Page 4

Faith

“Sit,” he says, his tone clipped.

I do, lowering myself into the chair across from him. The leather creaks faintly under my weight. He remains standing for a moment, the silence stretching between us as he studies me. His gaze is sharp, clinical, like he’s dissecting me piece by piece.

Finally, he eases into his chair, leaning back as his hands tent in front of him on the desk.

Does he not realize I’m a therapist? I know exactly what he’s doing. Letting the silence hang, waiting for me to fill it. It’s a power move.

I hold his gaze, my spine straight, ignoring the urge to fidget. As I do, Dax’s low warning echoes in my mind. Don’t challenge him.

But I’m not here to cower. I’m here to evaluate the program’s recidivism rates, nothing more, nothing less. At least, that’s all Sinclair needs to know.

He picks up his cigar, rolling it between his fingers before taking a slow, deliberate draw.

Or does he know I’m more than a threat to his funding?

The smoke curls lazily in the air between us, the acrid scent clinging to the back of my throat. He exhales slowly, his lips twisting into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Faith,” he says, stripping me of my title.

Games.

“I’ll do my best to make you comfortable while you’re with us,” he says, his voice smooth, polished, like each word has been rehearsed. “The staff wing has everything you’ll need. Your room, a chow hall, showers.”

The last word lingers in the air, hanging heavy with the smoke.

I don’t react, though my fingers tighten on the strap of my purse where it rests in my lap.

“Will the computers…” I begin.

“I’ve already pulled the necessary documents for the inmates you’ll have access to,” he cuts in, his tone brisk.

Files? Paper copies? I press my lips together, forcing myself to stay calm. For now. “It was my understanding that I would have unfettered access to speak with the inmates.”

His smile sharpens, turning predatory. “With the exception of those in solitary, they’re free to speak with you. If they choose.”

He flicks his cigar, the ash dropping neatly into the tray beside him.

My jaw tightens. He’s not just playing games. He’s already trying to control the limits of my investigation.

“Did you pull the incident reports for…” I begin, keeping my tone measured.

“I’ve pulled the documents you need to conduct your work,” Sinclair interrupts smoothly, not bothering to look up from the cigar he’s rolling between his fingers.

Speak when spoken to. Got it, asshole. I keep my expression neutral, refusing to let him see the irritation creeping up my spine. “For Peter Cranston,” I press.

This time, his gaze flicks up briefly, but his face remains unreadable. I watch for any reaction and add, “And Graham Lancaster.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Lancaster was one of mine,” he says finally, his voice flat.

“I’m aware,” I reply, my words careful but firm. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. It’s relevant since it reflects on the behavior of your inmates in this setting.”

There’s a flicker of something in his steel-gray eyes, so brief I almost miss it. Amusement? Annoyance? I can’t tell.

“There is always a danger with violent criminals,” he says, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curls toward the ceiling. “Lancaster was aware of the risks, as is anyone who voluntarily steps off that ferry.”

My pulse stutters. Is that a warning?

“I’d like to review the incident reports at any rate,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “And speak with the guards and inmates who were present at both incidents.”

Sinclair leans forward slightly, just enough to crowd the air between us. “I’ll pull those reports.” His tone is smooth, like he’s granting a favor rather than complying with a professional request.

I tighten my grip on the strap of my purse, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“In the meantime,” he continues. “I’ve included several files for you to review. They’ll explain our rewards programs and detail how these men have built a functioning community.” His lips curl into a small, tight smile. “Self-sustaining.”

And a profitable endeavor for you, I think but don’t say.

“That will be helpful,” I reply instead, my tone flat.

Sinclair doesn’t react. He simply picks up his cigar again, taking another slow draw, his gaze drifting back to his desk like I’ve already been dismissed.

The silence stretches for a beat too long, and the weight of his presence presses down on me, heavy and suffocating.

“The files?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

He gestures to a neat stack on the edge of his desk. “I’m sure you can manage.”

I suppress the urge to bristle as I lean forward to pick them up. The stack isn’t light, but it’s far too small to represent even a fraction of the inmates here, much less the programs I’m supposed to evaluate.

“And the staff wing?” I ask, standing straight, adjusting the files and my purse.

Sinclair’s sharp gaze flicks over me, like he’s assessing me all over again, or perhaps for the first time. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem impressed. “Out the way you came. Left. Third building.”

He doesn’t bother to watch me leave. His attention shifts back to the papers spread across his desk, like I’m already an afterthought.

I hesitate for the briefest moment, letting his dismissal settle. I’m no threat to him. Or so he thinks.

Shifting the files in my arms, I reach for the door and step into the hallway.

The change in the air is immediate. The heavy smell of smoke fades, but the tension it left behind lingers, coiled tight around my chest. For the first time since stepping into Sinclair’s office, I take a breath that feels like mine.

It’s going to be a long night. I’ll read every word he’s granted me access to. And tomorrow, I’ll start talking to the inmates. Starting with Dax.

My heels click against the floor, the sound sharp as I make my way down the hallway. The echo carries farther than it should, and with every step, I feel the weight of eyes following me.

The guards I pass don’t speak, but they don’t need to. Their attention clings to me, heavy and sharp, assessing and unkind.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, flickering in places. I keep my head high, my grip on the files tightening as I pass another pair of guards leaning against the wall. One of them straightens, his gaze raking over me like he’s daring me to look back.

I don’t.

I’ve been in a lot of prisons. I’ve dealt with all kinds of people, killers, liars, manipulators. But the guards here have an edge sharper than most.

They’d have to, I suppose, to survive this place.

My heart beats faster as I reach the entrance, the sunlight glaring through the glass doors ahead. I step through the door, the files still clutched in my arms, a flicker of resolve growing in the pit of my stomach.

Whatever Sinclair’s hiding, I’ll find it.

One of the guards at the doors steps into my path. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a lazy grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Carry your books, princess?” he drawls, nodding toward the files in my arms.

I tighten my grip on them, forcing myself to stay calm. “I can manage,” I say evenly, stepping to the side to move around him.

He shifts with me, blocking my path again.

Are we really doing this on day one?

I square my shoulders, meeting his eyes. They’re sharp, glinting with amusement, but there’s something else there, too. A challenge. He’s testing me.

“That’ll be enough,” a deep voice rumbles behind me.

The relief that floods through me is instant and alarming, and I don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Dax.

The guard’s grin falters, his posture stiffening as he looks over my shoulder. For a moment, he doesn’t move, as if debating whether to push his luck further.

He doesn’t. With a slight shrug and a muttered, “Just being polite,” he steps aside, clearing the way.

I exhale quietly, adjusting the files in my arms as I step forward without another word.

But the weight of Dax’s presence lingers, and the relief that flickered through me is replaced by something else.

Frustration.

Because in this place, power is measured by violence and, while I shouldn’t need someone like Dax to have my back.

Here I do.