It's not there. I don't know how to explain that I'm not brave. I'm just missing the piece that would make me scared. The car accident took it.
"The court order grants immediate access." I hold up my notebook. "This is why I'm here."
He stares at me for a few seconds and then he reaches for his radio.
The cell is smaller than I expected. The bed bolts to the floor, the desk is welded to the far wall, and the toilet and sink are smooth stainless steel with every edge rounded flat. Two paperback books sit on the desk—the only personal items in the room, and I'd bet someone had to fight to get them approved. A camera blinks red from the ceiling.
Jude Chadwick lies on the bed with his eyes half-closed and his right hand curled loose against his stomach. The restraint team cleared out. Whatever they injected is pulling him under. His breathing drags slow and forced, the rhythm of someone fighting sleep after a long shift.
The chart logs three sedation events over the past nine days. The first two entries list dosages in milligrams, timestamps, staff signatures. The third entry—today's—lists a timestamp and nothing else. Someone left the dosage blank, left the clinical-note field empty, and didn't sign.
I pull my pen from behind my ear and click it.
"Mr. Chadwick." I keep my voice at the same pitch I'd use to greet anyone. "My name is Hope Turner. I'm the independent behavioral monitor assigned by the court."
His eyes open. Not all the way—the sedative drags at his lids. But he turns his head toward me, slow, fighting the chemicals for every inch of movement.
He looks at me. Green eyes, clear despite the drugs pulling him under. They lock on mine, direct and unblinking.
"How did you sleep?" I ask.
He doesn't answer. He just watches me, like he has all the time in the world and I'm the first interesting thing that's walked into it.
I wait. The chart behind me says this man has been sedated three times in nine days, and nobody has written down why.
"I'll be back tomorrow and we can have a chat," I tell him. "Try to get some rest."
His eyes close. The sedation wins.
Chapter 2
Jude
My fingers won't close.
I tell them to. They curl, slow, one at a time, each knuckle catching before it bends. By the time I have a fist the guard who shoved the tray through the slot is gone.
The dose doesn't sedate me. It disconnects my body from my brain. I tell my hand to move and it gets there late, heavy, like the signal had to fight through something thick. I reach for something and my arm follows a full second behind the thought. Maybe two at peak load, right after the injection, when my tongue tastes like aluminum and my chest has to be reminded to breathe.
They think this stops me.
Their response to an alarm runs eleven seconds, door to door. The dose slows me by a few seconds. The math still works in my favor, but I let them believe otherwise. Eight years of patience. I can be patient longer.
The ceiling has cracks in it. I counted them before the injection and I'm counting them again because there's nothing else to do with a body that won't take orders. Seventeen in the northeastquadrant. Twenty-three running parallel to the light fixture. The drug pulls me under but I make myself look at each one, make myself stay present, because the alternative is letting them win.
Heavy. Thick. My chest rises and falls. I breathe because I make myself breathe.
The next morning the fog thins enough to sit up. My limbs feel like they've been poured from concrete but my hands close on command, for now that's enough.
Light footsteps in the corridor. Not a guard—too soft. Not Kennedy—there's no hesitation at my door, no fumbling with keys while working up the nerve to enter.
The lock cycles and she steps in, with Gage standing behind her.
Short. Dark ponytail. Blue eyes too light for her olive skin. She looks at me and nothing happens to her face.
I've watched people sit in the chair across from me since they locked me up. Psychologists. Monitors. Students who lasted one visit and never came back. They all go through it. The moment their brain catches up to what their body already knows. Harlan, a young psychologist, sat down, met my eyes, went the color of old milk, and asked the guard to let him out. He transferred out the next week. Every human being I've met has had that moment. The part of them that knows what a predator looks like wakes up and they can't sit still anymore.
She pulls the chair closer to the wall, sits, crosses her ankles, then opens to a fresh page. She doesn't check the panic button on her belt or look at Gage for help.
