Page 153 of Wicked Games

A hello.

A goodbye.

A promise.

Chapter 40

Margo

“Name?”

“Margo Wolfe.”

“Who are you visiting?”

I clear my throat. “Keith Wolfe.”

The guard on the other side of the glass is bored. There are other people—families, single people, men and women in business attire—scattered around the prison’s visitor entrance.

She types on the keyboard in front of her and grunts. “You’re not on the list.”

“The, ah, what?”

“The approved visitors list. Wait here.” She gets up and disappears into a back room.

I wait. A minute, then two. Five.

Caleb insisted on dropping me off this morning at the Bryans’ house. He had to borrow Eli’s truck, since his car was still at Ian’s. He didn’t think anything of it when I mentioned my foster parents might be suspicious. I was supposed to sleep at Riley’s place, after all.

Through the night and into the morning, he was unusually… handsy. Clingy. I don’t think he ever stopped touching me. My breasts, my stomach, between my legs.

I touched him right back. All over.

Until itwasover. I climbed out of the car in front of my house, and he told me to call him later. Said he’d be waiting by his phone.

I smiled and pretended everything was fine—itwasfine, on the surface. Underneath my skin, anxiety was gnawing at me.

And then Robert made me suffer through breakfast. He hemmed and hawed over the weather and what shoes to wear. In the end, he was stalling, too.

We drove the short distance to the prison, and he parked right out front.

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I nodded and took a deep breath, willing myself courage.

And now I’m here—I’m doing it. But apparently only if I get…approved.

Finally, she returns. “Okay. I need your ID. You can put all your belongings in one of the lockers. No phone, food or gum, drinks. No purses or bags, nothing in your pockets…”

She’s reading from a mental list, and I do my best to keep up. I slide my student ID through the hole. She takes a cursory glance at it then files it away.

“Take locker six. Code is seven-nine-zero-four. Then have a seat until we’re ready.”

“Okay.” I’m so out of my league here. I collect a few sympathetic glances as I scan the lockers and finally find number six. I type in the code, and it beeps twice, then swings open.

Slowly, like I’m moving through molasses, I empty my pockets and shut the locker. I don’t have time to take a seat. Something buzzes, and a door opens.

A guard calls, “Visitors, this way, please.”

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