Bebe has no special needs, but she is a high national security risk. For the last seven years she’s called FMC Carswell her home, she’s been in solitary confinement. That means for twenty-three hours a day, she’s in a single inmate cell. She’s allowed outside in the yard for one hour a day, and she’s not allowed access to the prison library due to the nature of her crimes. By all accounts, seven years of solitary would be enough to drive anyone mad, but the warden gave me her file and it seems to indicate she’s been a pretty stable and model prisoner.
Still, I don’t have the skills necessary to make that determination, which is why I arranged for Dr. Corinne Ellery to meet me at the prison today. She’s doing the psych evaluations I require for the people I’m bringing aboard Jameson Force Security. Currently, she’s flipping through Bebe’s file while we wait for the guards to bring her in to meet us.
I had thought about leaving Joslyn on the plane while I drove to the prison to see Bebe Grimshaw, but it didn’t feel right leaving her behind. Not that I had much worry her stalker could have tracked her to Fort Worth from Pittsburgh and arranged to arrive there himself, not with having to bypass the private terminal security and breeching the plane that was protected by an armed guard.
I just didn’t want her to be alone.
So here she sits in a small room with a metal table bolted to the floor and four flimsy plastic chairs. Surprisingly, she hasn’t asked why we’re here. Quietly, and without any curiosity, she accepted my statement we had to stop in Texas to visit a prison as we boarded the plane this morning.
Frankly, she hasn’t said much of anything since we left the Jameson offices yesterday. I checked us into a two-bedroom suite at the Omni William Penn, but ended up sleeping on the couch in the main living area that separated the two rooms. I did this with my gun resting on my stomach because while I doubted her stalker had those types of resources, I wasn’t going to take things lightly. It was a miserable night of sleep, mainly because Joslyn tiptoed out of her room around one and raided the fridge for a snack. I don’t know if she saw me on the couch, but damn if I didn’t see all of her illuminated from the moon rays filtering in through the window. Her hair was bunched on top of her head, and she was in nothing but a thin tank and shorts that barely covered her ass. My body reacted, and I hated myself for it. At thirty-eight, I would have hoped to have a little more control of myself, but Joslyn Meyers is an irresistible siren. While my heart and brain have disconnected from her, it appears my cock has not.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Dr. Ellery says as she closes the thick folder that holds everything known about Bebe Grimshaw. “The effects of seven years in solitary are incredibly unpredictable. Plus, Kynan… she’s an admitted felon who did some very bad things.”
“Which is why I have you here now,” I reply smoothly as I pull the file across the table. “To figure out if she’s redeemable.”
My eyes cut to Joslyn sitting to my right, and I don’t see a single question in her gaze. I mean, she must have figured out we’re here to meet a prisoner, but she doesn’t seem to give two fucks as to why. I know this is because I’ve done nothing to foster an open environment for communication, but it’s not every day someone gets unfettered access inside a federal prison to an incredibly notorious criminal mastermind.
I flip the folder open and survey the picture of Bebe Grimshaw. It was her mug shot when she was arrested by the FBI. She was young… twenty-two. Bleached-blonde hair cut short and spiky. Fake diamond stud in her nose, a ring through her lip, and a barbell through her eyebrow. Her booking sheet describes multiple tattoos over her arms, ribs, back, and legs. If I flip through the folder more, I’ll find photos of everyone for documentation. I’ve read the contents of this folder three times, provided to me by a friendly US Congressman. I totally understand Dr. Ellery’s reservations, but I’ve got a hunch.
There’s a loud buzzing sound outside the door, then the heavy slide of metal as it’s unlocked. Joslyn, her back to the door, twists in her seat as we all watch it swing open. Bebe Grimshaw shuffles in with shackles on her thin wrists and ankles, locked together by an intermediary chain. Gone is the short, blond hair. Her natural color is a lustrous bluish-black that even prison hasn’t dulled over the years. It’s long and braided in the back. Her frame is slight beneath her prison uniform of a khaki button-up shirt and loose pants with white slip-on tennis shoes. She resembles a delicate fairy who got stuck in burlap.