Chapter 34 Harper
HARPER
“How could this happen?”
I probably should have softened my tone, given that I was standing in Deputy Warden Callahan’s office with my fists clenched at my sides. But I was not about to sit back and meekly accept Silas working inside this prison.
Where I might have to see him every day.
Where he might see Knox every day.
Where, God forbid, Knox might have access to him and do something he’d regret.
You know, like the whole ripping-his-esophagus-out-of-his-throat thing he’d so vividly described. That would not end well for anybody.
And Knox suspected. He more than suspected. I’d seen the way his gaze locked on to Silas’s knuckles when they were introduced. The way he went rigid, that terrifying calm-before-the-storm stillness that meant violence was brewing beneath the surface.
It was a ticking time bomb.
When it exploded, who got taken out as a casualty was yet to be determined.
“Background checks are a point-in-time snapshot,” Callahan said, leaning back in his leather chair like we were discussing a minor scheduling conflict. “Not an ongoing monitoring system.”
“But I filed a police report weeks ago! Long before he would have applied for this job.”
“In another state.” He folded his hands on his desk. “The Illinois Department of Corrections pulls records from Illinois databases. LEADS, the state repository, I-Search. If there’s no Illinois arrest, no Illinois conviction, nothing shows up.”
I stared at him. “So, you’re telling me that someone can just cross state lines and start a brand-new life? Like nothing ever happened?”
“If there were federal charges, it would be different. Those show up in the national database.”
“Domestic violence isn’t federal,” I realized.
“In many cases, no. It’s not.”
My fingernails dug into my palms so hard, I was probably drawing blood.
“Harper”—Callahan’s voice softened, which somehow made it worse—“I realize this is frustrating.”
“Frustrating?” A sharp laugh escaped me. “I just found out that my abusive ex-boyfriend passed the application, the interview, and the background check to work at this prison. Which, with all due respect, makes me question the competence of everyone involved in hiring.”
A flicker of defensiveness crossed his face. “There are gaps in the system. It’s not perfect.”
“No shit.”
His jaw tightened. “If what you’re saying is true …”
“If?” The word came out like a slap. “Silas Whitmore is my ex-boyfriend. He was abusive, to the point where I fled the state to start a new life. He followed me here. And evidently, he got himself hired as a correctional officer.” I stepped closer to his desk.
“What part of that sounds made up to you?”
Callahan shifted in his chair. “I’m just saying that without documentation—”
“This morning, he hit me.” I pointed to the bruise on my cheekbone. “I filed a police report. That happened in this state. Which means it’s this jurisdiction. Which means it’s your problem.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. Shock maybe. Horror. Outrage at the very least.
But Callahan looked at me like I’d just reported that Silas had been five minutes late to his shift.
“Is there a warrant out for his arrest?”
I blinked. “What?”
He set his pen down with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world. “Is there currently a warrant out for his arrest?”
“Well, no. Not yet at least. I have to file for a restraining order. Then the judge has to review it, and …”
“I’m aware of how the process works.”
“Excuse me for saying this.” I planted my hands on the edge of his desk. “But I thought you would be a little more outraged.”
“I empathize with what you’re going through.”
“Do you? Because you seem pretty calm about the fact that you hired a violent abuser to guard inmates.”
“If what you’re saying is true, it will all work out through the proper legal channels.”
If. There was that word again.
“What do you think happened?” I gestured at my face. “You think I slammed my cheekbone into a doorframe right before a new CO started, just so I could preemptively accuse him of something? Does that make sense to you?”
Callahan didn’t acknowledge the question. “He wasn’t arrested, correct?”
“No. He fled like the coward he is before the officers arrived.” My voice was shaking now, but I didn’t care. “But they photographed my injury. They took my statement. They filed a report. It’s all documented.”
“But no emergency protective order was filed.”
“They told me those are only granted if my life is in immediate danger. That I’d have to go to the courthouse during business hours to file for a standard restraining order.”
“Exactly.” Callahan spread his hands like he’d just proven his point. “An emergency protective order requires evidence of extreme and ongoing danger.”
“An obsessive ex-boyfriend who followed me hundreds of miles and assaulted me isn’t extreme enough?”
“If you have a problem with that determination, I suggest you take it up with the police department.”
“I’m taking it up with you.” I leaned forward. “You’re the one who hired him. You run a prison. You should know better than anyone where these loopholes exist. How someone could slip through the cracks and land a position with this much power.”
Callahan’s expression didn’t change. “He passed a background check. No arrests in Illinois. No red flags in our system.”
“Because the system is broken.”
“The system is what it is.” He leaned back in his chair again. “Again, I empathize with your situation. And once this works its way through the courts, if there’s an arrest, I’ll be able to take action. But right now, my hands are tied.”
“And if they decide there’s not enough evidence for an arrest?”
His lips thinned. “Let’s take this one step at a time.”
It dawned on me then—that this prison being perpetually understaffed had to influence how easily and quickly Silas got hired.
“And in the meantime?” My voice cracked despite my best efforts. “He’s still allowed to work here?”
Callahan met my eyes. For a moment, something almost like sympathy flickered there.
“If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll understand if you want to tender your resignation.” He paused. “But I hope you won’t. This prison is terribly understaffed. These inmates need you.” Another pause. “I need you.”
It was unprofessional to glare at him.
But at least I didn’t flip him off like I wanted to.
“Can they at least transfer him to another part of the prison?”
Callahan exhaled through his nose. “It’s not that simple.”
“What’s complicated about it? Move him. Anywhere. I don’t care if he’s guarding the broom closet.”
“Correctional officers are union.” He said it like that explained everything.
“I can’t just reassign personnel without documented cause.
If I move him based solely on your accusation, before there’s an arrest or formal disciplinary action, he could file a grievance.
The union rep gets involved. Hearings get scheduled.
And suddenly, I’m the one answering questions about wrongful treatment of an employee. ”
I stared at him. “Wrongful treatment. Of him.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“No. You just hide behind them.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
“So, let me understand this.” My voice was climbing, and I didn’t care. “He followed me across state lines. He tracked down where I work. He got himself hired here, which is stalking with a benefits package. He hit me this morning. And your concern is that he might file a grievance?”
“My concern is liability.”
“For him.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “There are protocols to protect him. Union rules to protect him. Legal procedures to protect him.” I pressed my palm flat against my chest, where my heart was slamming against my ribs. “What protects me?”
Callahan was quiet for a long moment.
“The law,” he finally said. “Once it catches up.”
“And if it doesn’t catch up fast enough?”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
I turned and walked out of his office before I said something that would get me fired.
As far as my ex getting a job here in the first place, maybe it wasn’t entirely Callahan’s fault. Maybe Silas had just figured out how to game the system. And eventually, this would work itself out. The charges would catch up to him. He’d be arrested. Fired. Gone.
But “eventually” wasn’t good enough.
Because right now, Silas Whitmore was a correctional officer at Coldwater Penitentiary. With a uniform. A badge. Authority.
And direct access to the man who had already promised to crush his windpipe.
Please, I thought. Please let me figure this out before someone gets killed.