Page 34 of The Hate We Breathe
As soon as that question pops up in my mind, I connect the rest of their words and reach for a pen and paper. I start to scribble down notes as the video continues. It only goes on for another five or six minutes and never once does the man speak, nor does he sit forward. Much to my disgruntlement, I’m forced to take a shitty grainy photo of him in shadow in the hopes that I can brighten it up and figure out his identity later.
Once I’m done with the video, I scour through the rest. A few are Denise Donovan in varying locations, but only this one and one other are of her speaking to anyone. Swiping my mouse across the screen, I type in a quick cheat code that’ll scan all of the files for their time stamps. When it clears everything, I see that the last image was dated two weeks prior—of Denise striding through the Los Angeles airport.
Sitting back, I balance my pen between my upper lip and nose. At the very least, I can rule out the death of Juliet’s mom—at least until that last time-stamped image.
The man and woman she’s talking to are unfamiliar. Had the man known about the camera recording them? Is that why he remained in the shadows? It was clear that Denise had known them, or had, at least, spoken to them before. Enough to give them information to search through.
When I glance at the clock at the bottom right-hand corner of my monitor, I nearly groan in disgust. It’s six a.m., the chance of me getting any sleep before I have to get up and head over to the school for morning practice is practically nonexistent. But there are more important things to do today than school or football.
Snatching up my cell, I type out a quick message to both Nolan and Gio. If they’re upset by my skipping classes and practice today, they’ll just have to get over it. These images and videos have only given me more questions and more to uncover.
Regardless of what anyone in the justice system believes, I do think that Allen Donovan’s embezzlement is a setup. Obviously, so does his wife. If she’s pointing the finger at Morpheus, then it deserves looking into it.
Something the unknown woman had said early on in that first video tickles at the back of my mind.“The affair wouldn’t prove anything.”
What affair? With whom? Not Juliet, of course. What had happened between the two of them couldn’t be considered asanything other than assault. But if Morpheus was interested in young teenage women, then the chances of him starting with his best friend’s daughter are slim. No. He would’ve gone after someone more vulnerable first. Someone he could count on to keep their mouth shut. Someone he could have paid off or threatened.
And the one person who should have known him best is the one man I need to see. His best friend, and Juliet’s father.
14
LEX
The clock on my SUV’s dash reads just past seven-thirty a.m. as I drive past Hansgard Correctional Facility. I keep going another half mile and then pull into the parking lot of a gas station. A bleary-eyed attendant gazes absent-mindedly out the front window as I circle the building to the back where I know the cameras are just for show, a tidbit I’d picked up on when I’d virtually hacked and scouted the area before Juliet’s visit here months ago. She should be up by now and on her way to school and though I wish I was with her, this is too important.
My phone buzzes in the console as if summoned by my thoughts, and I glance down as the sky begins to lighten.
NOLAN:Be safe. Let us know what you find out.
I typeout a quick reply and then toss the phone back into the cracked cupholder. My head is a pounding mess. Once I’d decided to have a chat with Allen Donovan, I hadn’t been able to think of anything else. I’m running on no sleep, a dangerous protective instinct for one blue-haired brat, and a lot of fuckingquestions. If getting answers to those questions means breaking into a prison, then that’s what I’ll do.
Shutting off the engine, I reach back and pull free the bag I’d borrowed from a man with too much time on his hands and a penchant for gambling far more than he’ll ever make. Inside is a gray-and-indigo uniform.
Prisons really should run regular checks on their employees. Curtis Brown might have cleared their first check when he was hired, but since then he’s fallen deeper and deeper into the world of online gambling. So much so that he was willing to accept a thousand bucks to come in a bit later today and allow a perfect stranger to borrow his extra uniform and key card.
Slipping out of the car, I strip and change into Curtis' uniform. Tightening the belt around my waist to keep the too wide pants up. I don the button-up shirt over my white tee and tuck in the tails.
Now, for the hard part.
I grab my second bag, plastic crinkling under my grip. This one contains the makeup, a pair of glasses, and chalk. Using the makeup, I form lines around the corners of my mouth, eyes, and forehead before caking my hands in the chalk and running it through my hair. The action makes me look a good deal older, giving me false wrinkles and hair that looks dulled with a few streaks of gray. I shake off the worst of the chalk powder and then look in the mirror. There, now it looks more natural.
It’d been easier getting into the facility before. I hadn’t needed this much prep. Unfortunately, since then, Allen Donovan has gone into lockdown. He no longer has a cellmate and he eats separately from everyone else. Not quite solitary, but definitely isolated. Impersonating a prison guard is the only way to get close without going on record as being there.
I wait until it’s closer to eight before hoofing it on foot to the correctional facility. While the cameras behind the gasstation are just for decoration, the ones in front of the prison most certainly aren’t. Cutting across a strip mall parking lot and around a grassy median, I slip up to the employees’ entrance of the facility with the uniformed hat pulled down low to hide most of my features.
After I scan Curtis’ ID card, the light flashes green and the exterior door unlocks. Inside, the smell of staleness and bleach invades like a swarm of locusts. Wrinkling my nose, I follow the path that I’d mapped out before arriving. Through the first round of doors, waving to a security guard, scanning Curtis’ ID again, and then through a metal detector.
It takes a good twenty minutes to get through all of the security. The whole time my heart pounds, half expecting someone to realize that I’m not who the ID says I am. Tired, sunken eyes stare past me as each one waves me through.
Finally, I’m on the other side and striding down a long, narrow, dark hallway. No windows. Harsh fluorescent lights. The harsh scent of antiseptic crawls up my nose. It’s perfect for a once well-respected multimillionaire.
Allen Donovan is exactly where I expect him to be, huddled on his side on a cot in the back corner of a cell with a single correctional officer standing guard. The block itself is empty of all other residents—the majority of them having been herded to the cafeteria for breakfast. Not Donovan, though.
“I’m here to relieve you,” I say to the other officer as I approach.
His scowl is tired. “You’re late,” he gripes, pushing off the wall across from Donovan’s cell.
“Traffic,” I lie easily.
