Chapter 12
TOMB
GRAYSON
General population, otherwise known as gen pop to those inside, has its benefits in prison. It’s less restrictive, and therefore a con can acquire certain hard-to-get items if willing to pay the price.
Accessing these perks is a bit trickier when confined in enhanced security, but not impossible.
Everything boils down to supply and demand.
Items people take for granted on the outside have far more value within these walls.
Out there, if you need a certain prescription, you go to a doctor.
In here, you have to pay off the right guard.
With less than forty-eight hours until my transfer, time is my enemy. Being locked in this cell is like being sealed inside a tomb. I’m already dead to the outside world.
And just as a dead man has no need for possessions, I’ve made arrangements. My cell is an empty, a blank slate, ready for a new occupant. Everything has been thrown out in preparation for my transition to New Castle—all except for London’s puzzle.
The photos, the research, the evidence of my obsession…all gone. It’s locked inside me. Locked, locked. And only one other holds the key.
I stare down at the completed portrait of London, every curved jigsaw piece fitted together flawlessly, the seams of her beautiful face a delicate maze I’ve mapped over and over.
I trace the beveled edges, recalling the sweet, intoxicating taste of her, like honey and lilac on my tongue. The soft feel of her curves, her body delicate, trembling, coming undone beneath my touch. The way her breath caught, the way she fought against me—so fucking sexy, perfect. Mine.
When the pieces finally snap together, it’s like feeling her surrender, a satisfaction so consuming, I’ll never experience it again.
We’re a perfect match.
Once you’ve had a hit of that perfection—that utterly seductive rush of gratification—it becomes impossible to live without.
She’s a necessity, like air for my lungs, feeding my addiction.
And just as I can’t silence my compulsions, her absence stirs a restless hunger, the thought of not having her unbearable, a madness that twists and claws inside my mind.
I pace my cell, a caged animal waiting for the gate to open.
We’re being tested.
She can’t contain what’s been unleashed, and I can’t return to who I was before. That man only knew one way to survive: alone. Isolation is a survival instinct.
Yet with her, I no longer crave solitude to suffer my penance. I’ve found the one thing that can set me completely free, and I’ll fucking kill for it.
The heavy footfalls of boots hitting concrete spike my adrenaline as the guard approaches my cell. I want this too badly.
“Delivery from gen pop,” the guard says as he shoves a package into the slot. He holds it there on his side, his gaze narrowed on me. “This wasn’t cheap, Sullivan.”
I stand a distance away from the door. “I’ll double the payment and wire it to your account.”
He chuckles. “Guess you can’t spend it when you’re dead.” He sends the package through.
I grab the small paper bag and hold it behind my back, feeling the contents.
“If you ask me, it’s a waste of money. Could’ve just got it from the infirmary.” He continues to mumble to himself as he walks off.
As soon as the lights dim, I open the paper bag. A small baggie within holds three large white pills. I read the imprint with a smile. Penicillin.
Bringing the meds along for the ride won’t be easy. I open the empty puzzle box and peel back the cardboard along the side, then seal the pills inside, dreading where I’ll have to stow the pills when the time comes.
Before I lose the orange glow of the overhead lights, I strip off my thermal and kneel before a handheld mirror propped on the table. I angle my back and study the fresh ink between my shoulder blades.
The outline was the hardest part, assuring the curves aligned, that every line is precise.
I dig out the ink and shiv from the hollow compartment at the base of my cot.
Not an easy feat, keeping the guards ignorant of contraband.
What I use as a handle, a splinter I carved from a bench in the yard, is barely the length of my index finger.
It holds the slender, sharp prongs I managed to score from the kitchen.
Another perk from my gen pop connection.
I sharpen the prongs against the concrete, then use the points to shade in the black ink. Dip and puncture. Repeat. It’s a tedious process, but the results are worth the effort as I envision her hand—the ink that she tries so hard to conceal—as I fill in the negative space.
Every lock has a key.
After the tiresome repetition, the most vital element is layered within the shading.
I can’t rely on memory, I can’t guess, and I can’t take any risks.
Every element has to be planned, mapped, and executed carefully.
Measurements. Access points. Pass codes—contingencies for any possible complication.
And above all, the most essential piece: London.
Without her, this will fail.
My hand trembles, anticipation fueling my adrenaline as I start on the final detail.
London claims I’m incapable of feeling—that I’m a psychopath devoid of empathy.
While I don’t disagree with her assessment, not all psychopaths are the same. What she and so many of her colleagues fail to acknowledge is the existence of the disempathetic type.
I’m the proof.
It’s referred to as a “constricted circle of empathy”—psychopaths who feel, but selectively.
Picture a dead tree. It’s stripped bare, its limbs severed. This tree has spent its entire existence decaying in darkness, slowly rotting. Then unexpectedly, the sun touches its bark, and a single, fragile stem sprouts, growing and reaching toward the only source of warmth it’s ever known.
One living limb on an otherwise dead tree.
London is that sunlight, and this new limb represents the only emotions I’m capable of feeling—those reserved solely for her.
Love is difficult for my kind, but not impossible.
With every break of my skin, every fresh stain inked into my flesh, I defy my nature to prove this to her. Like roads rarely traveled, the neural pathways for empathy and love have become overgrown and neglected in my brain.
If you don’t nurture a thing, it dies. I was born capable, like every human is, born with the potential to feel, to empathize, to love—only I was prevented from cultivating these emotions, leaving those pathways weak and neglected.
Idle hands are the devil’s playground…and all that entails. A smile curves my lips.
Then there was her. Synapses sparked, lighting up a dormant, forgotten path. I’ve never felt a connection with anyone.
Until her.
And I covet this rare, precious thing, determined to nurture this little seed she planted in my dark soul.
My own design of love may be a twisted creature, but that creature is hungry and demands to be fed.