Page 10 of Fatal Pattern

The warden’s spine straightened as if someone had pulled a wire taut through her vertebrae.

She speared Tori with a stare. “What’s the purpose of the visit?”

Tori started to speak, but Blade jumped in. “We’re hoping Sullivan can remember some details from his time on the force. Following up on old leads.”

Warden Quick’s skeptical expression suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced, but she nodded slowly.

“Fifteen minutes. Sullivan’s in confinement, and I don’t want him out of his cell longer than necessary.”

“Understood,” Tori said. “We’ll keep it brief.”

“See that you do.” The warden nodded once to Trussler and waved to a guard behind the bulletproof glass.

The electronic buzzer made Tori flinch. Steel bars groaned open ahead of them, and they stepped into the corridor that would lead them deeper into the heart of the prison.

Trussler’s heels clacked off the polished concrete like gunshots. Blade’s shoulders stayed locked beside her. Some genius had cranked a morning talk show loud enough to wake the dead. The cheerful chatter about celebrity gossip crashed against the walls until it dissolved into meaningless noise. Probably the point. Keep the inmates distracted, keep them from thinking too hard about the bars.

They passed the commissary, where inmates lined up for their weekly purchases. Ramen noodles, instant coffee, and soap that cost three times what it should. A few faces turned toward them. Some curious, some bored. Some calculating. She recognized Aruajo from D-block, a lifer who’d been nothing but respectful during his sessions. He lifted his chin in greeting, and she returned the gesture.

Trussler motioned to the intersection ahead. “Sullivan’s been moved to Interview Room C around the corner here. He’s been cooperative this morning.”

Cooperative. Prison speak for not throwing feces or threatening to kill everyone in sight. Sullivan’s file painted a picture of a man who’d lost everything to alcohol and rage, taking the lives of four officers in a workplace shooting that had made national headlines. How he’d managed to avoid the death penalty, she wasn’t sure.

They stopped outside the interview room, and Tori’s pulse thudded as she peered through the reinforced glass rectangle in the door. Her stomach twisted so hard it nearly folded her in half.

There he was. Damien Sullivan. The man who claimed to have found her that night. A corrupt cop. A convicted killer. Probably a liar. And yet, her only shot at the truth.

He sat stiff at the metal table, shackled at the ankles and wrists. A chain snaked from his waist to a ring bolted in the center. Salt and pepper stubble covered hollow cheeks, and his skin had the gray pallor of someone who hadn’t seen real sunlight in years.

If he found her that night, what else had he seen? What else had been buried along with her parents?

Trussler shifted and hooked his thumbs on his duty belt. “There’s a panic button on the wall. Standard response time is fifty-two seconds. If something goes sideways, you’ll be on your own until we breach.”

“You ready for this?” Blade’s blue eyes searched her face.

Ready? She glanced at Damien through the window. She’d been carrying her parents’ unsolved murder her entire life like a stone on her back. Ready didn’t factor into it. “No. But I’m going anyway.”

“You heard the warden,” Trussler said. “Fifteen minutes.” The door buzzed open with a metallic shriek.

Sullivan straightened, drawing his chains across the table as he put his hands in his lap. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. Blade slid into the one beside her.

This was it. Twenty-six years of questions but no answers. No leads. No witnesses. No hope. She’d read every detail that had trickled into public record. A mention here, a court filing there. Not once did she read a mention of Damien Sullivan.

“Mr. Sullivan, I’m Dr. Crew. This is Detective St. James.” She laced her fingers on the cold metal. No aggression. Just control. “Corbin gave me your message. He said you specifically asked for this meeting. You said you were the responding officer the night my parents were murdered. You claimed you found me. We drove four hours for the rest of the story. Don’t waste our time.”

“What happened to your neck?” Damien didn’t even try to hide his smirk.

Her fingers found the bandage before she could stop herself. Shoot. The stupid Band-Aid screamed weakness. She should’ve known better in this place.

“I guess I cut myself shaving.” She dropped her hand. “I’m not here for small talk, so get to it.”

“Sure you did.” Damien’s gaze slid to Blade. “I know you.” He tilted his head, studying him like a specimen. “Yeah. You were that chubby kid I booked for the pier stabbing. Funny how that works. Me in chains, you with the badge.”

Blade crossed his arms and leaned back. “Yeah. Hilarious. I’m not the one in shackles.”

She wasn’t about to let Sullivan yank them around. “Spit it out, Sullivan. Say what you have to say, or we walk.”

“Ah, the feisty ones always made interrogations interesting. I miss that.” He drew in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. “But know what I miss most?”