He had the ear of the decision maker, though. He just didn’t care.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

“Wait! What’d he do?” Peyton made it a habit not to read C-files, if she could help it. Knowing what a convict had done made it more difficult not to judge or fear. But she was too curious about Skinner; she had to ask.

“Our boy was pretty handy with a blade.”

Her mind flashed to the knife Skinner had held to her throat. She wondered if Wallace even knew he had it, and guessed not. “He killed another inmate?”

“Two to be precise.”

“Two?” she repeated, shocked in spite of her expectations.

“You ask Skinner, he’ll tell you it was self-defense. They jumped him. But there are witnesses who claim otherwise.”

Thinking of what she’d just read and had already known—that jailhouse witnesses were one of the reasons a certain percentage of innocent people were locked up—she had to ask, “Reliable witnesses?”

“Depends on who you talk to. But he shouldn’t have had a shank to begin with.”

Maybe he didn’t feel safe. Maybe he knew he might get jumped…. “Was he ever charged?”

“No.”

Then the D.A. didn’t have enough evidence for a conviction. But she was willing to bet they’d threatened to bring charges. “Someone offered him a deal?”

“If he turned informant and agreed to take down the Hells Fury, the past would stay in the past.”

“I see. And if he didn’t, he’d face the possibility of another trial.”

“That’s right. Even if he hired a good attorney and was able to avoid more prison time, he’d still have a record—”

“If they managed to convict him.”

He ignored her interruption. “And little hope of compensation for time already served. That’s no place to start a new life.”

No, it wasn’t. She headed to the kitchen, washed an apple and took it into the living room. “He’s not doing this for the compensation money, you know.”

“Like I said, his sister’s the only reason he’s tractable.”

“Is she in real danger?”

“As real as it gets. Skinner could help the authorities get convictions against most of The Crew. But he won’t do it. He has this…twisted sense of honor. Says he won’t break his word or stab his friends in the back for any reason.”

Skinner’s “twisted” honor seemed more admirable than what she’d seen of Wallace’s, but she choked back what she wanted to say and took advantage of the chance to gather more information.

“Then why are they worried?”

“They can’t trust that. They have to assume the worst. And they don’t let anyone walk away.”

“What I don’t get is this—how did the CDCR get hold of him?”

“We had a problem. The feds had a solution. We don’t work in a vacuum.”

Security asked him for his ID. She waited for him to deal with that before continuing. “So…what’s happening here is a favor, a loaner, from the feds?”

“It’s basically a way for everyone to get what they want.”

The noise level surrounding him grew louder; she guessed he’d reached the X-ray machines. “At Skinner’s expense.”

“No, not at his expense. He’s getting something out of it, too.”

“A promise to forget what he might or might not have done in prison. And maybe some money.”

“I don’t know what all is involved. The secretary didn’t give me details. Anything else? Because I’ve got to go. I’ll miss my flight if I don’t hustle.”

“Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

A fresh surge of jostling came across the line. “Fischer.”

“What about him?”

She threw the apple into the air and caught it. “He doesn’t know Bennett isn’t Bennett.”

“Your point?”

“I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason Skinner requested it in the first place. Safety. The fewer people who know his real name, the better off he’ll be.” And the better able she’d be to protect him.

“Go ahead and go around me,” she heard him say, and imagined him stepping out of line. “Now that you know, I’m not sure that’s the best way to proceed.”

He was already thinking about how it might reflect on him if the truth surfaced later. Always looking out for himself…. “Weren’t you the one talking about how easily word of this could leak? If the Hells Fury figure out that something suspicious is going on, even if there’s no name associated with it, no specific target they can go after, they’ll be defensive and more secretive than ever, which will only make his job harder.”

“You’re saying we can’t trust Fischer?”

“I’m saying he’ll tell Frank and Joe, and who knows how many they might confide in. Even if they share it with just their wives it could get around. You know what Crescent City is like. Shop talk. Everywhere. At Little League. At the hair salon. At the grocery store. I want to give Bennett—Skinner—what he was hoping to achieve by using a false identity to begin with, that’s all.”

“But if Fischer finds out and starts to raise hell…”

“He won’t.”

“Find out? Or raise hell?” he asked dryly.

Two squirrels zipped along her deck. “If he doesn’t find out, he won’t have any reason to raise hell.”

Wallace told some other people to go around him. “Fine. Keep it to yourself if that’s what you want,” he said. “But if it comes out later that you knew all along and he gets mad because I didn’t tell him, I’ll explain that you were the one who decided not to pass on the information.”

“Fine. Save your own ass,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect more from you.” She’d never spoken to him like that before. The words had tumbled out before she could stop them.

He bristled just as she expected. “Welcome to the real world. You want to work in corrections you’ll have stand on the front lines like the rest of us.” As if he’d ever been on the front lines. The son of a congressman, he’d gotten a leg up thanks to friends of Daddy’s; he’d never actually worked in a prison. “I have no problem with that,” she said. “Fischer put me in charge of this, anyway.”

There was a slight pause as he digested what she’d told him, but he didn’t respond to it. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he said, and then he was gone.

8

It was going to be a long night. After spending a couple of hours at the water’s edge, where he’d eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while staring out to sea, Virgil returned to his motel room and settled in with the TV on and Peyton’s files at hand. He figured he’d study until he was too tired to continue and, eventually, he might be able to sleep. He knew how to survive an endless night. He’d endured plenty of them in prison. Until he’d managed to establish himself in the pecking order, he’d been so terrified he’d scarcely dared close his eyes. Only by refusing to back down, even if he was getting his ass kicked, had he earned any respect.

If he could adapt to that environment, he could adapt to anything, couldn’t he? One would think so. But all the coping skills he’d developed wouldn’t transfer to this latest challenge. Getting out had filled him with too much hope. Hope that he’d be able to break the grip The Crew had on him. Hope that he could forget the past decade and a half and live a normal life. Hope that his sister would be safe, that she could raise her children in peace.

And that wasn’t all he wanted. Not since meeting Peyton Adams. She’d entered his mind so many times since she’d dropped him off, it made him angry with himself and with her. All through dinner, such as it was, he’d been thinking about how soft her skin had looked—especially when she had her hair slicked back and was wearing that no-nonsense business suit—how tempting he found the curves beneath her tight-fitting sweater and those faded blue jeans, and how much he admired her basic decency. She wasn’t like the other wardens and C.O.s he’d met. Some of them were good people, too. Eddie Glover had made a world of difference for him at Florence. But Peyton had a certain sensibility no one else possessed….