The Inmate (27)

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap at Hunt.

Hunt doesn’t even look the slightest bit perturbed that he just gave one of the prisoners a concussion. “Relax. It was an accident.”

I look at Shane’s face—his eyelids flutter the way they did all those years ago when he got knocked out on the football field. “Shane, are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he mutters.

“Nelson is tough,” Hunt speaks up. “He’ll be fine.”

Just when I think this situation can’t get any more uncomfortable, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. A second later, Dorothy peeks her head in. She is still wearing those half-moon glasses, and she peers at us over the rim, somewhat accusingly.

“What’s all this commotion?” she demands to know.

Shane is struggling to sit up, but he’s having a hard time of it, between the knock on the head and the shackles. I straighten up to look Dorothy in the eyes. “Officer Hunt caused Mr. Nelson here to fall, and as a result, he had a significant head strike. He definitely has a concussion. I’d like to admit him to one of the beds in the infirmary for observation tonight.”

For the first time, Hunt looks like he cares about what just happened. “Dorothy, that is absolutely not true. I was just assisting the inmate to his feet, and he tripped. It was entirely unintentional.”

Dorothy’s shrewd blue eyes look Hunt up and down, then rake over the rest of the room, taking in the entire situation. I hold my breath—this woman is not known for advocating for the prisoners.

“Marcus,” she says sharply. “Why on earth is Nelson shackled for medical appointments? He’s not a risk.”

“I believe he is,” Hunt says.

“Based on what?” she retorts.

He doesn’t have an answer for that, which is a bit of a relief. Dorothy folds her thick arms across her chest and scowls at both of us, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.

“Marcus, I want you to take those shackles off the inmate immediately,” she snaps. “Brooke, admit him to the infirmary overnight. Can you both handle this, or do I need to babysit?”

Hunt and I exchange looks. Judging by his expression, he wants to knock me onto the floor right next to Shane. Lucky for me, I’m not a prisoner at Raker Penitentiary.

“We’ll take care of it,” he grunts.

“Good.”

I help Shane sit up, and Hunt gets the key out to unlock the shackles on his wrists and ankles. Hunt hesitates for a split second before doing it, casting a glance back in my direction. I watch him fit the key into the lock, and my fingers fly to my neck. The last time I was alone with Shane, he tried to strangle me. All of a sudden, I’m not so excited for his hands to be free.

But nothing happens. When the cuffs are off, all Shane does is rub his wrists, looking relieved to finally be free. He doesn’t try to choke me. He doesn’t even try to get off the floor right away. He looks like he’s barely hanging on to consciousness.

“Can you walk?” I ask him.

He rubs his head. “I think so. I’m just dizzy.”

Hunt helps me walk Shane down the hallway to the infirmary, and we get him settled in a bed. The bump on his head is swelling up, and he has to stop twice on the way to the infirmary because he’s too dizzy to go on. It makes me think about the night someone tried to kill me. That night, Shane got a knock on the head the same as he did today—the EMTs on the scene found the lump on his skull to prove it. He claims he was knocked unconscious before anything even happened to me.

And for the first time in ten years, part of me wonders if he might have been telling the truth.

But he can’t be telling the truth. Because if he is, the man who tried to strangle me all those years ago is still out there.





Chapter 17


ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER




After a few more rounds of Never Have I Ever, the six of us are sufficiently trashed. Tim’s date with the murdered girl has been forgotten, and Kayla is all over him again. At first, he was gently pushing her away, but now he’s letting it happen. As for Brandon and Chelsea, they are all but having sex on the couch.

“Hey.” Shane punches his buddy on the shoulder. “Take it upstairs. Not on my sofa.”

Brandon snickers. “Better in your mom’s bedroom?”

Shane shrugs, but I’m just relieved the two of us won’t be in Mrs. Nelson’s bedroom. Even though her bed is nicer, I don’t think I would enjoy it knowing that I was in Shane’s mother’s bed.

Shane turns to me, his eyelids slightly droopy. “Want to head upstairs?”

My stomach churns, which might be from the vodka in my belly, but not entirely. After all, I didn’t even finish one entire screwdriver. (Brandon managed to put away six of them.) I suddenly wish I had a little more to drink, because maybe then I wouldn’t be so damn nervous.

“Sure,” I say.

Shane reaches out to take my hand. His palm is warm and dry and comforting. I let him lead me out of the living room, to the flight of stairs to get to the second floor. The wood of the stairs warps slightly as my feet make contact—one of these days I’ll be climbing the stairs and the whole damn thing will collapse. But not today, apparently.

As I climb the stairs, I get that sensation again like somebody’s watching me. That creeping in the back of my neck. I turn my head, expecting to see Tim staring up at me. But instead, he’s on the sofa making out with Kayla. Well, good for him.