Page 114 of Girl Lost
They kissed as the last light bled from the sky like watercolor. This wasn’t an ending, it was a beginning written in grace and love. In possibility.
The start of their greatest adventure yet.
And for the first time in her life, Luna was ready to surrender to the journey.
Three Weeks Later
Corbin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. The car idled in the parking lot, its gentle rumble much like the turmoil churning inside him. He’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes, willing himself to move, to take that first step.
The imposing structure loomed before him. A fortress of concrete and steel that seemed to suck the very warmth from the air. Corbin’s eyes traced the razor wire atop the fences, glinting wickedly in the harsh Florida sun. This place was designed to keep people in, but right now, it felt like it was keeping him out.
He glanced at his watch. If he didn’t move soon, he’d be too late. The thought almost made him laugh. Late for what? A family reunion?
With a deep breath that did little to calm his racing heart, Corbin killed the engine. The sudden silence felt oppressive, broken only by the faint jangle of keys as he pocketed them. He could still drive away. Pretend this whole thing had never happened. Go back to Luna, to the daughters he was just getting to know.
But he couldn’t. Not really. Because as much as he hated to admit it, the man waiting inside held answers. Answers they desperately needed.
Corbin stepped out of the car. Straightened his tie. His badge felt heavy in his breast pocket. A reminder of everything he’d worked for.
The walk to the entrance seemed to stretch for miles, and each step brought a fresh wave of memories. His father’s rages. The smell of whiskey on his breath. The sound of his mother’s muffled sobs. Corbin’s stomach churned, threatening to expel the meager breakfast he’d managed to choke down that morning.
At the main gate, a bored-looking guard glanced at his credentials before buzzing him through. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind him with a finality that made Corbin’s skin crawl. He was in. No turning back now.
Another guard, this one more alert, approached. “Agent King? I’m Officer Hammond. I’ll be escorting you today.”
Corbin nodded, forcing his face into a neutral expression. “Thanks. I’m here to see Damien Sullivan.”
Hammond’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he gestured to a nearby locker. “First things first, we’ll need to secure your weapon. Can’t have any firearms inside, even for law enforcement.”
Corbin unholstered his gun and locked it away. The absence of his sidearm left him feeling off-balance, like he was missing a limb.
They moved through the checkpoint and through a series of mantraps. Each buzz and clang of the doors rattled his nerves. The farther they went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The walls seemed to close in, and the air grew thicker with each step.
“So, what brings an FDLE agent out here to see Sullivan?” Hammond asked as they walked. “Must be something big.”
Corbin’s jaw tightened. “Just following up on a few things.” He couldn’t explain that he was here to see his father. The man who had nearly destroyed his life.
Hammond nodded, clearly sensing Corbin’s reluctance to elaborate. “Well, you should know, Sullivan has been a model prisoner. No incidents in over a decade.”
A model prisoner. Wasn’t that sort of an oxymoron for a man like his father? As if that could erase everything that had come before. The beatings. The terror. The lives destroyed.
They reached the last door, heavy and solid. Hammond paused, his hand on the handle. “All right, Agent King. Here’s the deal. You’ll have thirty minutes. We’ll have cameras on you, monitoring from the observation room. If Sullivan tries anything, just give the signal, and we’ll shut it down. But I have to warn you, our response time is fifty-two seconds.”
Corbin nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Fifty-two seconds was a lifetime in an attack.
“Remember,” Hammond added, his voice low, “no matter what he says, no matter what history you two might have, he’s a con. Don’t let your guard down.”
If only Hammond knew how impossible that would be. Corbin’s guard had been up for twenty years, a wall built brick by painful brick.
The door swung open, and Corbin stepped inside. The room was small, dominated by a metal table bolted to the floor. And there, seated on the other side...
His father.
The years had not been kind to the man. The once-imposing figure had grown soft, a paunch straining against the faded prison jumpsuit. A deep scar the size of Corbin’s thumb rested in the hollow of his throat. The color reminded him of a cold steak. His hair, once a sandy blond like Corbin’s own, had faded to a dull gray. But the eyes. The eyes were the same. Dark and intense, boring into Corbin with painful familiarity.
The smell hit him next. A pungent mix of stale sweat and institutional soap that made his nose twitch. This was what twenty years in prison smelled like.
“Well, well,” his father drawled. “Look who finally decided to pay his old man a visit.”
