Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(39)

Sheriff Dunham grunts in response to whatever the person on the phone is saying. The conversation takes a long time, and my nerves begin to rise. The sheriff isn’t watching the door while he’s on the phone. He’s watching me instead.

He murmurs something that sounds like assent, and a chill runs through me, like the cold sound of chains. Like the heavy double-barred doors clanging shut in the prison.

Apology glints in his eyes, faint enough to tell me he won’t be swayed from what he’s about to say. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m putting you under arrest.”

My mouth gapes open. “What?”

His expression firms. His eyes harden, as if no regret had ever lurked deep inside. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest. Aiding and abetting a felon.”

*

I never imagined I’d be looking at the bars from the inside of a cell. The funny thing is they look the same from the outside, round black cylinders, impenetrable and forbidding. In the prison, they’d been a reminder that I wasn’t as safe as I thought I was. The sight of them that first day had slammed into the sense of security I’d worked so many years to build.

And now that I’ve been locked in a small-town jail, they shatter that security completely.

I refuse to sit on the mold-blackened cot or go near the toilet without a lid. It smells foul, even if you flush it. So I stand in the only corner left, huddled, miserable. And angry.

My mother was arrested countless times. She’d told me things designed to help. Don’t fight; you’ll only wear yourself out. Be nice to the guards, and they’ll be nice to you. Make your wrists tight when someone’s slapping cuffs on you, so you have a chance of getting out of them. She assumed I’d end up as lawless and beaten down as she was.

I never thought she’d be right.

The sound of shuffling comes from outside. The phone rings, and I hear the low tones of the sheriff. He must be talking to the cops near Kingman—or maybe even the FBI. They’re probably giving him credit for catching a dangerous criminal like myself. A hysterical laugh threatens to escape me. I force it back down, because once I start, I might not stop.

I told them the name of the motel where he was. They thought I was lying.

Footsteps click-clack, slow and steady from the front offices back to the single cell where I wait.

I glare at the sheriff as he stands outside the bars, holding a bottle of water.

“You thirsty?”

I glare some more. I’m horribly thirsty, but the thought of accepting help from this man makes my stomach churn, even though I know he’s only doing his job. He’s not allowed to decide who’s guilty or innocent; he just puts them in jail.

“They won’t be here for another six hours, so you may as well have a drink. Go ahead. You hungry? You look a little pale. You’re entitled to a lunch. We usually send out to the bagel place—”

It’s lunchtime already? “I’m not hungry,” I snap. Though I should be. I feel a little feverish, actually. “I didn’t help him,” I say, my jaw clenched so tight I can barely get the words out. I know it’s useless to argue with him, but I can’t help it. Something about being innocent, about being unjustly accused, makes my blood turn to lava. I was the one held at gunpoint and dragged across the state. I’m the one with bruises on my wrists. Now I’m the one locked up behind bars.

He sighs. “If that’s true, then they’ll sort it out.”

I think he believes me, but I still have to stand in this cold, dank cell. I still have to accept a bottle of water like it’s a scrap of bread and I’m a stray dog.

And I want to believe that they’ll sort it out, but how did they even tangle it up in the first place? “What’s the evidence against me?” When he doesn’t answer, I push. “They must have evidence to get an arrest warrant, right? They can’t just take one out without any kind of proof.”

Something flickers in his eyes, almost like worry. He knows something isn’t right here. “It’s not for me to know the details, miss. I’m not involved in the investigation.”

“You seem pretty involved to me,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t meet my eyes again. He sets the water bottle on the floor and moves away. “I’ll check in later,” he says before returning to the front.

How can they hold me here? I’ve done the right thing for so many years. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. I tried to be the good student, the good girl. The unfairness of it rises like bile, sharp and acidic. I think about Esther. Does she think I helped him escape?

How can anybody think that? I barely know him.

But that’s not quite true. I do know him.

A dark stain spreads at the base of the water bottle, turning the dusty concrete black. Condensation drips down and adds to the pool of water. I let my mind drift as I watch the drops fall and slowly dry.

Now that I’ve stopped running, now that I’m safe—at least I’m safe from him—I feel sleepy. All the tension that was holding me up leaves me, and now I’m boneless. Shaky.

Shadows lengthen across the dingy cot and the gray mottled floor. I don’t want to contemplate using the toilet, so I don’t want to drink too much. Half the bottle and I’m done.

But God, I’m so tired. And hot.

I curl up on my side. The concrete feels cool on my cheek, and it’s probably more sanitary to touch than the cot. I tell myself I’ll take a little nap.