Page 9 of White Rabbit

Son of Augustine Creed, suspected murderer, human trafficker and mob man who had frequent call outs for domestic disturbances. Now deceased.

So, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree then, I think to myself as I sink back into my cushions. Did he learn all his tricks from daddy?

I had done some digging on my own this last week, and Creed's name had come up several times in association with various murders, gang-related incidents and drug cartels, but nothing ever stuck. For all intents and purposes, until this last arrest, he was innocent.

But just who was he? What made him tick? How did a man like him finally get caught? I don't know why, but I need to know more.

I carefully read over his file again as I sip my cooling coffee, the words not giving me anything I didn't already know. He was a very, very bad man and yet I was intrigued.

Running my fingertips over his photo, dark eyes staring out defiantly, sharp cheekbones and the eyebrow scar gave his face an almost cruel edge that terrified me. Why couldn't I get him off my mind?

I hadn’t been patrolling or carrying out inspections this week, so our paths hadn’t crossed again. I thought I might have glimpsed him through my classroom window, but when I’d looked, the corridor had been empty.

Sweeping my gaze around my modest apartment, taking in the sparse furnishings, painting textbooks piled up on my coffee table and the stack of takeout containers in my recycling, I sigh. Was this actually living?

Sometimes I felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere with my art workshop. I needed to change it up a little, add a little excitement, otherwise the inmates would just get bored. I mean, it’s not like they care about Mucha or Van Gogh. They just want an easy class that looks good on their record. But if just one person leaves my classroom in a better mood or mindset than when they went in, that’s a win. The job is much harder than I thought it would be, but I have to persevere. Plus, I’m too stubborn to quit now. I had to prove daddy dearest and the Tiffany's of the world wrong.

The next morning I’m up early since I’ll be on breakfast duties today. It just means I’m stationed in the kitchen as additional support and I’ll be posted in the chow hall when it’s time for inmates to leave their cells.

After a quick jog, I get back to my apartment and shower off the restlessness of yesterday. An idea had popped into my head as I’d run past the local coffee shop and through the park.

You know how there’s always a snitch in cop films? Well, there's always a chatty officer in real life—one who likes to toe the line dangerously with their loose lips. My father and Andrew may not be willing to tell me anything about Elijah Creed, but I knew someone who would…for the price of a mocha with an extra shot of coffee and a Biscoff donut. Sugar was like crack to correctional officers, especially after a long shift.

Officer Langdon Jones worked in the Bird's Nest, which was what we called our security office. He was the eyes and ears in this facility, it was just a shame about his big mouth. If there was any gossip, anything worth knowing about Elijah Creed, then Langdon would be the person to ask and he loved nothing more than showing off his knowledge.

Grabbing the coffee and a box of donuts when I head out to work, I get to Ogmore, sign-in and make a bee-line straight for Langdon. I had thirty minutes before my shift actually began and I intended to use them wisely.

Slipping through the door, I place my goodies down on a small table to the left of Langdon and Gerald Gibbs, another officer here at Ogmore. It’s not unusual for me to pop in here. In fact, sometimes I eat my lunch here. Being the daughter of a judge, especially one who likes the limelight as much as my father does, can get me some sideways glances and whispers in the staff room. So I hang out in the office with Cassie or Langdon, watching the inmates on the monitor and counting down the minutes to the end of our shifts.

“Officer Bishop! You’re here early.” Langdon grins as he slaps his thighs. He’s in his mid-forties, with shaved brown hair and a wide smile. I would bet money that he used to be a jock in high-school. He probably thought he was going to play football in the NFL or something until an injury or a teen pregnancy changed everything, and now here he was. Carrying a little extra weight, sporting a weird pornstar mustache, puffing out his chest at all the female staff and spilling secrets like wine being poured at a dinner party, freely and en masse.

Gibbs turns in his chair, tired face lighting up when he spots the box on the table. “And you bring treats!”

“I do,” I chuckle, handing Langdon his coffee. I brought nothing for Gibbs since I didn’t realize he was working today, but he only drinks chamomile tea anyway.

“Where’s Cass?”

“Swapped shifts, she’ll be on breakfast with you today instead.” Gibbs says through a mouthful of sugary goodness. “Williamson wants you to put on some movies in the communal area today, apparently, they’re ‘educational’.”

We both snort. The only time Warden Williamson actually wanted to engage with the inmates was when he got wind that an audit was incoming.

I lean against the desk and sip my coffee, watching the monitors for a moment. As I’m planning my segue into talking about Creed, the man himself comes on screen. He’s walking around early, which means he must be on laundry duties today as the machines are sorted and loaded before breakfast.

When a second camera picks up a better vantage point, I sit forward for a better look.

Dropping into a spare chair, I roll closer between Gibbs and Langdon. “Why do they call him the Left Hand?”

“Perhaps it’s like how the left hand of God was supposedly the Devil.” Langdon strokes his mustache as he looks thoughtful for a moment. “According to rumors, he's someone very important in Newtown.”

My eyes follow Creed as he vanishes through the door into the laundry room. I find him on another screen, following instructions with no trouble, keeping to himself.

Although he’s trying not to draw attention to himself, it’s like there’s this force that surrounds him. There is no ignoring Elijah Creed. He dominates. Commands the room, even without meaning too.

After fifteen minutes, the inmates are allowed to enter the canteen a little early and get some refreshments before they’re joined by the other prisoners.

Creed saunters into the canteen, large body moving gracefully, reminding me of a panther stalking their prey. As other faces in the canteen turn to him, I realize it’s not just me watching his every move.

“I think he's more like a cretin,” Langdon mutters quietly to my right.

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