Page 110 of What's Left of Us

This is my battle to face.

Dickers’s gaze drops down to the money I put in his hand before he sighs. “You sure you’re going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. There will be guards with us.”

He nods, tucking the money into his pocket.

“If anybody asks, you came with me,” I say, turning when I hear the bus driving toward us. Pulling out my truck keys, I toss them to him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, so take the truck and get some food. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back.”

It looks like he wants to say something, but the bus pulls up and opens its doors before he can. “I’ll see you in a little bit,” I say, waving him off and climbing the stairs that separate me and the wary trooper.

Forty minutes later, I’m seated in an uncomfortable chair with a slew of other waiting family members eager to see the inmates. From what Estep said, it’ll take some time to get a private room cleared for me to have personal time with Volley rather than speaking to him in the community room where everybody else is. He told me only media and legal teams are allowed access to the rooms in the back, and it takes a lot of strings in order to secure one.

Which means I owe him.

He knows it.

I know it.

I just hope he doesn’t expect to cash in something big when the time comes.

It’s another twenty minutes by the time the guard by the door calls my name. “Danforth,” the middle-aged woman says from a separate door from where I’ve seen other people filter in and out of. “This way please.”

I walk over to her.

“You’re here to see Volley,” she says, looking at her chart. “Can I see your identification?”

Pulling out my wallet, I flash her my badge and ID card that shows a slightly younger version of me—the version that had thicker hair from the lack of stress and broader shoulders from all the workouts I did before I was shot.

“This way,” she says, scanning a card at the door and pulling it open. “I assume they told you the rules. The biggest one is no touching. The private rooms can be recorded, but you can tell the guard stationed at the door that you’d like a private conversation with the inmate. There will be a guard outside the door at all times. If you need something, there’s a button you can press. The inmate will be shackled to the table with limited mobility. You have thirty minutes, not a minute more. When the time is up, the guard will come in and take the inmate away, and another will escort you out. Do you understand?”

I can tell by her robotic tone that she’s done this quite a few times. “Understood.”

We stop at the door.

She dips her head at the man standing beside it who unlocks it for us. “Good luck, Mr. Danforth.”

The name has me thinking of the good doctor as I enter the empty room. It’s exactly as I expect it to be—a metal table with a bar that they’ll handcuff him to with two chairs. There’s a camera in the corner with a red light flashing on it. I’m sure Estep would prefer this meeting be recorded, and it’d probably be better if it were so I can back up anything he says.

But I know this conversation is more than likely going to turn. He’ll try saying anything he can to make this about me and Conklin. I’m not taking any risks.

“I’ll need this conversation to be private,” I tell the guard before he shuts the door. “No cameras or recordings.”

He dips his head once before closing the door.

I look at the camera as the red light turns off before I take my spot and wait to face the person who put a bullet through my chest.

It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him in person. I didn’t even get the chance to see his ass carted away by the SWAT teambecause me and Conklin had been hauled off in two separate ambulances.

I remember every detail about him though.

Every distinct facial feature.

Every tattoo.

Every scar.

I memorized the little things from his file and newspaper articles when the news started broadcasting his mugshot and trial updates.

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