Chapter 15 CARRIE
CARRIE
The library feels emptier after they drag JC out. My hands won’t stop shaking as I try to restack the books that nearly toppled during the fight. The other inmates steer clear now. No one looks at me. Still, I can’t stop glancing at the door, hoping Jace will walk back in.
I feel awful. He only stepped in to protect me, and now he’ll pay for it. My chest aches with guilt. I wish I could take it back, but the memory of Ritchie’s hand and the look on Jace’s face makes my stomach twist.
A guard who was standing nearby through it all moves closer. He’s older, with tired eyes, arms crossed as he watches me put the last book away. He clears his throat.
“You know that inmate?” His tone isn’t hostile, just curious, maybe even a little concerned.
I hesitate, eyes on my hands. “A long time ago,” I lie. I don’t know what the rule is for having any kind of familiar ties with the prisoners, but I don’t think they’ll look at it too kindly. And besides, Rodriguez told me explicitly not to warrant any kind of attention around here.
I sigh. Well, that’s down the drain now.
The guard nods, looking me over, as if weighing whether to push. “He went after that guy pretty hard.”
I bite my lip. “He was just trying to help. It’s not his fault.”
The guard doesn’t reply, simply walks away. I don’t know what’s in JC’s fate now. Solitary, or something worse?
I try to get back to work, but nothing sticks. My mind keeps replaying Jace’s face, the way he put himself between me and that sleazy prisoner, the sound of his fists on flesh. Guilt eats at me. None of this would’ve happened if I’d just kept my head down, stayed invisible.
I’m lost in thought when Mrs. Jackson approaches, holding a manila file.
She gives me a patient look. “Carrie, could you do me a favor? Officer Ramirez left this here earlier. He was supposed to take it to the security office, but got distracted by the commotion. Would you mind delivering it to him?”
I glance down at the folder, fingers tightening around the spine of a book. “Of course. I’ll take it right now.”
She smiles, then lowers her voice. “You did the right thing staying out of it, Carrie. Let the guards handle the troublemakers. That’s not your burden.”
I force a nod, even as shame crawls through me. There’s no point defending Jace. Trying to would only make things worse for him, or for me. It’s better to pretend we barely know each other. That’s the only way to survive here.
I head down the hallway, file hugged to my chest, passing the humming lights and scuffed linoleum. My nerves are raw. When I reach Officer Ramirez’s door, I knock. No answer.
I knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. The hallway is empty, no one in sight. I crack the door and peek inside.
“Officer Ramirez?” I call out quietly.
Silence.
I step in, planning to leave the folder on his desk and go. His office smells like cheap coffee and paper. I spot a mug with lipstick stains, photos of kids tacked to the bulletin board. The desktop is a mess—files everywhere.
I put the folder where it’s supposed to go, but as I set it down, my eyes catch on an open file in the middle of the desk. A thick case report, typed in all caps at the top: SATAN’S BUST.
My stomach drops. The page is covered in names, photos clipped to the corner. I see the familiar image of the clubhouse, the Reapers’ insignia painted across the garage door, yellow police tape in the foreground.
This is it—the case that ruined everything. The one that put JC, Nico, and Levi behind bars. The one Jinn ran from. My pulse hammers in my ears. I see rows of evidence logs, phone numbers, a list of club members, everything the police collected and probably more.
I glance at the door, nerves stretched tight. For a second, I can’t help myself. I lean in, eyes scanning the file, searching for any scrap of information that might help them.
My pulse thunders in my ears. I know I should just leave, but I can’t.
If I walk out now, this chance might never come again.
The folder on Ramirez’s desk could hold everything—evidence, leads, the truth about what really happened.
I glance at the door one more time, then dig my phone out of my pocket, hands trembling.
I snap pictures as fast as I can. Pages of evidence logs, lists of names, contact sheets, police reports, a handwritten note about Jinn. My camera shutter is almost silent, but each click feels deafening in the empty office.
I’m not just doing this for the ATF. I was never in this for them, even after Rodriguez threatened to put me away for good if I didn’t cooperate.
The only reason I agreed was because I thought I could keep myself safe.
But now, seeing how deep this goes, I know I need the truth for myself, and for them.
I keep snapping until I have as much as I can, barely breathing, heart hammering in my chest. My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone. As soon as I’ve got enough, I slide it away and step back from the desk.
I force myself to act normal, straighten the file a little, and leave Mrs. Jackson’s folder right on top. Then I slip out, pulling the door closed behind me, trying not to sprint back to the library.
I hurry down the hall, nerves buzzing, already rehearsing what I’ll say if anyone stops me. As I round the corner, I nearly collide with Officer Ramirez. He’s carrying a stack of paperwork, coffee in the other hand.
He stops, gives me a look that’s hard to read. “Everything alright?” he asks.
I try to keep my voice steady. “I just dropped off a file for you from Mrs. Jackson. Um…do you know what’s going to happen to Jace? I mean, Calhoun?”
Ramirez’s mouth tightens. “He’s being dealt with. Some guys have to learn the hard way.” He doesn’t give me anything else, just nods for me to move along.
My skin prickles as I walk away. What does that even mean? Will they put Jace in solitary? Cut his visits? Worse?
Back in the library, I can barely concentrate, the photos I took burning in my mind, Ramirez’s warning replaying over and over. I’m shelving books when my phone vibrates, buzzing hard against my thigh.
For a moment, I freeze. There’s no way they could have found out what I did that fast, right?
Still, my hands shake as I answer. “Hello?”
Rodriguez’s voice is low, impatient. “You’re going to meet me tonight, understand? Usual place. Don’t be late.”
He hangs up before I can answer.
My heart slams in my chest. I tuck the phone away, mouth dry. He can’t know what I did. Not yet. Still, I feel the walls closing in. I look around the library, searching for something safe, but there’s nowhere to hide from this.
By the time my shift ends, my nerves are shot.
The prison gates close behind me, and I take a shaky breath, sucking in air that’s damp and heavy with evening rain.
I cut across the cracked asphalt lot, passing the chain-link fence, keeping my head down.
There’s no point looking around—nobody here is a friend.
I walk the two blocks to the cheap motel where I’ve been living all month.
It’s the kind of place with flickering neon, peeling paint, and cigarette butts ground into the concrete outside every door.
My room faces the back lot, so I can keep an eye out.
I don’t bother turning on the lights. The glow from the streetlamp outside is enough to see the battered dresser and the faded floral bedspread.
I don’t let myself sit down or think too much. Rodriguez could show up any minute. I keep my bag close, phone tucked in my jacket, just in case.
Around seven, a black Crown Vic pulls into the alley beside the motel. Rodriguez always drives the same unmarked car. I spot him through the dirty window, waiting, engine idling, eyes locked on my door.
I pull my hood up, heart pounding, and slip outside. The air is damp, heavy with the smell of rain on pavement and something sour from the dumpsters. Rodriguez doesn’t get out. He just leans over and pops the passenger door open.
The inside of the car smells like old coffee and leather. I slide in, shut the door, clutching my bag in my lap. He doesn’t say hello, just glances over, his jaw tight.
Rodriguez doesn’t say a word at first. He just pulls away from the curb, slow and careful, eyes scanning the rearview mirror.
This isn’t normal. He usually just talks in the alley, shoves some paperwork at me, reminds me of all the ways he can ruin my life. Tonight, he’s got both hands on the wheel, mouth set in a flat line.
I try to keep my voice steady. “Where are we going?”
He glances at me, then looks back at the road. “Somewhere nice. Thought you deserved a change of scenery.”
My stomach tightens. “Why? What’s wrong with the alley?”
He gives me a half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not always a bastard, Carrie. Maybe I wanted to show you I can be generous too.”
I stare out the window, trying to track the turns. He takes us out of the motel’s neighborhood, toward the edge of town where the city lights start to thin. Every instinct in me screams that he’s up to something.
My fingers dig into my bag. I keep my phone close, ready to call for help if I need it, but I know nobody’s coming. I look over at him, trying to read his face, searching for any sign of what’s coming next.
I force myself to breathe slow, silent, watching the streetlights flicker past. My mind races, thinking of every possible reason he’d want to take me somewhere private—and none of them are good.
I’m trapped in this car, at his mercy, and for the first time since this started, I realize just how alone I really am.
Rodriguez finally pulls into a strip mall parking lot. A neon sign glows over the door: Gino’s Brick Oven Pizza. The windows are fogged from the heat inside, families and couples scattered at small tables, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce rolling out every time the door opens.
He parks close to the entrance. I half expect him to keep driving, but he turns off the engine and gets out, waiting for me to follow. I do, trying not to show how on edge I am. He opens the door for me, even smiles at the hostess. “Table for two,” he says, all fake charm.
We’re led to a booth in the corner. The place is warm, busy, alive with chatter. Rodriguez shrugs out of his coat and leans back, suddenly acting like we’re on a date.
“Order what you want, Carrie. It’s on me,” he says, waving at the menu.
I order something basic, not that I could eat anything if I tried. He orders a pizza with everything, hands the menus back, and looks at me across the table.
I waste no time. “Why are we really here, Rodriguez?”
He laughs, tries to play it off. “Relax. Can’t a man buy his favorite informant a slice?”
I shake my head. “I’m not stupid. Why the special treatment?”
He taps his fingers on the table, eyes flicking around the room. “You’re doing good work. That’s all. Keeping your head down, staying close to the guys. We appreciate it.”
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Then tell me the truth. What exactly are you looking for? What evidence do you even have on them? It’s all rumors, isn’t it?”
He puts on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know I can’t share details. It’s an open case.”
“You threatened me,” I say, voice hard. “Told me I’d go down if I didn’t help. But you can’t even tell me what you have?”
His mouth tightens. “We have enough. Guns, money, club business—all of it points back to Calhoun, and the Maren brothers. We just need something that sticks.”
I push. “What about Jinn? The one who started all this. You have anything on him?”
He shrugs. “Jinn’s a ghost. We catch him, everything falls into place. Until then, we focus on what we can prove.”
“But you can’t prove much, can you?” I say, keeping my voice steady. “That’s why you need me in there. That’s why you want me to get them to talk.”
He sighs, losing patience. “I need confessions, Carrie. I need them on tape. I need you to get close, get them comfortable. That’s what you agreed to.”
The server drops off water and a bread basket. Neither of us touches it.
I stare at him, heart pounding. “So you have nothing real. That’s why you’re leaning on me. You want me to make your case for you.”
Rodriguez sits forward, voice sharp. “I want you to do your job. Get them talking. Get them to trust you. Or you’re the one who’s going to answer for everything.”
I look away, fighting down my anger. The pizza arrives, steaming and perfect, but the smell makes me sick. I force myself to tear off a piece, keep my hands busy, my mind working.
He picks up a slice, acting like this is just another meal, but his eyes never leave my face.
“I heard there was a commotion at the library today. Calhoun got into it with another inmate. What happened?”
I keep my voice even, my face calm. “It wasn’t a big deal. Just some shoving between inmates. Nothing you wouldn’t expect in a place like that.”
He raises an eyebrow, not convinced. “That’s not what I heard. You were right there, weren’t you?”
I shrug, reaching for my water. “I was shelving books. The guards handled it right away. Calhoun just got upset when another guy acted out. Nobody got seriously hurt.”
He studies me, eyes narrowed. “You seem pretty calm about it.”
I force a little laugh. “You told me to keep my head down. That’s what I’m doing.”
Rodriguez nods, but his gaze lingers, searching for any sign I’m hiding something. I don’t look away.
After a long moment, he picks up another slice of pizza. “Alright. Keep it that way. If anything else happens, you let me know first.”
“Sure.”
Rodriguez sets his pizza down and looks at me, eyes narrowing. “Do the guys suspect anything? About why you’re really there?”
I don’t bother trying to lie. I let out a slow breath, keeping my tone steady. “Kind of. They’re not stupid.”
“You’re not getting attached, are you? Because if I think for a second you’re—”
Suddenly, a wave of nausea rolls over me. I press a hand to my mouth, heart hammering. The smell of melted cheese and grease, the heat of the room, everything blurs. I barely hear him as I push out of the booth.
“I—I need a minute,” I stammer, stumbling away before he can say another word.
I rush to the bathroom, barely making it to the stall before I’m on my knees, retching.