Chapter 2
HARPER
On the first day of my new job, all I was thinking about was officially starting my new Silas-free life. Hundreds of miles from the bruises. The fear. The man who gave me both.
First step in the rebuilding-Harper checklist?
New place to live. Check.
New job? Double check.
Was it my dream job? God, no. But then how many people can say they’re actively working their dream job, am I right? Most of us make concessions. Some of us do it for survival reasons.
And survival was my middle name these days.
So, no, this job wasn’t a long-term career situation. No disrespect to anyone who enjoyed working at a penitentiary, but this was a stepping stone for me. A place that paid my bills so I could afford to live on my own. A means to an end.
But it was mine.
And, sure, it might not be the most glamorous job in the world—pretty sure prison nurse wasn’t on anyone’s vision board—but it was mine all the same.
Onward and upward, Harper.
You can do this.
I smiled at my reflection in the rearview mirror, tucking a strand of dark hair behind my ear.
There was almost no trace of the bruise Silas had left on my face.
Gone. That chapter in my life closed forever.
Only a tiny scar remained on my cheek, where his ring had cut me, so small that, in time, it would probably fade to nothing.
Like it never happened.
Except it did. And I’d never let it happen again.
As I got out of my parked car, Coldwater Penitentiary loomed above me. The fortress stretched three stories high, its weathered walls the color of old bones, topped with coils of barbed wire that seemed to whisper stay away to anyone with half a brain.
Behind these medium-security walls, eighteen hundred men were imprisoned. Many of them violent.
And I’d had enough of violent men to last me several lifetimes, thank you very much.
The only way I’d gotten through the initial apprehension when they offered me the job was by reminding myself that I wouldn’t be alone with any of them. They’d assured me they had safety protocols. Correctional officers. Procedures to keep the nurses and doctors safe from the prisoners inside.
Armed guards who could be there in an instant.
Which was a hell of a lot more protection than I’d had over the last two years with Silas.
Still, I guess it was only human instinct to feel that flutter of fear on your first day. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and wondering if your parachute would open.
The walk to the front entrance felt like crossing into another world. My sneakers clapped against cracked asphalt that had seen better decades, the sound swallowed by the oppressive weight of the building ahead.
Once inside, I flashed my newly minted ID badge at the checkpoint. The laminated photo showed me trying too hard to smile, looking like someone auditioning for the role of competent medical professional rather than a woman fleeing an abusive ex.
The guard at the staff entry—a mountain of a man, name tag BURKE—checked my credentials again, then ran me through a metal detector, waving the wand over me with all the enthusiasm of someone conducting a funeral.
Then his eyes did a slow crawl from my face to my feet and back up again. The kind of look that felt like being licked by a particularly gross dog.
“YOU’RE going in there?” His tone suggested I’d announced plans to swim with sharks while wearing a meat suit.
I jutted my chin up, pretending his I’m-mentally-undressing-you gaze didn’t make my skin crawl.
“Is that a problem?”
“You know these men haven’t had sex in years, right?”
Well, points for bluntness, I guess.
“I’m not the first female to work at a prison.” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“You’re the first one here who looks like you do.” He sat down, his chair creaking ominously. “These men are gonna go feral.”
Okaaay. File that under Things That Don’t Make Me Feel Better About My Life Choices.
A different correctional officer—with younger, kinder eyes—escorted me inside. Officer Martinez, according to his badge. He shot Burke a look that could’ve meant anything from stop being a creep to not in front of the newbie.
“This way, Ms. Mitchell.” Martinez’s voice was professional, thank God. “I’ll take you to the infirmary.”
The first security door clanged shut behind us with a finality that made my stomach drop. The sound echoed down the concrete corridor like a judge’s gavel. No going back now.
“Can’t stay long,” Martinez said as we navigated the maze of hallways, our footsteps bouncing off walls painted the color of despair. “We’re short seven COs today. Even worse than normal.”
“Worse than normal?” I parroted because seriously, what the hell did that mean?
He swiped his badge at another checkpoint. “This shortage is killing us. But, hey, at least we’re getting overtime.”
He said it like overtime was some kind of consolation prize for being perpetually understaffed at a facility housing nearly two thousand potentially violent men.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool.
We passed through another set of doors, and suddenly, I could feel them—the inmates. The weight of their presence pressing against the walls. Voices echoed from somewhere deeper in the facility, a low rumble punctuated by the occasional shout or laugh that didn’t sound particularly funny.
Then we rounded a corner, and there they were. A handful of inmates being escorted down a perpendicular hallway. Orange jumpsuits that somehow managed to look both cheerfully colorful and threatening. They turned to look at us—at me—and time seemed to slow.
One of them, a wiry guy with no eyebrows (I’d be replaying the mystery of missing eyebrows later), actually licked his lips.
Gross. So gross.
I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, shoulders back, trying to channel medical professional who definitely belongs here energy rather than fresh meat having second thoughts.
But this was fine. I knew it wasn’t a spa, for God’s sake. No need to get nervous. These men were behind bars, under constant supervision. They couldn’t hurt me.
Not like Silas could. Not anymore.
Martinez led me through another security checkpoint into what he called the medical wing.
“This is the waiting area for inmates.” He gestured to a space that looked about as welcoming as a dentist’s office in hell.
Two concrete benches where three inmates sat shackled, apparently waiting for medical attention.
They looked up as we entered, their expressions ranging from bored to curious to something I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Seated behind a security desk that looked like it could withstand a small explosion, another correctional officer gave me a polite nod before returning to his computer screen. At least this one didn’t look at me like I was on the menu.
We passed through a gated door that separated the waiting area from the actual medical facilities.
The small nurses’ station would have looked relatively normal with its computer monitors, clipboards, and logbooks, if not for the fact that everything was encased in metal housing. Like a cage within a cage.
The locked medication cabinet caught my eye. Old-fashioned lock that required actual old-fashioned keys. When was the last time this place had seen an upgrade?
Martinez led me down a narrow hallway that smelled like industrial-strength disinfectant trying to mask something worse. We stopped at an office where a woman with curly red hair and thick-rimmed glasses looked up from a stack of files.
“Ms. Mitchell!” She rose, extending her hand with genuine warmth. “I’m Dr. Mercer. So glad to have you on board.”
“Glad to be here.” Mostly.
“Gotta head back.” Martinez hooked a thumb over his shoulder, already backing away. The understaffing wasn’t just talk, apparently.
“Well …” Dr. Mercer pressed her palms together, a gesture that reminded me of my yoga instructor. The comparison was so incongruous in this place that I almost laughed. “How about I show you around?”
“That would be great.”
She led me down the hallway, her voice taking on the practiced cadence of someone who’d given this tour before.
“One camera”—she gestured upward without breaking stride—“covers the intake entrance. The rest of the wing falls under patient confidentiality exemptions.” A small, dry smile.
I’d assumed there would be more. More cameras, more eyes, more … something. A buffer between me and the men I’d be treating. But there was just the one, pointed at the door, and beyond that, a lot of empty places where no one was watching.
I swallowed.
“We have six exam rooms,” she continued. “Bare-bones, no frills.”
She wasn’t kidding.
The first exam room was a study in contrasts to my last job.
At the primary care facility, we’d had warm lighting, potted plants that actually made the space feel alive, and soft colors chosen by some consultant to “promote healing.” Everything designed to make patients feel comfortable, cared for, and human.
This place screamed: We are legally obligated to provide medical care. Nothing more.
The exam table was solid metal. The vinyl padding on top looked older than I was, compressed to maybe half an inch thick from decades of use. Above us, fluorescent lights buzzed with the intensity of an interrogation room, harsh enough to eliminate any shadow where trouble might hide.
That’s when I noticed the wall-mounted blood pressure cuff had a lock on it.
A lock. On medical equipment.
Because, of course, a blood pressure cuff could become a weapon. A strangulation device. The thermometer? Locked too. Eye socket stabbing tool, probably. That old rolling stool in the corner that had seen better decades? Not locked up, even though it was a potential skull-crushing implement.
Okay, maybe I’d underestimated the danger level here. Just a smidge.
“It’s not much,” Dr. Mercer admitted, running her hand along the metal exam table like she was apologizing to it. “But it gets the job done.”
I thought back to my training, trying to reconcile it with what the CO had said about being short-staffed.
“Will I be … alone with inmates?” Translation: Will someone have the opportunity to take that stool and introduce it to my skull?
Dr. Mercer must have heard the real question because her expression softened.
She placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve worked here seven years.
A correctional officer escorts prisoners to and from their cells and waits right outside the exam room with the door open.
So, no, you’re never fully alone with an inmate. ”
There was that word, fully, doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.
“Sounds great,” I managed, discreetly wiping my sweating palms on my scrubs.
She walked me through the protocols, her voice taking on the soothing quality of someone who’d talked plenty of nervous new hires off the ledge. Safety procedures that sounded comprehensive on paper but probably got a lot messier in practice.
But her relaxed demeanor did help. This woman sounded brilliant. Hell, she could probably work anywhere she wanted. If she’d chosen to stay here for seven years, this place couldn’t be a complete disaster.
Right?
I wasn’t leaving one violent man just to spend my days getting abused by others.
Right?
“Now, as for staffing,” Dr. Mercer continued, leading me back toward the nurses’ station, “I’m the medical director, which means I oversee all care, diagnose, order medications and tests.
I handle the most complicated cases. I’m here Monday through Friday, and I’m on call after hours.
We have a nurse practitioner for nights, who can prescribe as needed. ”
She ticked off my responsibilities on her fingers. “You’ll take vitals, triage sick calls and injuries, administer medications, dress and stitch wounds, and document everything.”
“Sounds good.”
Better than good actually. Now that she’d walked me through everything, it all seemed … manageable. Mundane even. Just like any other nursing job, except the patients would be in shackles and orange jumpsuits instead of those awful hospital gowns that never quite closed in the back.
By all accounts, this would be textbook medical care. Checkups for diabetics needing insulin. Chronic illness monitoring. The occasional accident requiring stitches. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
Maybe this really would just be another typical job. Maybe I’d been overthinking everything. Maybe—
“MEDICAL!” A man’s voice exploded through the corridor. “WE NEED MEDICAL NOW!”
Dr. Mercer was already moving, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she sprinted toward the entrance. I followed, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
A correctional officer buzzed the metal door open with hands that shook slightly. Behind him, four other COs were supporting two separate inmates.
“Two inbound! Code red!” one of them barked.
And that’s when I saw the blood.
So. Much. Blood.
It painted the orange jumpsuit crimson.
“Fight,” a CO said, breathless. “Happened fast.”
Jesus, this was from a fight? This looked more like someone fed the first inmate through a wood chipper.
He hung between the guards like wet laundry, his muscles gone slack with that particular exhaustion that comes from taking too many hits.
Blood painted his face in thick streaks in such volume that I couldn’t map the actual damage underneath.
The second inmate was standing upright. Unmarked. His bloody knuckles the only evidence he’d been involved at all.
Dr. Mercer took one look at both men and made her choice.
She took the victim.
And gave me the predator.