Page 4 of Mason

I let out a short breath through my nose. “Yeah? What exactly didn’t you do?”

He licks his lips, his fingers twitching against the edge of his tray. “The murder they pinned on me. I never even met theguy. Never been to the place where it happened. I got no reason—no goddamn motive—but somehow, my name pops up in the investigation, and here I am.”

His voice has an edge of desperation, but there’s something else, too. Like he’s waiting for me to believe him, to nod and tell him it’s all a mistake. But I’ve been around long enough to know that no one in here is innocent. At least, not completely.

“That’s a hell of a story,” I say, watching him.

Clay’s knee bounces under the table. He tells me he’s twenty-seven, but the way he moves, the way his nerves play out in every twitch of his hands, makes him seem younger. He’s too green for a place like this.

“You strung out?” I ask, squinting at him. “Junkie?”

His head jerks back, and he shakes it quickly. “What? No. I don’t touch that shit.”

I’m not convinced, but I don’t push it. Instead, I shift my gaze to the table across the room where Scar-Chin and his friends sit, eyes burning into me with unspoken threats. I tilt my chin in their direction. “They give you the royal treatment when you got here, too?”

Clay follows my gaze but quickly looks away, color draining from his face when Scar-Chin shoots him a death stare. “No,” he mutters. “I think that was just reserved for you.”

I smirk. Figures.

“And what about the big guy?” I ask, referring to the guy who came to my rescue earlier. “Who’s he?”

Clay shifts uncomfortably. “Ghost. He’s a lifer.”

Ah.Just the man I’m here for.

“Harsh.”

“Truth,” he mutters. “He’s never getting out. Ever. You really don’t know him? Serial killer. Made all the headlines.”

“I don’t watch the news,” I say, casually picking at my bread. “I make my own.”

That much is true. What I don’t tell Clay is that I know exactly who Ghost is. He is the media’s obsession, an enigma wrapped in brutality. Women across the country call himthe gentle giant, lured in by his massive build and sharp features, an air of mystery following him everywhere he goes.

Convicted of fourteen murders on paper-thin evidence, Ghost maintains his innocence, and he isn’t alone. Multiple women testified that there was no way he was the man who had stalked, raped, and killed those victims. Not a damn chance.

The thing that sealed his fate? Three different women—none of whom had ever met each other—all swearing up and down that they were with him on the night of the last murder. Problem was, they each lived in different states. Their good intentions ultimately put the noose around his neck.

Since the day he was locked up, Ghost has been appealing his conviction, trying to claw his way out of the grave the system buried him in. But he’s a ghost in here now, a shadow moving through the prison walls. And no one fucks with him, because no one wants to disappear.

I shift my gaze to where Ghost sits, surrounded by his people—Latinos built like tanks, their muscles etched with ink, skin telling stories of the lives they’ve lived and the blood they’ve spilled. They don’t eat like the rest of us. They command the space around them, their presence stretching beyond the confines of the table.

One of them catches me watching. He leans in, murmurs something to Ghost.

Ghost turns, his movements slow, deliberate. His gaze locks onto mine, hard and assessing, as if peeling back my skin and peering into the depths of my soul, searching for something only he can see.

I don’t look away.

The moment stretches, taut and expectant, before Ghost finally exhales, his expression unreadable. He shifts in his seat, mutters something low to his crew, and goes back to his meal. Whatever test I just went through, I guess I passed.

Clay lets out a breath. “You got guts staring him down like that. Most guys in here won’t even breathe when they’re in the same room with him.”

“I don’t scare easy,” I say, popping a piece of stale bread into my mouth.

Clay gives a nervous chuckle, still bouncing his leg under the table. “Yeah, well… you might need that in here.”

3

MASON

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