29. Willow
29
WILLOW
I walk through the prison entrance, feeling on edge as our plan hinges on them letting Axel out of solitary soon.If he’s in for a month like he was the last time, it will get in the way.
“Good morning, Dr. Matthews.” Thompson nods as I pass.
I force a smile at him. “Morning, Thompson.”
I hurry down the sterile hallway to my office, my heels clicking against the linoleum floor. My hands are unsteady as I unlock the door and slip inside, dropping my bag on the desk.
The computer takes forever to boot up. I drum my fingers on the desk, willing it to move faster. The familiar login screen appears, and I type in my credentials, mistyping twice in my rush.
I pull up the inmate status records, scrolling through until I find his name. My lips part in surprise.
“Axel Morrison—Released from solitary confinement at six a.m.”
Relief floods through me. I slump back in my chair, tension draining from my shoulders. He’s out, so our plan can move forward.
I close the records quickly, feeling almost guilty for checking on them. I can’t risk raising suspicions now, not when we’re so close. Just a few more days, and we’ll be free.
I open a private browser window and log into the offshore account through several proxies. My heart races as I check the balance. Over half of it was my inheritance, but I’ve slowly amassed the rest ever since I decided I’d break Axel out by skimming prison funds. The place is so understaffed that it became clear after the first few smaller amounts that no one is checking on expenses.
Right now, we have just over $280,000.
It’s not enough.
Opening another tab, I access the prison’s financial system. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I debate how much to transfer this time. Too large an amount would raise flags, and too small would not get us where we need to be.
I pull up the commissary records and create a false invoice for supplies—$4,750—which is small enough to slip under the radar. I authorize the payment, routing it through three separate accounts before it lands in our Cayman Islands holding.
The confirmation appears on the screen. The transfer is complete. I quickly delete the browser history and close all windows.
It’s $284,750 total now. We’re getting closer to what we’ll need, but we’re still not quite there. I mentally note to transfer another chunk tomorrow—maybe through the medical supplies budget. They never audit those properly.
My phone buzzes. A text from Axel’s burner number.
How much do we have?
I bite my lip and type the total into a text. A few moments later, he replies.
We need more.
A shiver runs through me. I pull up the maintenance budget and start scanning for opportunities. There’s always money flowing through a prison this size. Small amounts here and there, spread across different departments. No one notices when a few thousand disappear into the system.
I falsify another invoice, this time for cleaning supplies. It’s for $3,250. Submit, route, transfer, and delete.
$288,000 even. Better, but still not enough for what we’ll need.
“Just a few more days.” I double check the routing numbers.
A sharp knock at my door makes me jump. I quickly minimize the browser window.
“Dr. Matthews?” Two men in suits flash their badges. “I’m Detective Roberts, this is Detective Lorenzo. We need to discuss the recent murders.”
My mouth goes dry. “Of course, come in.” I gesture to the chairs on the other side of my desk.
“We spoke with you at the time of the murders, but as you might have heard, the investigation is ongoing. We have a few additional questions if you don’t mind.”
It’s not an option, so I nod and force what I hope is a professional, calm smile. “Not at all, though I’m unsure what else I can add.”
“Last time we spoke, you were treating Axel Morrison?”
My mouth feels like sawdust. Detective Roberts pulls out a notepad.
“Yes, that’s correct.” I keep my voice steady.
“According to the statement you gave us at that time, you had a session with Morrison during the estimated time of death.” Detective Lorenzo leans forward. “Can you confirm this for us again?”
I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. “Yes, we had our regularly scheduled session from three until five p.m. that day.”
“And how would you describe his mental state during that time?” Detective Roberts scribbles in his notepad.
My fingers curl around the arms of my chair. The memory of what happened during that session floods my mind—Axel’s hands on my skin. I force myself to focus.
“Mr. Morrison was... present and engaged throughout our session. We discussed his progress and therapeutic goals.” The lie slides smoothly from my lips.
“In your professional opinion, Dr. Matthews, do you believe Morrison could be involved in these murders?”
I take a measured breath. “While Mr. Morrison has a violent history, I’ve observed significant progress in his impulse control and emotional regulation. During our sessions, he’s demonstrated a genuine commitment to addressing his past behaviors.”
Detective Lorenzo’s eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“Based on my clinical observations and the fact that he was in session with me at the time, I don’t believe Mr. Morrison was involved in these murders.” I meet his gaze steadily, even as guilt churns in my stomach.
“Do you have notes from your sessions with Morrison?” Detective Roberts asks. “A psychological profile?”
“I can’t offer you that information unless you have a warrant.” My jaw clenches. “I’m sure you must know it’s a HIPPA violation.”
Detective Roberts nods. “Of course.” He slides his hand into his pocket and produces the warrant, which I quickly read. It provides access to all prison records for Axel Morrison.
I reach for the thick manila folder in my desk drawer. Inside are pages of careful observations, analysis, and psychological assessments—all crafted to paint the picture of a violent man struggling toward rehabilitation.
“Here’s my complete profile.” I hand over the folder. “I’ve documented his progress, regression patterns, and behavioral shifts over our sessions.”
Detective Lorenzo flips through the pages, scanning my neat handwriting. The irony of my detailed clinical observations hits me—analyzing Axel’s psychopathy while falling deeper into his web. Every note about his manipulation tactics was written between moments of surrendering to them.
“This is thorough, Dr. Matthews.” Detective Roberts hands the file back. “Please can you make us a copy for our next visit. We will be back tomorrow?”
“Certainly. I’ll make a copy ready for you.”
He nods. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.” I stand as they move toward the door. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”
The detectives nod and exit, leaving me with the weight of my deception. I sink back into my chair. Those notes represent hours of crafting the perfect cover—documenting therapy that never really happened and progress that was never the goal.
My fingers trace over my desk calendar, hovering over Saturday. There are just a few more days to maintain this facade.
What have I become? Not only was I in the middle of stealing money when they walked in, but I just lied to law enforcement to protect a murderer.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, returning to the banking site. The numbers swim before my eyes as guilt crashes over me. I minimize it again, unable to look at the evidence of my crimes.
Opening my case files, I focus on actual work to settle my nerves. A new document catches my eye—surveillance footage timestamped from the day of the murders. I click through, noting the guard rotation schedule.
Hall and Kingston were both off their posts during the murders, but their time cards show them clocked in. Following the digital trail, I uncover a pattern—large deposits to their accounts correlating with Marcus Kane’s drug shipments.
More files reveal a web of corruption. Marcus has been buying off guards for months, building his empire within these walls.
“Oh God.”
If Marcus’s crew had this much control that day, they could have easily staged those murders to frame Axel. The corrupt guards would have given them access to any part of the prison.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I copy the files to a secure folder. If the wrong people discover I’ve found it, this evidence could get me killed.
I glance at the clock as Martinez leads Axel into my office. The chains clink softly as Axel settles into his usual chair. Despite being in solitary, I managed to convince Eleanor that it was dangerous to leave him there without his sessions, and she agreed. I told her the backward steps he had taken ever since his month-long solitary was due to a lapse in our sessions, even though it was a lie.
“Leave us,” I tell Martinez.
He smirks, tapping his pocket over what I know is likely Axel’s latest payment before stepping out.
“I found something.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Marcus has been buying off guards—Thompson, Martinez, others. There’s a paper trail of deposits matching his drug shipments. Those murders? They had access to do it, to frame you.”
Axel’s eyes darken. “Come here.”
I circle my desk, and he pulls me onto his lap, the chains cool against my skin. “Saturday,” he purrs against my neck. “Everything’s set?”
“Yes.” I arch into his touch. “The money’s moved, the route’s planned. But Axel, if they discover I found these files?—”
His grip tightens possessively. “No one touches what’s mine.”
His mouth claims mine with fierce intensity. This kiss feels different—desperate, almost tender beneath the hunger. I melt against him as his hands roam my body.
“You’re taking such risks for me,” he murmurs, nipping my earlobe. “My brave little pixie.”
I gasp as he shifts me, positioning me exactly where he wants me. “I need you,” I confess. “I don’t care about the risks anymore.”
His hands slide under my shirt, fingers skimming my ribs. My skin buzzes wherever he touches me, like electricity dancing across my nerve endings.
“Saturday feels too far away.” I thread my fingers through his hair. “Every minute in this place feels like borrowed time.”
Axel pulls back enough to gaze into my eyes. Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of tenderness beneath the hunger.
“You were searching for that evidence, weren’t you?” He traces my jaw with his thumb. “Looking for reasons to convince yourself I hadn’t ordered it.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I knew you were with me when it happened. But I needed to be sure you hadn’t... arranged it somehow. Paid someone to carry it out.”
“And now you do.” His voice drops lower. “What happens when we’re out there, Willow? When you see what I am, without these walls to contain me?”
The question catches me off guard. I’ve avoided thinking about the reality of our future, focused on the escape, freedom, and him.
“I already know what you are,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. “I’ve read every file, every crime scene report. I’ve studied your mind, and I’m still here.”
His grip tightens on my waist, almost painfully. “You think you know, but reading about the monster isn’t the same as living with him.”
“I’ve already crossed every line.” My fingers trace the tattoo peeking from his collar. “I’m embezzling money. I’m lying to the police. I’m planning a prison break. Maybe I’m becoming a monster too.”
Something darkens in his eyes. “No. You’re something else entirely.” He pulls me closer, chains loose and rattling. “Something rare.” The hardness in his eyes softens, revealing a vulnerability I’ve never seen before.
Axel’s hands cradle my face as if I’m something precious. His touch, usually demanding and forceful, turns gentle. When his lips meet mine, it’s not the possessive kiss I’ve grown accustomed to—it’s slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
“Let me feel you,” he whispers against my mouth. “Not just take you.”
I nod, unable to form words, as he unbuttons my blouse. His fingertips trace my collarbone with unexpected delicacy. The chains puddled around his ankles clink softly as he moves, a jarring reminder of where we are, who we are, but at this moment, that reality seems distant.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my shoulder, my neck, the hollow of my throat.
When I reach for his shirt, his hands guide mine, our fingers intertwining in a startlingly intimate way—more so than anything we’ve done before.
His mouth finds mine again as I sink onto him, both of us sighing at the connection. This time, there’s no rush. Instead of the frantic pace we usually set, we move together slowly, savoring each sensation.
“Eyes on me,” he commands.
I open my eyes to find his staring into mine, unguarded—almost vulnerable if I didn’t know better. The green depths hold something I never thought possible—genuine affection.
“I see you,” I declare, stroking his face. “All of you.”
For the first time, I feel I’m making love with the man, not just the monster. With each gentle movement, each tender touch, I’m discovering parts of him he’s kept buried beneath layers of violence and control.
He holds me close, our foreheads pressed together. And when pleasure washes over us, it’s not only the explosive, shattering release we’ve known before but something deeper, richer—a wave that connects rather than consumes.