Page 3 of White Rabbit

Biting the inside of my cheek, I count to five slowly before replying. “I teach an art class, and occasionally patrol a corridor or common areas. They don’t let me do a whole lot more than that.”

Chad squeezes my leg again. “I’ve told her to quit once we’re married and focus on having family, but you know how stubborn she is.”

There.

That’s why you’re hesitating, a small voice at the back of my head reminds me. Chad thought everything would change, and I’d be at home barefoot, pregnant and waiting for him if I said yes.

“It’s one of the things you love about me.” I place a kiss softly on his lips as I get to my feet and laugh as he slaps my ass. “Right, enjoy your day guys. I have to get to work.”

I wave them goodbye and give Tiff and Orla a quick hug before I leave the coffee shop and climb into my car.

It takes me five minutes of sitting there with my head leaning back and my eyes closed before I’m ready to put my key in the ignition. I don’t know if it was a normal part of getting older, but meeting for coffee this morning left me feeling drained. When did friendships start taking their toll? With a slow exhale, I start the engine and make my way to Ogmore Grange.

Today's class has me more frazzled than usual and it’s not just because of my crappy morning. It's like there's something in the air as the prisoners refuse to settle, jeering, shouting and antagonizing one another. I try my hardest to keep them in line while also talking about Monet, but it's no use.

My classroom isn’t very big, and with twenty-five inmates spread out on desks with their art supplies, it feels even smaller.

“C’mon guys, what do we think of The Water Lilies?” I ask, my voice going a little high-pitched at the end as I nervously try to capture their attention and point back to the whiteboard where I’ve projected an image of the painting. I may have been confident in my safety at the coffee shop, but I wasn’t an idiot—I worked in a prison with criminals. There was always the possibility of something going wrong.

My efforts are pointless as they continue to talk amongst themselves; hushed whispers, shouts and the occasional yelp have me frowning from the front of the room.

Be patient and breathe, I tell myself.

Taking a quick walk around the room, I look at their canvases. They were supposed to be painting their favorite landscapes, using Monet’s Impressionist style.

Most painted views from back home, their yards, a city park, but some painted what looked like drug dens. I could make out blurry broken bottles and run-down neighborhoods smeared into the stretched cotton with dark, dreary inks. A strange ache settles in my chest as I move slowly between them. Most of these men had rough starts in life and they’d undoubtedly go home to the same situation and be stuck in an endless cycle of crime. It was a harsh fact of life.

A deeper shout catches my attention as one prisoner, Jamie, barges past another, Davidson. The men front up to each other, standing toe to toe before Davidson shoves Jamie away, still clutching his paintbrush. A fat dollop of paint goes flying and lands on my cheek, and as it does, a strange silence settles over the room.

“Right, that’s enough,” I shout, and everyone steps back.

Someone to my left hands me some blue paper towel and I wipe at my face, getting the worst of it off.

“Jamie, swap places with Chris. Now,” I command with a strength I don’t feel. Miraculously, they obey and as Jamie moves to sit at the back of the room, an odd calm comes over the class before the chattering starts up again.

I give them a small smile as I head back to my desk. I came here to do good, not to lose my temper every time I was tested. If I did that, I would just be proving my father right... He wanted me to stay at home and be a good little girl. Just like Chad. Instead, I chose to work within the justice system, and I knew the risks I took daily.

My father was a judge. A powerful judge and nothing I ever did would be good enough, that was unless I decided to stay at home and become a fat little housewife. But that wasn't me, no matter how hard he pushed, or told me I was a worthless little idiot.

I wasn’t obedient enough for that kind of lifestyle. As much as this job scared me, it also thrilled me. The idea that I could change someone’s life with a silly little art class was a gamble that I was prepared to take. I always was a headstrong fool, according to my father, but his words sunk into my skin and disappeared once I donned my uniform. I was here because I wanted to be.

Silence falls over my once again rowdy class as something seems to have captured their attention. Following their gazes to the doorway, we all watch as a new inmate is being escorted in.

Someone to my left growls, and judging by some of the grim expressions on my students' faces, he was already well known. That explained the restlessness and anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

The prisoner is huge, almost towering over the officers escorting him as they shuffle down the corridor. As if looking for someone, he raises his head and scans through the window until his gaze lands on me.

His sharp, dark eyes burn into me with an intensity that I feel all the way down to my toes. Long, thick, almost black hair hangs around his shoulders and he smirks as he notices me looking at him. There’s a scar running through one of his eyebrows, splitting it cleanly.

His smirk is dangerous, I feel it in the pit of my stomach as a strange curiosity shoots through me. Tattoos cover both arms, dark designs that I can't make out at this distance. Even in his orange jumpsuit, there is no denying that he is handsome.

No, that was an understatement. He was… dangerous. Like a wild animal on the prowl. There was something about him that made my chest feel tight as my heart rate kicked up a few notches.

I chastise myself mentally, biting down on my lip. Stop romanticizing a criminal. Curiosity killed the cat. He’s an inmate. I’m a prison officer. And I needed to get my head on straight if I wanted to do my job.

It was simple: talk about Monet. Then go home and forget about those dark eyes. You’re smarter than this, I tell myself. Showing weakness inside these walls is like offering yourself up to the big, bad wolf. And I was anything but prey.

Chapter Three

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