Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(16)

No. Actually I do. Grayson. Will this be the last time I see him? Of course it will.

I feel it when he enters—it’s as if the atmosphere brightens and intensifies, and there’s a lightness to his step that’s new. Dixon walks beside him, talking to him in low tones, maybe scolding him, but Grayson doesn’t seem affected. He smiles, and a miniscule indent appears on his cheekbone; most people would see it as a dimple, but I was up close with him that day in the library, and I know that corner of his cheekbone is where that tiny, ancient scar is. It’s his skin pulling around it. A genuine smile—not mocking. He seems…happy.

Is it because of his memoir and The Kingman Journal? I think about what Esther said, how some people need to tell their stories to be healed, to be whole. It feels almost too prideful to think I might have played a role in that new happiness, the new hope.

From his chair, he catches my eye and nods. I flash on the milk carton, that boy looking out with his big brown eyes. But this isn’t a day for sadness. He would never want my pity. I nod back.

I look at each of my students, nodding in turn. I know them now. Deep inside where it hurts the most, I know them. But even so, the sea of orange is intimidating. It always has been. Even with Dixon standing against the wall, like always.

Dixon, who looks strangely watchful. There’s a sheen of sweat over his forehead. As if he’s nervous. Why would he be nervous?

My stomach turns over. This feels wrong. But maybe I’m only upset because it’s my last day. I don’t know why it should upset me this much, unless Esther was right. I got too close to them. To Grayson, to all of them.

“Let’s start,” I whisper even though no one can hear me. Some of the men are going to be reading from their pieces today. I clear my throat and try again, but nothing comes out. My throat is swollen.

The room feels wavy with discontent, like a dark forest before a storm.

That’s when the fight starts. Two guys have an exchange that ends with them yelling in each other’s faces. I don’t even have time to process what this means. The guard is going to fix it, right? Dixon will fix it.

But he doesn’t. Something’s wrong, very wrong.

Dixon moves closer to me as the two begin fighting with fists. Smack. Flesh against flesh. Dixon is standing in front of me, blocking me. I peer over his shoulder, and in a flash four more guys are up fighting too. Then the room erupts.

Suddenly Dixon’s pulling me away, fast enough that everything turns into a blur. A gunshot rings out. Are they shooting the prisoners? I search for Grayson, but I don’t see him.

“Come on!” Dixon says, pushing me between him and a door in the corner that I hadn’t noticed before. He must have grabbed my bag from the desk before we left, because he shoves it in my arms now.

Panic beats in my chest. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”

He’s typing something into a little keypad. “Getting you out of here.”

An alarm sounds—not the bell kind, but a low, ominous staccato. Another shot. It sounds like a bomb. The place is like a volcano bleeding orange.

Grayson’s in there. Is he okay?

There’s smoke coming from somewhere. The door opens, and Dixon pulls me through into a large concrete passageway lined with pipes and panels.

We rush down the hall. Clomping footsteps ahead, like a herd of elephants. Dixon pulls me against the wall as a dozen men in riot gear pass.

“Where you going, Manny?” one of them shouts to Dixon in a deep baritone.

“She doesn’t belong here,” he yells in answer.

Dixon propels me, practically shoving me along. Buzzers sound as we go through one door and then another. Why did the guys start fighting? Are they safe? Is Grayson? We end up at the front office, which is buzzing with activity. Two minutes later I have my purse and I’m out in the crisp, cool day.

Alarms blare, even outside. “Where’s your car?” Dixon asks.

I point.

He jogs me down the long row of cars and over to where I parked. “You need to get off the grounds as quickly as possible. This is a very dangerous place right now. Someone’ll call you later to take your statement.”

“Wait. What did that guy call you? Manny?” I don’t know why I’m fixating on this, but it feels important. Like life or death. “Is that your name?”

“Yeah. It’s a nickname.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Manuel,” he finally says. “But no one ever calls me that.”

I point to my car. “Here I am,” I say, pulling out my keys.

“Go.” He turns and runs back toward the foreboding gray building.

I stand there, shaking even more now than when I was inside. What the hell just happened?

Manuel. His name is Manuel. A common enough name, but a strange coincidence. Grayson’s rat was named Manuel.

And something else was strange about Dixon. He didn’t bother to break up the fight; instead he got me out of harm’s way. I want to be grateful for that, but all I keep thinking is how he didn’t stop the fight. He didn’t even seem surprised, and then there’s the way he was nervous when class started.

As if he knew this would happen.

I’m in the visitor’s lot, near my car. I look around at the cars still in the lot and there, up in the next row, is a beat-up green car. There’s someone getting in. A big guy. Dark hair. He’s standing next to the car, ignoring the alarm. But it’s taking too long to get the key in…