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23
ST. LUMIS
MONDAY
A man’s low voice brought her back to an aching head. Pippa listened but couldn’t make out his words, yet she knew instinctively to play dead. She slitted her eyes. Her vision was blurred at first, but she could see a man in a black hoodie standing near her, listening to someone talking from the cell phone in his hand. She could tell he was slightly built, his blue jeans loose, and his voice sounded on the young side, maybe thirties.
Turn around. Turn around so I can see you. But he didn’t. He paced away from her. He was wearing black high-top sneakers. Had she seen him during her walkabout yesterday? The jeans, the black hoodie. She didn’t think so. If she’d been alert, would she have noticed him, noticed something was off? She didn’t know. She held very still, eyes still slitted, and listened.
Then he raised his voice. “Yes, yes, I know.” She saw him shove his cell phone into his pants pocket. Before he turned back to her, he pulled up a handkerchief from around his neck and tied it over the lower part of his face.
Kill the fear and think cold, that’s what Hibbard, an instructor at Quantico, had preached. She heard Black Hoodie crunch over some broken glass, coming closer, until he stood over her. She imagined him studying her face. Don’t move. Play dead. Finally, she heard him step away and she slitted her eyes again. The only light came from weak sunlight through a high broken window. She gathered herself mentally and waited for him to come close again, but before she could act, he leaned down and whispered against her ear, “I saw you blink. So you’re playing possum?” He struck her with the butt of his gun behind her left temple. Pippa saw a flash of light, then nothing.
24
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CORRECTIONAL TREATMENT FACILITY
TEMPORARY PRISON OF MARSIA GAY AND VERONICA LAKE
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Veronica Lake pressed herself against the prison wall, out of the stiff, cold wind, trying to keep warm. It didn’t help. She was alone and cold, always cold. She looked out over the yard with its dozen or so prisoners, some sitting on benches and gossiping, trash-talking, some shooting basketballs at the ragged metal net. She hated and feared these women, at least the coarse, violent ones who preyed on the rest. The few who were nice tried to keep to themselves and out of sight of the leaders, like she did. She saw three of the bullies approaching Leah, pitiful little Leah, who was awaiting trial for credit card fraud. She was small, no more than twenty-two, and rabbit-scared all the time. She sat huddled on a bench, knowing they were slowly moving in on her from all sides, trying to look nonchalant and not succeeding.
Early on, Veronica might have gone to help her, but not now. She knew she wouldn’t stand a chance. She had to protect herself. Her left arm still ached like a rotten tooth where one of Angela’s thugs had kicked her. She turned away when she heard Leah cry out. Where were the freaking guards?
Leah was crying now, deep gulping sobs, begging them not to hurt her. Angela wasn’t there, but the rest of them were mocking her, calling her vicious, ugly names, taunting her about what they would do to her. Veronica looked away again, she didn’t want to see it. She heard a punch, heard a guard shout—about time—and turned to see three guards running toward Leah, who still cowered on the bench, her arms covering her head. One of the prisoners cracked her knuckles in Leah’s face and motioned to her friends, who melted away. Another prisoner picked up a basketball from the ground and began bouncing it and whistling, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Veronica knew Leah wouldn’t tell the guards anything. She would be fine for now, until the next time.
Veronica automatically looked down to check her watch, but of course they’d taken even that away from her. She looked at the clock above the door to the yard. Ten minutes until she’d be escorted to the dining room. She began pacing, slapping her arms to keep warm, and, as always, wondered what would happen now that she’d given Marsia up to the prosecutor for a reduced sentence.
Beautiful Marsia. Her lover, so smart, so talented, the one she’d believed would be with her forever. But she’d had to face it. Agent Savich was right—Marsia had manipulated her from the get-go. She’d drawn her in, lied to her, all the while professing her love, and Veronica hadn’t seen it. More likely, she hadn’t wanted to see it. She’d jumped like a fish to bait. All she’d seen was this brilliant, wonderful person who’d complimented her, told her how much she loved and needed her, would always need her. Blah blah blah. She’d been a fool, a blind fool. It sounded so trite. She hated being a cliché.
Marsia had no conscience. She lied fluently when she needed help getting what she wanted, no matter the cost to anyone else. Veronica had even killed for her, no hesitation.
Veronica accepted now that Marsia was a psychopath. It had never made sense to her, Marsia’s endless desire—no, obsession, a sick obsession—for wealth and her absolute disregard for anyone else. Veronica was thankful they were kept apart here, awaiting trial. The last time she had seen Marsia, she’d looked at Veronica sadly and shaken her head, nothing more.
Veronica realized she was hitting her fist against her palm. Stop it. It’s done. You’re going to testify against Marsia, and she’s going to stay in jail forever.
Yes, she would testify. It was the right thing to do. It was what she deserved. The prosecutor, a middle-aged matron who badly needed a makeover, had guaranteed Veronica a maximum sentence of ten years. Ten years? She’d be forty-six when she got out, with no friends and very little money, since most every dollar she had was already in her hotshot lawyer’s pocket. He liked to pretend he was the one who’d talked the prosecutor into the lighter sentence in return for her testimony, acting like he’d scored a huge win for her. Who cared? She’d testify, then do time in a minimum-security prison, without inmates like Angela there—at least that’s what her lawyer had assured her. And hey, he’d said, I got you only ten years! The prick.
The warden had warned her her life could be in danger, despite all his precautions. What precautions? The prison grapevine was high octane, he’d said, every tidbit, big or small, always got out in no time. Within hours everyone knew she’d turned on her partner and would be the star witness for the prosecution against Marsia Gay. She’d gotten nasty looks, but no one had confronted her, so far. The guards were supposed to keep a close eye on her, the warden had said, and maybe they had for a few days. Veronica tried to make sure she was rarely alone or without a guard nearby to escort her wherever she needed to go. Even when the door of her cell clanged shut behind her, she was still afraid, more so with each passing day. She had only one goal: to survive the night. She was being transferred tomorrow.
She looked again at the clock. Only two more minutes and she could go back inside. She looked blindly around, lowered her face into her hands, not to cry—there were no more tears, only the endless ache in her heart at what had happened, at what she’d done and couldn’t ever undo. Even when she got out of prison in ten years, she had no one left to care if she lived or died. How would she possibly live?
When her time was up, a guard escorted her to the prison dining room and left her at the door. He nodded across the room at another guard, who took one last look around the cafeteria and nodded.
Veronica stood a moment, frozen in the doorway, prisoners walking around her. She kept her head down, no eye contact with any of the other prisoners. She knew many of them condemned her for testifying against Marsia, the ultimate betrayal.
She smelled spaghetti sauce. She hoped some stingy meatballs were in the sauce but doubted it. She met the other guard’s eyes. He nodded to her and motioned her in. She squared her shoulders and walked into the cafeteria, chin high.
Ignore all of them. What they think of you doesn’t matter. You’ll be gone from here tomorrow. Eat your dinner. Go to bed. That’s all you’ve got to do.
