, “What if I talked to Weston? See what he has to say about recruitin’ you for the HF?”

A quick yes would be too suspicious. Virgil had to resist, put up a fight. “Hell, no. Your boys just shanked me.”

Buzz didn’t try to talk him out of his refusal. But he climbed up on his bunk as if he’d finally thought of a solution to his problems, which gave Virgil hope that the pain he was suffering because of that fight in the dining hall wouldn’t be wasted.

Remembering what Peyton had said when she came to visit him in the infirmary, he let himself drift toward sleep. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I close my eyes you’re there.

No matter how this ended, at least he had that.

Wallace was still up, looking annoyed as he used her remote to scan through the television stations on her TV. Peyton couldn’t help resenting his presence even more now. Why wasn’t he gone? Or at the motel?

Telling herself to be diplomatic—she or Virgil might need Rick’s support as they navigated the next few weeks—she tried to bear up under the stress of having him around, in addition to what Weston Jager had said in his note, and forced a smile as she walked in.

“Hey, what’s going on?” she asked, her tone friendly.

He dropped the remote and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’ve been waiting for you. I felt bad I was tied up when you came home earlier. Didn’t mean to chase you off.”

“You didn’t chase me off. How’s it going with your wife?”

“You know how it is with relationships,” he said. “One minute everything’s fine and the next…” He clicked his tongue. “She’s coming up with all these stipulations and demands.”