Page 26 of Charity's Redemption

“Who are you here to see?” the guard asked.

I glanced away from my clipboard and back to her. “Arturo Moreno.”

Her brows raised high as her eyes widened, causing her tight blonde bun to shift with the movement. “Arturo Moreno?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

I frowned. “Last I checked.”

“Are you on his list?”

“I should be.”

She clicked her short, nail-bitten fingers on the keyboard.

“What’s your name?”

“Charity Gibbons.”

“Okay. I see you on his list. Give me your ID, and we’ll bring him out in a moment.”

“Thank you.” I put the clipboard back on the counter, my name visible to anyone, then handed her my driver’s license.

I always hated those sign-in sheets. Where was the privacy? Anyone could walk in and see my name, and the time in which I’d arrived, sometimes even which doctor I’d seen. Those were details that were important if you were looking to use it against them.

A loud buzz sounded as an alarm, then a metal door clanged open. “Charity Gibbons?” A male guard announced from the opened door.

“That’s me.” I waited for her to hand me back my ID, then met him at the opened door.

“Follow me.”

The heavy guard walked me into a large room with metal tables and round stools attached at the base, resembling that of a picnic table.

“Take a seat. He’ll be out in a moment.”

I slid onto one of the flat circular seats, then folded my hands in front of me and rested them on the table. My finger pulsed against the back of my other hand as my nerves gave it a mind of its own.

The guard stood by the door, his hands clasped in front of him as he waited for Arturo to come out. I swallowed hard as I caught him studying me.

This living hell reeked of sanitation and body odor, repression, and insanity, which had my heart racing. I couldn’t stand confinement. It would drive me into a further state of madness, the likes of which would have me begging for them to put me down like a rabid dog. I remembered how it felt being in the jail cell at my father’s precinct. There’s no way I’d survive a lifelong sentence.

A series of buzzing alarms blared, sending my dulled headache into overdrive, then a loud clunk from the door, opposite where I’d walked in, alerted me before it opened.

Arturo Moreno strolled through the doors in his orange jumpsuit, his ankles chained together, his wrists attached to his waist. A smile set on his face as he caught sight of me.

“Gioia,” he said, his arms outstretched as he came closer, “let me look at you.”

I stood and as he placed both hands on my elbows, then kissed both my cheeks. “Hello, sir.”

He gave a small squeeze as he pulled back and looked at me. “I told you to call me Arturo.”

“Sorry. It’s a habit.”

He stepped back, glancing at the heavy guard as he’d cleared his throat, giving us a warning, then took his seat across from me.

“A good one to have. Respect and manners are something you shouldn’t apologize for.”

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