The downturned edges of his mouth and drawn eyebrows express his dissatisfaction.
“You don’t agree with my diagnosis?”
His even breaths are audible in the quiet space between us. “Every lock has a key.”
I frown. “My wording was figurative.”
His mouth presses into a firm line, giving nothing away. Idecide that’s acceptance enough, and end the session by crossing into the main room and opening the door to alert the officer.
I hover by the hallway as Grayson is unshackled from the floor restraint and secured to be transferred back to Cotsworth. It’s a tedious and loud process that grates my nerves every time the chains clatter and locks click.
When he’s ready, the corrections officer escorts Grayson forward to meet the other armed guards in the waiting room.
As Grayson passes, his hand grazes mine—the lightest brush of his finger against the side of my palm. It could be mistaken as an accident, but the point of contact heats my skin, speeding my pulse.
I shut the door and cup my hand over the inked key.
6
LOCKDOWN
GRAYSON
Prison cells don’t clang shut like they do in movies. At upgraded facilities like Cotsworth, steel-composite doors—reinforced with ballistic glass—replaced the outdated, barred design, keeping level-three inmates like me cut off from any outside contact.
I’m ordered to stand inside my white cell and face the cot. With my back to the guards, one of them unshackles my cuffs while the other keeps watch, before the cell door slides into place with a hollowclick. Once the door is locked and I’m sealed inside, I turn around.
Cotsworth did away with solitary. It’s now referred to as enhanced security confinement. I’ve had this six-by-eight room all to myself for the past year, and my space is sparsely decorated with the only things I hold of value.
I don’t need many possessions. Too much tends to clutter a life, detract from what’s largely important.
On the one mounted plastic table is a stack of puzzle boxes, the most recent one completed to display a scenic view of theMaine coastline. Sent to me by one of my fans. I have a number of those. Killer groupies is what the prison guards call them.
In the middle of my cell, a precast pull-up bar extends from the ceiling, specially designed to prevent inmates from harming themselves. And along the longest wall, two large posters: Kells Castle, and a labyrinth. I got the labyrinth myself. The other was a gift from the groupies.
The lights blink out, and the dim overhead track illuminates the cell in an eerier orange glow. Downtime for an hour before the pitch-black. I pull off my jumpsuit, toss it into the corner, and push up my thermal sleeves. Then I stretch out on my cot, staring at the swirls of orange on the ceiling.
Prison is all about routine and order. Most inmates come from a place of chaos, making time in prison painful. That’s the punishment. Strict rules don’t affect me the same way; I grew up being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit. Being here is like being back home, and I’m biding my time just as I did there, because nothing stays the same.
Change is the one constant you can depend on.
Someone once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad, and this place is full of madness. The choice to adapt or not is what sets inmates apart. Those who acclimate to the system, and those who rebel and lose their shit.
In a system designed to strip every choice away, it’s the only one you have.
The guard passes my cell on his round, giving me thirty minutes to myself. I spring off the cot. The labyrinth poster is easily removed to reveal the true treasure hidden beneath.
The collection of images and articles I’ve amassed over the past nine months are arranged in a spiral collage on the wall, starting from when I first began my research, to her most recent trial. The newspaper clipping of her assault on the courthouse steps. The first day we met, and my confirmation that London needs me.
I run my finger along her cheek, the image so lifelike I can recall the feel of her soft, warm skin as I grazed her hand. The flesh of her palm marred by a scar she tries to keep hidden, and the ink that bleeds through to taunt me with its secrets.
The outer ring of the collage goes farther back in time, information sourced from the deepest, darkest waters of the web. A girl with dyed blond hair. A decorated officer of the law. And the wreck that changed the outcome of the girl’s life.
I pluck the most recent photo of London from the wall and bring it closer. Her hair is styled down, falling in loose waves over one shoulder. She’s not wearing her glasses, and I try to find every gold fleck in her eyes.
Before the blackness takes the meager light, I paste the image in the center of the collage and back up a few paces until I’m beneath the pull-up bar.
I’m a man obsessed, I can admit that. I knew she’d test me. From the moment she requested an interview, I questioned her motives, wondering why she wanted it so badly. The journalists gave up easily, but not her—my girl persisted.
