Chapter 3
Tori stretched, working the kinks out of her neck from sleeping against the window.
The movement pulled at the bandage on her throat, sending a sharp pinch through the shallow cut.
The sting brought back his voice, his breath on her skin.
She sat up straighter. Fear didn’t get to win today. Not here.
The first gate clanged open, jarring her more awake.
She’d made this drive too many times for inmate evaluations, consults, and behavioral profiles.
Every trip meant sitting across from men who lied without conviction and who smiled while describing murders.
Normally, she could stay clinical, let the fascination of unraveling a criminal mind keep her from thinking too hard about the constant threat of violence.
But today, she couldn’t stop the nervous flutter in her chest.
Blade pulled into a visitor parking space and parked between the yellow lines. She left her laptop bag and phone in the car and climbed out into the humid Florida air.
Union Correctional was one of the largest prisons in the Florida system and housed no fewer than thirteen serial killers in its time. It was where monsters came to pay for what they’d done.
And she’d have to sit across from one and pretend she wasn’t shaking.
“This place gives me hives.” Blade stared at the guard tower like the sniper might pick him off for sport.
Big tough guy reduced to jelly by a penitentiary. She couldn’t blame him. Probably dredged up memories he’d rather keep buried. “Want me to tuck you in the car with snacks and a blankie?”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Then move.”
Inside, the tang of chain-link and pine-scented disinfectant hit her nostrils.
She would never get used to that smell. Or the way the armed guards at the security checkpoint tracked her every move.
Professional paranoia at its finest. She’d been here dozens of times, yet the guards never seemed to recognize her.
Fresh meat or familiar face, everyone got the same treatment.
“IDs,” the guard said, extending his hand.
Tori pulled out her FDLE credentials and Blade handed the officer his Broward County detective shield.
“Purpose of visit,” the guard asked with the flat tone of someone who’d asked the same question a thousand times.
“Inmate interview,” Tori said. “Damien Sullivan.”
The guard examined both sets of identification, comparing photos to faces, checking expiration dates, running the credentials through his computer system. Prison security didn’t rush for anyone.
“Service weapon?” The guard’s gaze flicked to Blade.
Blade unholstered his Glock and handed it over, along with his spare magazine. The guard locked both items in a numbered locker, then slid a plastic bin across the counter. “All personal belongings go in the bin. Weapons, cell phones, watches, electronics, pens, keys, everything.”
Tori dropped her notebook in the bin and waited as Blade emptied his pockets, dropping in his notebook, pen, wallet, phone, keys, and the coins he seemed to always carry.
“Don’t forget your watch. And belt.”
“Right.” He removed both and dropped them in the bin. “I think that’s it.”
The metal detector’s arch waited beyond the checkpoint, its sensors calibrated to catch everything from belt buckles to dental fillings. Blade stepped through first, arms raised. A beep confirmed he’d cleared the scan, but he looked ready to bolt through the nearest exit.
She made it through and pulled him aside to wait for their escort. “What’s with you?”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s all the bars and wire mesh. Or could be the big red panic buttons lining the walls.” He swiped at a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “Why’s it so hot in here?”
“The AC’s broken?”
The joke fell flat. This had to be difficult for him.
Walking through these corridors, hearing the electronic locks engage, breathing air that tasted of sweat and desperation.
His time in juvie might have been years ago, but some experiences carved themselves into your bones, and she could kick herself for not considering how this place would affect him.
“Detective St. James? Dr. Crew?” A correctional officer approached, keys jangling from his belt. His uniform was a khaki shirt with brown pants. Instead of a gun, the CO had pepper spray and a steel baton. “Name’s Trussler. I’ll be escorting you to the interview room.”
They followed the CO through the first set of electronic doors.
The heavy steel slammed shut behind them, sealing them into the institutional maze.
Black eyes mounted in armored housings swiveled to follow.
The cameras recorded every second for guards who probably ate donuts while watching visitors navigate this cinder block labyrinth.
Each secured door required Trussler to swipe his card and wait for an invisible hand in the control booth to buzz them through. The metallic clang of locks disengaging bounced off concrete walls painted that particular shade of institutional gray that existed nowhere else on earth.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
Tori turned. Warden Maggie Quick stood near the control center, in her usual brown pants and white uniform shirt with her badge pinned above the left shirt pocket. She wore her black hair styled in a shaggy pixie cut, and Tori noticed the gray strands streaking through her part.
“Warden Quick.” She hadn’t expected to see the warden, who had a reputation for staying off the cell block and behind her desk. “Good morning. This is Detective—”
“St. James. Yes, I know. I’ve seen you on the news.” The warden offered a nod at Blade in place of a handshake. She turned back to Tori. “You’re not scheduled for evaluations today. What brings you in?”
“We’re here to see an inmate,” Tori said.
Warden Quick’s dark eyes shifted between them. “Which inmate?”
“Damien Sullivan,” Trussler interjected.
The warden’s spine straightened as if someone had pulled a wire taut through her vertebrae.
She speared Tori with a stare. “What’s the purpose of the visit?”
Tori started to speak, but Blade jumped in. “We’re hoping Sullivan can remember some details from his time on the force. Following up on old leads.”
Warden Quick’s skeptical expression suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced, but she nodded slowly.
“Fifteen minutes. Sullivan’s in confinement, and I don’t want him out of his cell longer than necessary.”
“Understood,” Tori said. “We’ll keep it brief.”
“See that you do.” The warden nodded once to Trussler and waved to a guard behind the bulletproof glass.
The electronic buzzer made Tori flinch. Steel bars groaned open ahead of them, and they stepped into the corridor that would lead them deeper into the heart of the prison.
Trussler’s heels clacked off the polished concrete like gunshots.
Blade’s shoulders stayed locked beside her.
Some genius had cranked a morning talk show loud enough to wake the dead.
The cheerful chatter about celebrity gossip crashed against the walls until it dissolved into meaningless noise.
Probably the point. Keep the inmates distracted, keep them from thinking too hard about the bars.
They passed the commissary, where inmates lined up for their weekly purchases.
Ramen noodles, instant coffee, and soap that cost three times what it should.
A few faces turned toward them. Some curious, some bored.
Some calculating. She recognized Aruajo from D-block, a lifer who’d been nothing but respectful during his sessions.
He lifted his chin in greeting, and she returned the gesture.
Trussler motioned to the intersection ahead. “Sullivan’s been moved to Interview Room C around the corner here. He’s been cooperative this morning.”
Cooperative. Prison speak for not throwing feces or threatening to kill everyone in sight.
Sullivan’s file painted a picture of a man who’d lost everything to alcohol and rage, taking the lives of four officers in a workplace shooting that had made national headlines.
How he’d managed to avoid the death penalty, she wasn’t sure.
They stopped outside the interview room, and Tori’s pulse thudded as she peered through the reinforced glass rectangle in the door. Her stomach twisted so hard it nearly folded her in half.
There he was. Damien Sullivan. The man who claimed to have found her that night. A corrupt cop. A convicted killer. Probably a liar. And yet, her only shot at the truth.
He sat stiff at the metal table, shackled at the ankles and wrists. A chain snaked from his waist to a ring bolted in the center. Salt and pepper stubble covered hollow cheeks, and his skin had the gray pallor of someone who hadn’t seen real sunlight in years.
If he found her that night, what else had he seen? What else had been buried along with her parents?
Trussler shifted and hooked his thumbs on his duty belt. “There’s a panic button on the wall. Standard response time is fifty-two seconds. If something goes sideways, you’ll be on your own until we breach.”
“You ready for this?” Blade’s blue eyes searched her face.
Ready? She glanced at Damien through the window. She’d been carrying her parents’ unsolved murder her entire life like a stone on her back. Ready didn’t factor into it. “No. But I’m going anyway.”
“You heard the warden,” Trussler said. “Fifteen minutes.” The door buzzed open with a metallic shriek.
Sullivan straightened, drawing his chains across the table as he put his hands in his lap. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. Blade slid into the one beside her.
This was it. Twenty-six years of questions but no answers. No leads. No witnesses. No hope. She’d read every detail that had trickled into public record. A mention here, a court filing there. Not once did she read a mention of Damien Sullivan.