Throne of Truth (Truth and Lies Duet #2)(38)

My fingers shook as I plucked the laminated identification and stared into the heartless eyes of the man who’d tried to rape me. Without the cap, his hair was shaggy and unkempt, mousy brown with matching uneven stubble on his jaw.

He was nothing like Nameless.

Nothing connecting us enough to evoke the emotions Penn did.

How could I think Penn was him?

How could I have let the years erase the feeling of disgust and terror?

Penn wasn’t Baseball Cap or Adidas.

He could never have been, and I must have known that all along.

Oh, my God.

Dropping the license, I clamped a hand over my mouth.

How insulting to him.

What a slap in the face for me to believe he could be as evil as those two bastards.

He was right to hate me.

Could he forgive me?

But why does he have Gio’s license?

Gio Markus Steel according to his full address.

Steel...that name was familiar. It flopped around inside my head like a fish on a line, ready to reel in, but the string was too tangled to haul.

What was Larry keeping secret on Penn’s behalf? Who was Penn? Where did he come from? His family? His past?

He’d given me a tiny part of himself, but I needed more.

So much more.

Steel!

I sat upright in bed, recalling the day Penn had ambushed me at work. The day I’d done my floor inspections and come upon a little boy having a suit made from a man’s.

Master Steel.

Same last name as Gio.

Did that mean Stewie and Gio were related?

Argh!

How could I unravel this mayhem and make sense of it without Penn to guide me?

Penn had saved my life—multiple times—but now, I needed him to save me from my questions.

There was only one way for him to do that.

I have to see him again.





Chapter Eighteen


Penn


I KNEW THE process—I’d done it a few times before—but it didn’t make it any easier.

The first time had been scary as fuck with a night in the station, arraignment with a useless public defender nodding to felonies I hadn’t committed, and no cash to post bail. It took days to join gen pop before I settled in to serve time for a crime I hadn’t done.

That night had also been the first time I’d had the joy of meeting Arnold Twig.

Fucker.

I’d served one year, one month of a three-year sentence—let off for good behavior.

The second time was unfortunate bad luck, but once again, Arnold was there to ensure I was the perfect scapegoat.

A night in the holding cells, another useless arraignment, another district attorney advising bail I couldn’t afford, and then I was back in jail.

Once there, I enjoyed a two week stay in the infirmary after a vicious beating ensured my lips remained firmly shut about the secrets Arnold Twig had no intention of letting me spill.

I’d served three years, two months of a four-year sentence—let off once again for good behavior.

The third time had been the night I met Elle. The night when my heart was full and my head hurt, knowing if Arnold had his way, I’d be in prison for a lot longer.

He’d shuttled me back to Hell as fast as he could. The moment dawn arrived, he’d yanked me from the cell and sent me to the district attorney with yet another jaded public defender. By the afternoon, I was in a prison uniform and holding out a plastic tray for food.

Hey, at least I got to eat that day.

That night, though...fuck, that night I couldn’t stop tormenting myself with memories of kissing the girl I’d rescued, imagining we’d been able to finish what we started—that in a better, kinder world, I would’ve asked to see her again and done my best to get off the streets so I could deserve her.

And now, while my bones still cried and my clothes hid a fight-sweaty body, Arnold once again expedited my case.

After our little chat, he personally escorted me to complete the sham of gathering my official information.

I refused to say a word apart from, “bite my ass.”

Besides, I had no reason to give up my name, age, and entire autobiography. They had that information already.

My file listed exactly who I was and precisely what my past convictions entailed.

What was it again? Oh, yeah.

Incident number one—grand theft auto.

Two—aggravated assault and theft.

Three—aggravated assault and rape.

After that waste of time, he arranged for my transfer to central booking where they could keep me up to twenty-four hours in the cells affectionately called the tombs. The rank, filthy pens where homeless, drunks, and low-collar criminals were crammed together like livestock destined for the canning factory.

My statement consisted of, “Call my lawyer,” and Arnold took great joy in repeating my Miranda rights as he slammed the bars closed.

Whatever evidence Greg had fed them while moaning and playing the victim at the hospital ensured my case was a special one. Not only did I have the chief of police ready to bury me in the system, but he also had the power to speed up or slow down my trial.

The meeting with the Criminal Justice Agency ensured a district attorney who bowed to Twig’s every command, agreeing that I was too dangerous a flight risk to allow bond at any amount.

Unfortunately, my prior actions supported such a shitty denial because the last time I’d served in the great state’s penitentiary, the moment I’d been released, I’d moved with Larry to LA to get my head on straight and the fuck away from New York.