Page 56 of Pulling Strings

I would have killed for a hamster wheel to run around on or a scratching post where I could stretch out.

Jokes aside, I would kill for much less.

My mind circled back to Ripley’s statement about sleeping at night and being at peace with his thoughts. Smug bastard. I had devils on both shoulders and the ghosts of thirty-one murder victims who made a sport of haunting me.

Vinton did a séance with me years ago. Real necromancer shit, not the scams charlatans sold on daytime TV. I’d only killed about ten people then, but seeing them all, hearing them screaming at me, surrounding me, while Vinton cackled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen... I didn’t sleep for days.

Scuffling in the hallway outside drew my notice. The tray from lunch sat untouched beside the steel slab of a door. Peanut butter and jelly on stale bread with a bruised banana as a side.

They didn’t usually collect dishes until the next meal was delivered—I’d learned nothing in five days if not the schedule of this place—so curiosity lured me closer. I got belly-low on the stone floor, my face inches from the metal plate at the foot of the door that allowed food to pass in and out. I’d caught glimpses of the guards that way. Boots and legs were the nearest thing to human contact in this desolate place.

Someone approached, walking without stopping, and getting closer with every step.

Anticipation drummed up my heart’s rhythm. Anything out of the ordinary was enough to hold my attention rapt. Paint drying could have been an Olympicsport these days.

The unseen someone stopped outside. Metal clanged and clattered, then the door slid open.

The guard stood before me, looking straight ahead. He must have expected to find me upright or on the bed until my hasty retreat drew his gaze.

I’d rehearsed this. I had a grand plan. The door would open and, when it did, I would tackle the guard at the knees and take them to the floor. Get my hands on their baton and bash it against their skull until… until…

In fantasy, my brain supplied images of broken bones, slick pooling blood, and exposed gray matter. In reality, I fell onto my back and raised both hands in cowardly surrender.

The guard stared only a moment before grunting a gruff command. “Get up.”

My mind raced. Were they sending me back to gen pop? Or was a courtroom in my immediate future?

I stood, so wracked with nerves that my whole body shivered, while the guard produced a length of chain. He looped it around my waist and attached a pair of handcuffs, then clapped those onto my wrists. Leg cuffs completed the ensemble, and the guard waved for me to follow as he exited the cell.

Going somewhere new, or maybe this was standard fare for problematic inmates. I tagged along, overeager, and giddily grateful to see anything beyond the isolation box.

My eyes swam around the space, taking everything in as it passed. Cell doors lined both sides of the walkway, all closed tight. Without windows or signs on the walls, I wondered how they knew who occupied each room, or if they cared.

The hallway stretched sixty feet or more. My pulsekept a rapid tempo, bringing breaths just as quickly until I caught sight of a dark puddle leaking from under a dented cell door. Cooled, coagulating blood.

The guard kept walking. I thought he didn’t notice the liquid pooling into our path, but then he sidestepped so purposefully it was obvious he saw and chose to ignore it.

He didn’t pause or even glance back, trusting me to follow. Which I did.

When we neared the end of the passage, I found my voice at last. “Where are we going?”

“You have a visitor,” he replied.

Donnie?

I didn’t dare hope.

We rounded the corner and approached an open doorway, the first I’d seen that didn’t lead to a jail cell. Inside was an interrogation room identical to the one I’d seen when Holland Lyle last graced me with her presence. And there she stood now, her forehead creased and arms crossed in a rigid pose.

“Oh fuck, it’s you,” I groaned.

Holland managed a tight smile. “Hello again, Fitch.”

The guard indicated the chair on my side of the wide metal table. The rail across its middle proved superfluous with my hands already shackled to my waist. When I sat, though, the guard grabbed the cuffs attached to the table and clipped them onto my belly chain.

I pitched back to frown up at him. “Who do you think I am? Fucking Houdini?” I rattled the restraints in protest.

True to form, the guard didn’t reply. He slipped silently out the door to leave me alone with Holland.

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