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ELEVEN

SHERIFF HUDSON

I have to look Stevens in the eye when I confront him about Kelly. I’ll know right away if he was involved in her murder because he’s never been a good liar. I also have to be sure there isn’t anything else he hid from the Summers investigation, or from any other investigation he oversaw, for that matter. The last thing I need right now is any more goddamn surprises.

I wave my badge in front of the reader and pull open the door, entering the intake area. It’s quiet in here, empty aside from Officer Clark, who’s seated behind the control desk.

“Morning, Sheriff Hudson.” Clark’s a heavyset man with a bad leg, which is why he’s on desk duty.

“How’s Stevens doing?”

He looks at his watch. “As of twenty minutes ago, he was asleep, so I’d say he’s doing just fine.”

“I wanna see him.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Officer Clark says as he slowly gets to his feet. Pulling the set of keys from his belt, he ambles a few steps and unlocks the steel door leading to the back, where the holding cells are.

I extend my hand out to the corrections officer, palm face up. “I’ll take it from here.”

He nods and relinquishes the keys to me.

“Does Stevens know anything about the media leak?”

Officer Clark shakes his head. “I don’t believe so. I mean, he hasn’t had any visitors or made any phone calls since before the news broke.”

“Good,” I say, knowing it’s better if I catch him off guard so he won’t have a chance to start spinning stories.

My tactical boots clunk against the concrete floor, echoing off the hallway’s walls. For Ryan’s own safety, he’s being held in a private cell, separate from the rest of the inmates, since criminals don’t take kindly to cops or former cops. I have half a mind to put him with the others after what he’s done, but that seems more like something Stevens would do, not me.

I reach the last security door to the private holding area where two cells sit side by side. These ones rarely get used as most intakes don’t require added security. I scan my badge. The reader beeps, and the door buzzes. I grab the handle and pull it open.

“Stevens, you really—” I start to say, but stop suddenly when my gaze lands on him. My eyes widen in disbelief, and my stomach plummets like I’m on a roller coaster, cresting over the peak of the first drop.

“Medic. We need a medic!” I yell at the top of my lungs, bolting toward Stevens’s cell. My throat burns as my vocal cords are pushed to their limits, the muscles in my neck straining to the point of wanting to tear through the flesh holding them back. The keys slip from my hand, dropping to the floor with a resounding clang . I quickly pick them up, scrambling to locate the one that opens his cell door.

“Stevens!” I shout.

I try several keys, each with no success.

Realizing no one can hear me through the thick steel doors, I press the call button on my radio. “I need paramedics in the private holding cells now!” I say while trying another key.

The lock clicks, and I throw open the door, sprinting to Ryan. The heavy metal bangs against the wall like a thick gong. His body is lax, slumped forward, lifeless. A belt is looped around his neck, pulled taut, the other end tied to the top bunk. His eyes are wide open, the whites completely replaced with red as the blood vessels have burst under the strain and lack of oxygen. I just hope I’m not too late.

“Hold on, man,” I say, struggling to get any slack in the leather. I try to lift Ryan with one hand and undo the knot with the other. Tears build up in my eyes, blurring my vision, making it harder and harder to see what I’m doing. I claw at the gaps in the leather, my nails bending and chipping in the process.

Finally, I’m able to dig my fingers into the knot and jerk it loose, the makeshift noose coming undone. The belt buckle clanks to the floor, and Ryan’s torso and head slump forward. The deadweight catches me off guard, pulling me to the ground with him. I roll him flat onto his back and remove the belt from his neck. The skin underneath is black and blue with splotches of red from burst blood vessels. There’s a small line of blood on his neck from where the leather cut into his flesh. I search for a pulse but there’s nothing. I check his nose, holding my hand less than an inch from his nostrils, hoping I’ll feel hot air, but I don’t.

“You’re not going out like this, Ryan,” I say, tipping his head back and lifting his chin to open up his airway. I place my hands against the lower half of his sternum, one on top of the other, and press down hard, beginning chest compressions at 110 BPM. In the distance, I can hear boots on the ground, or at least I hope that’s what I’m hearing.

“Come on, man!” I say, bearing down harder and faster. Something inside of his chest cracks, but I keep going because I know broken ribs happen often during CPR. It’s as though God calls back to his original deal with Adam, removing a rib to create life again. I pause only to give Ryan air, then start compressions again.

“Oh fuck!” a voice says in a panic. I briefly look up to find Officer Clark standing in the doorway. All the blood has drained from his face, and he looks like a deer in headlights.

“You said you checked on him!” I shout, saliva spraying the room in a wide mist.

“I did. He was asleep.”

“Who the hell let him keep his belt!?”

Clark stammers. “I... I don’t know.”

Two paramedics push past the officer and drop to their knees beside me. They start hurling questions. How long has he been out? How long have I been doing compressions? Was he breathing when I found him? I answer them the best I can, but I don’t know if my responses are correct. I can’t even hear the words leave my mouth. One paramedic straps an oxygen mask over Ryan’s mouth and nose while the other handles compressions. Sinking into a seated position, I scooch away until my back hits the bars of the cell.

My gaze goes to Officer Clark, standing near the security door. He’s trying to make himself look as small as possible. Sweat pools at the edge of his receding hairline, and his eyes dart in all directions. He makes the mistake of briefly locking eyes with me.

I lift my hand, pointing a finger at him. “You better hope he lives.”