The door behind my future project opens, and I look past the asshole’s face into the black woman’s, the one who strip-searched me. Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor. Her gaze narrows on my fists, then her head turns to the man. I can’t help but smile when she speaks.

“You. Get the fuck out.” He stares at me, a threat in his eyes, and steps over my chair, a big dramatic gesture that really isn’t necessary, there’s lots of room to just walk right by it, and passes her, his hand going to his face. Pussy.

I drop my fists and test my inhale. It doesn’t hurt. She stands in the doorway, one hand on her hip, one on the door frame, her large body filling the space. “You don’t follow directions real well,” she finally sighs.

I shrug from the corner of the room. “Never have.”

She shakes her head and looks at my overturned chair. “Shit. Paperwork.” She pushes off the door frame with a loud huff. “Come on. We’re putting you in solitary. Try to not pick a fight with the walls there.”

I laugh and step out of the corner.

CHAPTER 65

Present

I EXPECTED MORE from solitary confinement. Padded walls, a dark place buried underground with a giant padlock on the front. A tiny slit where my meals would be slid through, three times a day.

Instead I’m in a normal-ass cell. Just like the other one but smaller, one bed instead of six. The same toilet and sink. Same walls. Same dirty white color scheme. Same smell, a combination of bleach and urine. I lie in the bed and stare at the ceiling. Wonder about that damn phone call. I should have let him cop the feel. Maybe if I had, I’d have the phone pressed to my ear right now. I practice breathing. One deep sigh, till my lungs burn and my cheeks puff. One long, long, long exhale, till my stomach cramps and my chest starves.

In. In. In. Hold.

Out. Out. Out.

In. In. In. Hold.

Out. Out. Out.

I cough. God. Six hours in and I’m bored. My master plan did not take into account the fact that I would not have a computer. Suddenly, the prospect of a year or five or ten seems impossible. What was I thinking? That I’d sinned, so I should be punished? That my apartment no longer seems to be working, so I’ll take more drastic measures? I’d walked into jail thinking I’d be punishing my evil into submission. Yet, six hours in and I’ve already had a bloodshed fucking carnival. I reach up and touch my nose. Spread my fingers over the soft spots under my eyes. Tender. Probably both black.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I turn my head to the far wall where, wrapped in protective caging, the clock sits: 9:12 p.m. I close my eyes and decide to sleep.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

This place will drive me crazy. More crazy.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Breathing is boring.

In.

Out.

In.

I wake when the darkness is interrupted, a bright light flickering to life above me. I roll over, my back aching, my eyes searching for the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Seriously? I roll to the other side and pull the lone pillow over my eyes.

I close my eyes but sleep runs a coward’s retreat out from under the pillow and away. Six forty-five. These people should be shot.

Sometime later, someone jiggles at my door, the sound loud and jarring, not that I was sleeping anyway. “Madden, you have a guest.”

I sit up and yawn. Look at the new stranger, another sheriff’s uniform hung on a person I’ve never seen. “A guest?” I push off the bed and stand. Maybe it’s Jeremy’s sister. Maybe he’s woken up. Maybe he’s dead. The second thought pushes past the first, its ugly voice loudest. “Who is it?”

The man holds up a set of cuffs. “Turn around and put your hands together.”

I obey. “Who is it?” I ask again, this time nicer.

“No idea. He signed in with one of the other officers.”

He. I can’t think of a single He that I want to see. Except for Jeremy.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To an observation room. You’ll meet him in there.”

This is infinitely more exciting than breathing. I perk up despite myself, my feet speeding up in tempo, the man steering me down a hallway to the right. We stop before a door with a 4 on it. The man pushes open the door and holds it for me. Chivalrous. I step through. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Please sit down.”

I sit, I am secured, then he speaks. “I’ll bring him in.”

I nod, a perfect picture of behaving, the room a copy of the one with NascarGuy44. Same chair, same floor, same table. In tiny ways different. A black scuff on the white table before me. A break in one of the tiles to the left. The mirror to my left is tinted blue instead of white. I lift one of my hands to my back and try to scratch an itch, the entire production much more awkward than it needs to be. I give up on the itch and jiggle my right foot against the leg of the chair, and it makes a soft tapping sound. A guest. I know a grand total of no one in this town. Maybe it’s the cop. David something-or-other. TheOtherOne.

I flex my shoulders. Wonder how long I will have to wait.

Almost an hour later, the door swings open.

The man is tall. Built but not muscular. He wears a cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up, exposing tan forearms and a thick watch. My eyes find his face, an aristocratic one, the kind that took lacrosse blows as a teen and sips wine as an adult, thick brows over intelligent eyes over cheekbones that perfectly coordinate with a full, unsmiling mouth. Dark hair that is perfectly styled, every bit in place. He stands in the open doorway, a hand still on the knob, the other by his side, like he hasn’t fully decided whether to come in or out. I sit in my chair, he stands in his doorway, and we say nothing.

Finally, my eyes having made the long journey across his strong forehead and down the crooked slope of his nose (a skiing accident? Or maybe polo?), I meet his eyes. Light in color, they sigh at me in studied disappointment and I know, before he even opens his mouth, who he is.

“Hi, Deanna.” He doesn’t smile, doesn’t step forward, doesn’t do anything but speak.

I swallow. “Hi, Derek.”

CHAPTER 66

Present

HE STEPS IN and shuts the door behind him. Click. Steps two more steps closer, his hands reaching forward and wrapping around the back of the chair, his fingers settling around the metal, a breath of a pause, then he lifts the metal and swings the chair up, off its feet and around, setting it back down next to me. I turn my head to the right, toward him. I can’t move more than that. My latest stunt has resulted in a new setup, my ankles shackled to the chair, my wrists now cuffed behind my back, the links also tied to the chair. If I go batshit crazy in this setup, the worst that can happen is that the whole chair, with me tied on, falls over. I know. I tested the limits during the hour-long wait. I flopped on the ground like a fish until someone was kind enough to come in and set me back up. Thank God Derek hadn’t come in then. That would have been a horrible first impression, my cheek stuck against the filthy floor, my knees on the ground, my feet in the air, hands stuck up like a broken marionette doll.