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“Deacon.” His voice is deep, his dark-brown eyes watching me as I shuffle into his office, keeping my head down.
“Warden Fisher,” I whisper.
He holds his arm out, indicating that I sit in the chair on the other side of his desk. I hesitate, bringing my face up, my eyes meeting his. I’ve never been called into his office, not even when I’ve been hurt. But somehow today feels like a turning point. Like my life is going to change after this meeting.
I bite my bottom lip before shaking my head and stepping forward, sitting down slowly and folding my hands in my lap.
He shuffles a pile of papers into a folder on his desk, his hands scraping against them before he lays them flat and clears his throat.
“You’ve requested parole several times.” It isn’t a question but I nod anyway. “And you’ve been turned down every time.” I nod again as he leans back in his big office chair. “If you’re still wanting out of here, a new program has been funded, and I think you’re the perfect candidate.”
My brows fly up on my forehead as I lean forward, wanting—no, needing—to know more.
“Program?” I ask, my voice a little louder now.
A slow smile starts to creep up his face, making the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes more pronounced. He runs a hand through the short, gray hair on his head.
“It doesn’t take a parole board to get you on this program: it’s at the Warden’s discretion, and I want to offer you a place on it.”
“Me?” I ask, pointing at my chest. “Why me?”
He watches me for several seconds, I become uncomfortable so I shift in my seat.
“Because you deserve to be given a break and to have a life beyond these walls.” He’s silent for a beat. “If you say yes, you’d be released in a couple of days. A parole officer will meet you and explain all of the relevant details to you.”
My breath catches in my throat. I could be out of here in a few days, breathing in the fresh air and wearing something other than these scratchy uniforms.
“So, what do you say, Deacon? Am I signing this document to put you on the program?”
He holds up a piece of paper and I stare at it, my mouth opening and closing as I try to form words.
“Yes,” I finally manage to say, my heart beating so fast I think it may explode.
The sound of an alarm on the gate beeping breaks me out of my own head, signaling that it’s been unlocked. The hinges creak with age as it’s opened and I look up just in time to see the prison guard wave her arm at me, shooing me out of there with a look of impatience on her face.
It’s too good to be true, I just know that any second now the warden will come out of nowhere and tell me it was one big joke: that I’m not really free, that I have to stay inside this prison for the rest of my sentence.
But as I step forward, no one says a word, and when I’m finally on the other side of that locked gate I see the row of windows that look out into the free world. I finally start to believe that this is real. I’m actually getting out of here. For days I hoped and prayed that it wasn't some kind of mistake, that it was actually going to happen. And now it is.
I turn my head and take one last look back into the place that I called home for the last two years. I wish I hadn’t because as soon as I do, a pair of dark-brown eyes meet mine, pure evil and the promise of pain shining through them before I quickly turn back around.
Forget her: forget all about her.
A gruff voice calls, “Alexis Deacon?” and my head whips to the side before my eyes widen at the tall man that stands in front of me. For the last two years in prison I’ve seen the same ten guards in rotation, so having this man in front of me right now quite frankly scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
“That’s me,” I croak out, pointing to my chest with my pointer finger.
He holds his hand out to me but I cringe as I look down at it. I’m just about managing to stand a few feet away from him so there’s no way that I’ll be able to shake his hand.
His eyes search mine and when he sees what must be shining in their depths, he shrugs it off, swiping his hand through his black hair before saying, “We need to get going, are you ready?”
I frown as he spins around, my feet stuck to the floor by some invisible force. “Going where?” I ask.
He turns back around, his dark-brown eyes flicking between each of mine before he blows out a breath. “The Warden didn’t explain?”
“Erm…” I look around the empty waiting room, not knowing what to say or do. “He told me that my parole officer would tell me the specifics of the program when I got out.”
He watches me for several seconds. “Here.” He points to one of the blue plastic chairs that sit in rows along the edge of the room. “Sit down.”
