A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(7)

“We have to give back, Katherine,” her father had said the night he died.

She’d considered taking a job at an inner-city school, but that option didn’t scratch the relentless itch, either.

Working in a prison was what quelled it.

She had to be nearer to her fears, nearer to men who thought little of breaking the law, of turning other people’s lives upside down with no consideration of the consequences. She had to be closer to understand what could make a person capable of such behavior. She hated her fear; she hated the root of it, and she knew she had to face it head-on—even though she was terrified of it.

Her therapist had been very concerned about her decision, asking constantly if Kat was happy with her choice, if she thought it was right for her and why, even using her mother’s worries to try and talk her down.

But it was Kat’s choice to make—no one else’s. And once the decision was made, there was no going back. Whatever the outcome, whatever her mother would say, she would live with it, because Kat knew what it would have meant to her father.

*

The building of Arthur Kill, Staten Island, looked as if it had fallen right out of an episode of Prison Break. Guards with huge, angry-looking dogs patrolled tall lookout towers surrounded by wreaths of vicious barbed wire fencing.

[page]Kat pulled up to the gates of the parking lot and waited for the officer on duty. After silently taking her ID badge, he disappeared into the guardhouse and soon returned, directing her toward the morose-looking structure she worked in.

Once parked, Kat glanced to her left to see a large group of inmates playing basketball behind a huge metal fence. With their green coveralls tied at the waist, their sweat-covered chests gleamed in the hot June sunshine. The walk from her car to the building seemed miles long, especially when she heard wolf whistles and catcalls from the basketball court.

She hurried her step and grabbed the handle of the large door like a lifeline. Inside, pushing her bangs back with a flustered hand, she was welcomed by a low chuckle. She looked up to see Anthony Ward, the narcissistic prison warden.

Ward was in his late thirties, and while his face was round and youthful, his hair was combed and gelled to within an inch of its life. He assessed Kat with dark gray eyes and a quick smile that revealed a large dimple in his left cheek. “Miss Lane,” he said, extending his hand.

Kat ignored it and tried to compose herself by running a palm down her knee-length charcoal skirt. “Mr. Ward.”

Pulling back his hand with an embarrassed nod of his chin, he stood poker straight in an effort to look taller. Kat noticed he did this a lot, especially around the inmates. It didn’t work. Poor guy was born stumpy.

“So,” he began. “How are you? Settling in well?”

Kat smiled. “Yes. I think so.” Her classes had been fairly event-free so far. And her students no longer used the F word like a comma when they spoke to her.

Ward adjusted his tie. “Good. Well, don’t forget I’ll be observing your session this morning. And anything you need, just come and see me.”

“I will, thank you.”

She walked past him, ignoring the way his eyes stayed on her chest a touch too long. His lecherous tendencies and his inability to view the inmates as anything other than scum rubbed Kat the wrong way. He didn’t see how the inmates could possibly better themselves while incarcerated, unknowingly making Kat’s job appear pointless. As a result, she avoided him as much as she could.

When Kat entered her classroom, she was grateful for the cooling breeze of the AC window unit. The rest of the facility was like a damned sauna. Twisting her hair off her neck, she turned when her teaching assistant, Rachel, entered looking flushed.