Page 20

In fact, he doesn’t speak at all. I assume that’s the reason for the guard, but it could just be the fact that money talks and allows people certain luxuries even inside a penitentiary if you know the right people. CGP is state funded, but the warden here seems to watch over things with a certain amount of bias.
Warden.There’s someone I don’t think I’ve seen in a while. I know Warden Bradshaw keeps an eye on the security cameras and occasionally comes down if inmates get into a scuffle, but on a day-to-day basis I can’t say I ever really see him. Not that I have much free time to look around for him, but anytime I hear about something needing to be handled or dealt with it’s almost never the warden who comes out. Sometimes I hear the staff mentioning him, but the most time I’ve spent with Bradshaw was when I got transferred from the Supermax. He made damn sure I knew who he was, claiming he knew all sorts of people who could make my life hell when he escorted me personally to my cell, but nothing’s ever come of those threats. I keep all the details in the back of my head though so I never let my guard down. I don’t trust Bradshaw, or any of the other guards and officers onsite, anymore than I do most of the inmates. Bernie is probably my one exception.
I raise a brow when Bernie turns over his whiteboard and starts scribbling something.Thisis why I think money talks, because if anyone else here suddenly decided to opt for selective mutism I doubt we would be trusted everyday with a whiteboard and marker, much less allowed tonever say a fucking word.
Don’t get me wrong. In a place where I’ve decided to make no friends, Bernie is a nice distraction with all his quirks. We don’t talk, obviously, but the whiteboard lets us communicate while his guard dog glares at us like I’m going to turn around and beat Bernie to death with it.
A moment later, he points to the whiteboard.
Someone is here to see you again. The man and woman.
I glare at him and sit back again. “I know Jo and Vinny are coming back, Bernie. The FBI won’t let them go back home while there’s a killer on the loose.”
He shakes a finger at me, swiping the board clean to write a response.
Your protege?
My eye twitches. “No. Just someone obsessed. I don’t have a protege. Stop listening to gossip.”
Bernie smirks, tapping the board again by the word protege. I glare at him and shake my head, which only seems to entertain him. “Go bother someone else. Where’s your stalker been lately?”
He laughs, but it's silent. I’ve never heard Bernie make a sound since he was admitted last year.
His hand flies over the whiteboard again.
They are very interested in those two. One of them is Joelle?
I glare at Bernie. I’m thirty-two, and he’s got to be close to a decade younger than I am. College age I think. Silent for a reason unexplained to anyone who’s an inmate at the penitentiary. Occasionally he gets visitors, and every once in a while one of the college kids who sits in and studies me tries to ask about him, but I’m not interested in talking about Bernie. I don’t know him, but he can be entertaining to spend time with.
Strange but entertaining.
“Yes,” I tell him, leaning back against the bench. I don’t always lie to Bernie, but I like to omit. He’s just a curious, bored man trying to fill the endless time that the penitentiary offers. Besides, there’s always someone following him around within listening distance, so even whispering is a moot point. I don’t like that.
He nudges me, and I turn and glare at him. Bernie is one of the very few people I let get close to me here, mostly because he’s absolutely harmless so far as I can tell. I guess I could be wrong and wake up dead one day for trusting the wrong person, but Bernie seems content to stay here forever.
When I focus on him again, there’s blonde hair behind his head. Porscha is sitting on the upper part of the bench, watching us silently like my personal judge. I grit my teeth and stare at the spot over Bernie’s head.
She should fade away. My guilt over her is nonexistent. I’m sorry for how things played out, not for letting Porscha die in the end.
Bernie jabs me in the arm, and I glance down expecting more notes on the board. Instead he points away from us back towards the building, and if the guards are coming to get me already I guess my outside time is going to be cut short today.
Of course it’s Wallsburg, gesturing towards me as he gets closer. “Get up, Constantine. You’re a popular boy today. Feds brought back your little ex-girlfriend and they would just love to let the two of you chat.”
I don’t know what exactly I had hoped for after seeing Wallsburg, but getting sat down behind a pane of glass to talk to Jo and Vinny through one of those damn phones isn’t my idea of chatting. The agents usually do interviews in the visitation rooms, but the glass divider between us means even if I wanted to, there’s no touching.
I would definitely land myself in solitaire if I tried something like that, but the desire to do so is strong. Protected by the glass they resemble a power couple, Jo’s stiff back making her look almost the same height as Vinny as he slouches. Jo is closer to the phone, glaring at it like she’d rather bite off her own hand, and immediately the thought makes me chuckle to myself.
Morbid, and gross, but that reminds me of Porscha. I shouldn’t find that funny but after all the shit she put me through, her death feels just.
Behind the two of them I can see the group of agents. This feels like overkill, and for the time being Sterling and Jensen are busy chatting with two guards, while Tyler and Gabriel seem set on watching us. My guess is each individual is assigned an agent who’s job is to do nothing but watch them. I study the two, trying to decide who’s supposed to be Jo’s shadow today and decide it must be dear Gabriel. I haven’t had the pleasure to speak with Tyler yet, I’ve only been introduced.
Again, what do they expect me to do behind the glass? I’m still cuffed too, so maybe they think I’ve learned to do magic in my solitude and I’ll just beam out the door.
Wishful thinking.
Finally Jo grabs for the phone a little bit too roughly, holding it between their heads instead of pressing it to her ear.
The sarcasm is impossible to stop, and it’s a reflex to put up walls like that. “Hello, lovebirds.”