Page 26 of The (Maybe) Murderer Who Knocked Me Up

I know I’ll find cash in my pocket. Last week, they discussed sending Chime to a horseback riding camp over the summer, even though they know I can’t afford it.

“Silver, she doesn’t need?—”

“I know she doesn’t need it. But Tin said it’s the best camp in the state, and I think she’ll have a great time.”

Chime perks up. “What camp?”

I roll my eyes. Now that she knows, there will be no going back. “Horseback riding camp.”

She claps her hands and smiles from ear to ear. “Really?”

I playfully punch Silver’s arm. “Yes, really. God, Silver. You gotta let me raise my own kid, okay?”

He holds up his hands. “Okay. I’m sorry. But don’t you remember going to camp during the summer when we were kids? We had the best time.”

“Yeah, at a cheap camp,” I remind him. “But thank you. Just this one time, though. If she goes to camp again, it will be on my dime.”

He shrugs noncommittally at that. I glance at the clock. Damn it. It’s past eight, and I still have a two-hour drive ahead of me.

“I should go. Thanks for keeping an eye on Chime for me, Mom.”

She waves me away. “She’s a joy. We’ll see you tonight, Quin. Drive safely.”

I give her one last hug and wave to Chime, before rushing out the door.

13

SEQUIN

Igrew up hearing scary stories about Silvertip Correctional and Internment Facility, AKA Sciff. It’s where all the big shifters are incarcerated in Texas: Grizzlies, mountain lions, rhinos, alligators, and the occasional dragon. They send scorpion shifters there, too—not because they’re big, but because they’re dangerous. It’s the most violent correctional facility in the United States, with more inmate deaths reported than any other prison in the free world.

It's where they send the shifters who try to cross the border in their animal forms, too. Even the little shifters like foxes and iguanas. Border patrol throws them in there with the murderers and rapists, like it’s nothing.

That’s why there are so many horror stories.

I have to drive out into the middle of the desert to reach the mountain of a building surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Several big signs warn that the fence is electric.

I give my ID to a security guard manning a booth by the front gate. Several other guards swarm my car like a pack of dogs. They yank open the other doors and climb inside theJeep, checking very nook and cranny. They warned me I’d be subject to a search of my vehicle, but the gruff way they open Aunt Emerald’s glove box and yank out Chime’s booster seat still startles me. They’re all domineering alphas with huge shoulders and guns in holsters at their hips. I’d heard that Sciff recruited bounty hunters to guard the prison, but I’d assumed that was a tall tale.

Maybe all the stories I’ve heard about Sciff are true.

Just as suddenly as they barged into the car, they’re gone. They leave the contents of the glove box scattered along the floor and Chime’s booster seat disconnected. Aunt Emerald’s neat and tidy car looks like the scene of crime.

The attendant at the booth hands me my driver’s license. “You can pull in when the green light flashes. You have fifteen minutes to collect your family member at the front of the parking lot and get to the exit. If you take longer than fifteen minutes, you will be escorted out by a team of armed guards and barred from future pick-ups.”

I open my mouth to tell him Slade isn’t my family member, then shut it again. It didn’t say I had to be related to him in order to pick him up, did it? I can’t remember.

I should probably keep my mouth shut and do what I’m told. The sooner I get Slade, the sooner I can leave this place.

The fence clanks open and a bright green light flickers. If I wasn’t paying close attention, I would have missed it.

“Go!” the attendant barks out.

I take a deep breath and pull forward. An asphalt road, gritty with an overlay of sand, stretches before me and expands into a parking lot. I keep driving until I get to a rounded pick-up area where three handcuffed alphas wait next to their guards. They’re spaced out, two guards per prisoner. From a distance, I can’t tell which one is Slade. Each of the prisoners is male and big, just like him. They all have short, buzzed hair and tattoos, too.

As I get closer, I recognize Slade’s square jaw and strong nose. His hazel eyes stare back at me—not with the tender kindness he showed me during our night together, but with a haunted wariness. Aunt Emerald warned me that he wouldn’t be the same after six years at Sciff. She said if he wasn’t violent already, he’d have to become that way in order to survive.

With a shaky breath, I drive up to Slade and put the car in park.

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