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I sneer up at her. “You and one fucked-up FBI agent, Porscha dear. Now, why don’t you go charm someone this routine still works on?
A scowl ripples across her face “Oh, Alastair, what did I ever see in you?”
For the first time in years, I decide to say it out loud. What do I have to lose? “A boy that looks a little like the man who fucked you over?”
She lets out an enraged scream, pivoting away from me at that. When she starts tearing down the clothes hanging around the room, it’s no surprise. I shouldn’t be poking the bear seeing as she’s about to leave, but it’s hard to help myself. Porscha ruined my life, and I’m still bitter about it.
She does a full circle in her rage, throwing a tantrum like a child as her voice hits an ungodly pitch. I flinch as it vibrates through my head, knowing I’ll have a headache that’s going to linger afterwards.
Then, like a fool, I close my eyes.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been in prison for over a decade that my senses aren’t as sharp as they used to be. Maybe it’s the drugs Porscha has been pumping into my body. But I wasn’t prepared for the sudden shock of pain that was planted in my leg and began to bloom.
I cry out as my eyes fly open to see the handle of the knife protruding from my leg.
The psycho bitch stabbed me.
When I look up at her, her eyes are wild—those green orbs colder and sharper than I’ve ever seen them. “You might remind me of James, but you aren’t him, Alastair. Soon, you’llbenothing. Even your superfans won’t remember you when they have me to idolize.”
She turns as I gasp, fighting to grab the handle of the blade. She didn’t stab downwards into my thigh, she stabbed at an angle into the side of my leg, near my hip. The handle is long and the sound of her footsteps receding fades to the background as I stare at it.
Fuck me.
The ketamine drip is dulling my senses but not enough to numb the pain, and without a full damn injection I can feel the burn of the wound instantly. There’s none of the numbness I’ve become accustomed to over the last few weeks, and all the joints and muscles that I’ve struggled to wiggle and move while I’ve been down here roar to life.
I groan, swallowing down any other noises. I need to see if I can get the blade out, because bleeder or not, I can’t do anything about the wound while I’m trapped here. And even if she stabbed me, she’s given me the one thing she’s tried to avoid this entire time.
A way out.
If I can survive the damage she’s done.
Chapter 8
“This is preposterous,” Warden Julius Bradshaw growls. “I’ve been on suspension for weeks! Enough of your ridiculous claims. I need to get back to CGP.”
I press my lips together, eyeing Captain Lance Wallsburg. I’ve avoided having this meeting until now, but with the Citrus Grove Penitentiary under the interim watch of a new warden while the FBI investigates this one, things are tense. It doesn’t help that the Warden is demanding to be reinstated, and he’s ready to go in front of a judge to do so.
“This is an ongoing investigation,” I remind him, speaking before the captain can. Kyle’s father has a vendetta against me, even though I wasn’t involved in his son’s death. We barely work together now, the FBI spearheading almost the entirety of the CGS case from my father’s house. It may be unorthodox, but it’s less of a headache this way.
Getting back from Vinny’s family home last week left me with a lot of questions about the couple, but, as Jensen and Tyler spent most of my outing blowing up my phone about this meeting, I didn't have time to think about it. Julius threw a fit last week when I was unavailable for a meeting, and I thought maybe he finally realized that the FBI has nothing to do withreinstating his job, but it was a false hope. He stormed over to the local PD and Captain Wallsburg finally had to phone me. It’s been a grueling afternoon, and at this point I just need the day to be over. We’re making no progress on the case, and additional problems like this really don’t need my input, yet here we are.
Vinny sent me an inadmissible recording, and I’m not sure what he wants me to do with it. Gloria is proving that the Ajellos are interfering with an active, ongoing case, but this won’t hold up in court. I need something to convince a judge to give me a warrant to go searching for the book, but it feels like a wasted effort. If the book is anywhere, it’s probably with Massimo or thrown on the side of the road, purely out of spite. Either way, it’s more than likely not in Gloria’s house in Citrus Grove, and I don’t particularly care right now about what other illegal shit the Ajellos are hiding.
“That I had no part in,” Bradshaw growls, and I realize I missed something else he said. He presses his hands to the desk, looking between us. The police captain stands behind his desk, and I stand to the side of him. “Dr. Rowths - sorry,Porscha Surwright, had intel on the prison. Likely from her connection with your son, Captain.”
Captain Wallsburg slams his hands down on the desk, too, a vein protruding in his forehead. The stress is eating at him; exhaustion is etched into his face and he sports deep, dark bags beneath his eyes. Even the exhaustion can’t diminish his rage as he glares between us. “Kyle was killed by a madwoman. She might be your official copycat. Kyle didn’t feed her any intel on the prison, Bradshaw. My sources tell me you had conversations with Porscha too. Maybe you gave her the tips.”
“Porscha learned about the tunnels somehow,” I interrupt, and both sets of eyes turn towards me. Neither of these men are off my radar, and there’s still speculation about the Warden’s involvement with Porscha. “The schematics forthe prison aren’t online, you have to find access to the official blueprints to even figure out where the access point is.”
“So she got in good with someone at the county registrar’s office,” the captain argues before turning his glare back to Bradshaw. “Or the warden.”
“I value my job,” Warden Bradshaw fires back. “The conversations I had with Ms. Surwright were during the time she was presenting herself as Ms. Rowths-Spurig and none of those happened in person.” He paused and his countenance grew sad and weary as he softened his gaze. “I saw Kyle almost every day. He loved his work. I imagine he decided to partner with Porscha because he knew there was no more growth for him at the penitentiary. None of the superior officers were going to retire anytime soon.”
“You shut your mouth about Kyle,” Captain Wallsburg growls. “He worked hard for your damn jail.”
“As I just said. But seeing as he’s gone, Captain, his work can only be appreciated so much,” Bradshaw says sarcastically, his face once more becoming hard. It’s the wrong thing to say, and I take a step towards Captain Wallsburg in case he’s thinking of doing something stupid, like reaching for his gun. Luckily, it doesn’t happen but I keep my guard up. “My prison is in an uproar. Inmates are getting into fights. Criminals are dying inside the prison, guards are being attacked. This didn’t happen on my watch.”
I sigh. Technically, he’s not wrong. But he did have a questionable relationship with Porscha back when she was posing as a professor, which means we can’t completely rule out the possibility that he’s an accomplice. For someone presumed dead, Porscha’s been surprisingly active from beyond the grave, writing a book, earning fraudulent psychology degrees, and who knows what else.