As we reached the cell block where I was housed, the guard from the visitor’s room decided he didn’t need backup anymore and dismissed the others. He was quite a bit rougher than he needed to be as he shoved me down the hall, apparently trying to cause me to trip over my own feet. He sneered and curled half his face into a nasty little smile, and I remembered how he seemed ready to tell Mark about my connections. I glared at him as I sized him up.
He was in his mid-forties, overweight, and bald. There was a wedding ring on his left ring-finger and a scar on the back of his left hand that looked like it would have required several stitches, but the wound had obviously occurred a long time ago. His uniform was neatly pressed, and he had a closely trimmed moustache but no other facial hair. He had recently shaved his head, and there was no discernible stubble anywhere.
So how does a prison unit guard know about me?
There were only a handful of possibilities, the most likely being that he was once either part of vice or homicide in the police department but had somehow ended up here instead. That kind of career switch definitely wasn’t considered a promotion and would almost certainly be the result of disciplinary action of some kind. As I looked him over, I knew I wasn’t going to find anything useful enough in either his demeanor or clothing to give me that kind of information, so I was going to have to improvise and hope my guesswork was on target.
I glanced at his shirt. Over the left breast pocket was a plastic nametag reading “Sgt. Masterson” in white letters on a black background.
“Masterson?”
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.
“Bet the guys on the force still have a good laugh thinking about you spending your time playing valet to a bunch of lowlifes, huh?”
His eyes narrowed and the smirk disappeared. He started to open his mouth, but I cut him off.
“Nothing makes you feel more useless than being thrown into a shit job some pissant, high school football player could handle. I bet the wife got a kick out of the pay cut, too, didn’t she?”
I stopped walking, and my arms jerked a little as he kept moving forward. Like I figured he would, he shoved my back to get me going again, making me stumble.
“Makes you feel like you’ve got a foot-long cock, pushing me around, doesn’t it? You believe because you think you know a little something that you have some sort of power in this relationship, but you don’t. Shove me around all you want; it doesn’t change a damn thing.”
“You need to shut your mouth, Arden,” he growled
quietly.
“Now there’s a topic I would like to discuss,” I replied. “You ever consider discussing my personal business with someone again, and I’ll make sure you find out just how accurate your information is.”
“You threatening me, Arden?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied. “What could someone in my position do to someone like you…or maybe your family…from in here?”
As every sarcastic word flowed from my mouth to his ears, I raised an eyebrow and stared right into his eyes until he looked away. I didn’t need any further words, though—I’d made my point, and the look in his eyes showed his understanding. He obviously wasn’t an idiot. It didn’t matter that he currently had me in handcuffs and was bringing me back to a locked room. He knew my reach extended far beyond the walls that held me prisoner.
“I hope you end up going away for a long time, Arden,” he said.
“Doubtful,” I replied. “After all, I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”
He mumbled something under his breath, but I couldn’t make it out. We’d arrived at my cell door, and though there were a dozen or so inmates in the common area playing checkers and bumper pool, apparently I wasn’t on the approved list.
I suppose he did have a little control there, but I didn’t give a shit.
With a shove from Masterson, I was propelled back into my cell. The cuffs were removed, and as I was left alone, the confusion and disassociation from before I had slept gave way to anger and frustration. With few options available in the tiny room, I mindlessly took it out on the furniture.
Well, the mattress, chair, and pillow at least—everything else was bolted down.
It was extremely dissatisfying and quickly over. I had wreaked all the destruction I could, which was certainly by design, so I dropped down on the floor with my head in my hands and growled at myself. The mattress dropped from its precarious position against the wall and hit my leg, so I kicked at it until it fell away from me.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and told myself to stop talking out loud when there wasn’t anyone else around. I considered it a symptom of losing my mind, and if the past was any indication, it was a fairly accurate sign. The more I did it, the less likely it was that I was thinking clearly.
Focus.
Before I could do anything else, I needed to get my shit together. I needed to stop with the fucking dreams and flashbacks—but how did I do that?
“Lia.” At least I whispered this time.