Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(17)

He doesn’t have a key. He’s breaking into a car. The realization hits me and in the next second I think of why a prison alarm would go off. If an inmate escaped.

Was this part of a prison escape? Was this man a prisoner?

Of course!

And Dixon just helped them. It makes sense now, his actions. Did they threaten him? Is that how they got him to help? Then the man in the car turns to glance back at the prison, just for a second… and I recognize him. It’s Grayson. Oh God, it’s Grayson.

I whirl around and unlock my door, pulse racing, and slip in, closing the door quietly so he won’t see me.

What are the odds he forces his way into my memoir class only to escape on the last day of class? It can’t be a coincidence. I think about the way he wanted to get in my class, even after it started. The way he was desperate to have his piece in the journal. What if he’d sent a message with it?

My face heats with shame and anger as I think about how Grayson’s vignette ripped out my heart.

Was it all made up? The whole boyhood captivity story? Manuel the Rat? I felt so sick about that little boy, scared and alone. And it was all a coded message. Now I know that Dixon’s name is Manuel. That means something.

I was shaking with fear before, but now I’m shaking with anger as I imagine his smile. Like a fool, I thought I’d helped him. I thought I’d made a difference. I guess I did make a difference—just not one I would’ve wanted.

He used me. Played me.

I memorize the license plate and pull out my phone. I need to call somebody. No one knows why the riot broke out. No one knows that Grayson is about to escape in that specific car except for me.

I slide down low in my seat. Do I dial 9-1-1? The prison front office? I have to tell someone—Grayson could be dangerous. No, he is dangerous. He could be a rapist, a murderer. I really wish I’d seen his file like the other guys. What did he do to get locked up?

I scan the parking lot, wondering if I should run back to the office and tell them, wondering if there’s still time.

I look over and we lock eyes.

He’s spotted me.

Get out! Start up the car and go! I’m still holding my cellphone in one hand so I can call 9-1-1, but that isn’t going to help me now. I hunt for my keys—where are they? Did I drop them on the way to my car? No! I unlocked my door. Did I stick them back in my bag? I do that when I’m distracted. I dig through my bag with shaking hands. Where are they?

When I look back up, he’s standing there. Watching me with cold eyes.

Shit shit shit.

Frantically I return to my bag, throwing out receipts and fluffed-out, unused tampons. This whole thing’s unreal, like I’ve stepped into a Salvador Dali portrait of a prison break.

I find my keys and shove them into the ignition.

Glass crashes in my ear. I swing my gaze around to a gun, held by a bloody fist stuck into my passenger window.

Grayson.

He reaches in and opens the door. “Drop the phone. Now.”

I drop it in my lap as he slides in, right over the glass, and shuts the door.

He grabs my phone from my lap and examines it.

“No calls went through.” My voice only shook a little.

“Good girl.” He sets the phone against the dashboard and smashes it with the butt of the gun—three hard, violent whacks and the thing is in pieces. He tosses most of it out, and casual as can be, he buckles up. “Drive.”

How dare he? How dare he expect me to help him? My lips press together, and everything in me revolts against him. He tricked me. He used me.

“I’m done helping you.” I look away, scanning the area for guards, anyone.

He sighs as if I’m making his life difficult. I want to punch him.

Something hard presses against my ribs. Fear clenches my throat. I glance down, already knowing what I’ll see. He’s pressing the gun right into me. A shot at close range from a weapon that large? I’m no expert, but I know that means death. He’s going to kill me. Tears spring to my eyes—tears of humiliation and horror.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” he growls in a tone that chills me to my toes. “I said drive.”





Chapter Twelve




Grayson


She’s smart, I’ll give her that much. I knew from the moment she saw me that she’d figured out about the escape. And the memoir.

The angry expression in her eyes tells me she’s feeling betrayed. Would she get all offended if a bear took a swipe at her? Because that’s what this is: nature. I learned about the natural order of things early on in life. Things you do to survive. Lessons you never forget.

“You gonna drive, or do you want to end up like your phone?”

Her eyes widen with that shocked flare she sometimes gets, and she puts the car into gear and starts heading toward the gate. Nothing like a violent little demo to spur a woman to action.

“So it was all bullshit,” she says. “Made up.”

“What? You don’t like Manuel the Rat suddenly? The poor little rat?”

Her soft, smudgy brown eyes shine with anger. The idea that my vignette might be fake has her angry, and that does something to me, even though it shouldn’t. Getting away—that’s what I should be caring about, not Ms. Winslow’s precious feelings.

Sirens sound. Reinforcements. Cherries flash in the distance. As long as the brawl keeps going, they won’t be able to do a decent count and they won’t know I’m gone. My gaze darts to the speedometer. She’s going thirty-five in a fifty-five mph zone. “You get this thing the f*ck up to the speed limit, and you keep it exactly there,” I growl. “Drive natural.”