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Agent Curran
The stench of shit, urine, and something unique to every prison Agent John Curran had ever stepped foot into permeated the corridor as an officer led him toward an interrogation room. He knew he was taking a risk in doing this, fully aware it might raise a few red flags with his superiors at the Bureau.
But it had been almost a month since he’d learned Claire Hale had visited Domenic Jaskulski in prison. Despite Ethan Shore combing through all her files, he’d yet to find anything about why she made a dozen visits to this prison, spending an hour with this man each time.
He may have been barking up the wrong tree, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling in his gut that Claire’s death and her visits with Domenic Jaskulski were somehow connected.
So, while Ethan tried to uncover what that connection could be, John Curran used the limited resources he did have. As a federal agent, it was well within his rights to visit an offender in one of his previous cases. Ensure the victims he was still incarcerated. That he wasn’t committing any new crimes. That their lives weren’t in danger.
That was all this visit was. Simply a run-of-the-mill check-in with a notorious serial stalker, rapist, and murderer.
Nothing more.
The officer stopped outside a metal door and pressed his thumb against the scanner. The door buzzed, and the officer held it open, allowing Agent Curran to enter the interrogation room, nothing but a table and two chairs sitting in the middle of the stark space.
Sitting in one of those chairs, his wrists cuffed and chained to a bar in the center of the table, was a man he helped put behind bars years ago.
A man he’d hoped would have received a state-mandated needle in his arm.
Sadly, the jury didn’t believe the prosecution met its burden in proving Domenic Jaskulski acted with the required intent to convict him of murder.
Instead, he was now serving a life sentence for rape, aggravated assault, manslaughter, and a slew of other charges.
But not murder.
“Agent Curran,” Domenic crooned in a refined, Southern drawl that had always sent shivers down his spine. It was class and intelligence personified, yet also contained a hint of something else.
Something malicious.
John glanced behind him, giving the officer a nod. When the door closed, leaving them alone, he refocused his attention on the prisoner.
“Mr. Jaskulski,” John replied respectfully in the hopes it would encourage his cooperation.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Domenic’s lips curved up at the corners. “I would call it unexpected, but it’s not. In truth, I thought you’d come by much sooner. It’s almost September.”
John lowered himself to the chair, placing a folder onto the table. Then he slid a hardcover book toward Domenic.
“What’s this?” he asked, brow raised.
“I heard you’ve been asking the library for this, but they’ve refused your request. I pulled a few strings.”
Domenic picked up the book, opening it to the first page, a smile pulling on his arguably attractive face.
His sandy blond hair showed some signs of aging, lighter and thinner, his face having more wrinkles than during his lengthy trial.
Regardless, no one could argue he wasn’t a good-looking man.
Which probably explained the piles of fan mail he still received from women obsessed with true crime podcasts and documentaries.
John would never understand how anyone could idolize a criminal, especially one who murdered women.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Domenic read as his eyes skated over the title page. “A wonderful story about a man who was wrongfully imprisoned finally seeking revenge upon those who stole everything from him.”
“Is it a story of revenge, though?” John asked.
Domenic’s eyes lit up over the prospect of being able to hold some sort of intelligent conversation with another person, something John knew he typically wasn’t able to do.
“What do you think the moral of dear Edmond Dantès’ story is then, Special Agent Curran?”
