A murmur goes through the courtroom. My chest goes hollow, but I keep my chin up as they lead me away. I don’t get a glimpse of the others. But I don’t doubt that they’ve also suffered similar fates.
It’s over in minutes. No witnesses take the stand, no jury box, no cross-exams—just a judge reading from a stack of paper while some fed talks about “risk factors” and “organized crime ties.” They don’t have to prove anything today. All they have to do is keep us caged while they build their case.
We shuffle through the back hallway, shackled at the wrists and ankles, the clatter of chains echoing off the bare tile. The air smells like floor polish and cold sweat. In the loading bay, white fluorescent lights make everything look flat and unreal. There’s a line of marked vans outside, their doors yawning open like hungry mouths.
We’re herded together at last, deputies watching us like hawks. For a moment, it almost feels normal, the three of us standing side by side. Jace leans in just enough so only we can hear. “Any idea where we’re going?”
Before anyone can answer, Rodriguez steps into view. His boots hit the pavement with that deliberate, arrogant stride I’ve come to know too well. He stands at the base of the ramp, hands folded behind his back, savoring the moment.
“You gentlemen will be guests of Northwood Federal Correctional,” Rodriguez announces, his words echoing around the open yard. “You’re going away for a long time. Get comfortable.”
Levi says nothing, just stares straight ahead. I lift my head and glare. “We haven’t even had our trial yet. You’ve got no real proof, nothing but speculation and a bad story.”
Rodriguez just laughs, stepping closer so his breath nearly touches my cheek. “We’ll see about that, tough guy.”
He slams the van doors shut with a hollow, echoing crash. Darkness settles over us as the lock clicks in place. The only sound is our chains rattling as the truck lurches forward, carrying us away from everything we’ve ever known.
11
CARRIE
The sun squints down at me as I step off the bus, the heat making my palms sweat as I grip my bag tighter. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I force myself to walk, every step feeling heavy, uneven on the cracked pavement.
A few yards ahead, a rusted green sign waits for me, the letters faded but still legible:Northwood Federal Correctional Facility. The words might as well be carved in stone. I pause for a moment, nerves fluttering under my skin, and stare up at the place that will be my new reality.
The prison rises beyond the sign, squat and colorless, its walls a mix of weathered brick and poured concrete. Barbed wire coils along the fences, sharp and endless, glinting beneath the sun. Tall floodlights stand at the corners like watchful sentinels, even in broad daylight. A chain-link gate separates the world outside from the yard, and everything past it feels twice as silent, twice as bleak.
A line of new arrivals moves slowly ahead of me, shuffling toward the checkpoint. The air is thick with the smell of exhaust, hot asphalt, and something chemical that clings to the back ofmy throat. I wipe my palms on my jeans, trying to hide how nervous I am, how out of place I feel.
I try not to meet anyone’s eyes, keep my head down as the guards bark orders and check names off their lists. My skin prickles with unease. This isn’t like waiting for the bell to ring at the end of a bad day—this is walking into a place built to keep you, a place where even the sun feels too far away.
Swallowing hard, I clutch my bag to my chest and follow the line, unsure if my legs will carry me, praying I can hold it together until I’m through those gates.
Inside, the air is cool and harsh, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. The entryway is painted a dull beige, with walls already covered in handprints and scuff marks. There’s a heavy counter dividing the space, bulletproof glass between me and the woman on the other side.
I take a shaky breath and step forward, handing over my paperwork. The receptionist glances up, eyes sharp behind her reading glasses. She flips through the papers, tapping at her keyboard before looking me over, head to toe.
“I’m here for the librarian assistant position,” I say quietly, my voice barely steady. “I’m pre-approved. There should be something in the system.”
She scrolls, the mouse clicking, then gives a little nod. “You’re on the list, all right.” She stamps a paper, then looks up at me, eyes lingering a little longer. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
I manage a small, nervous smile. “Feels that way.”
She pushes a visitor badge through the slot at the bottom of the glass and leans in, lowering her voice. “Things move slow here. Follow instructions and you’ll be fine. Go on through that door and wait for someone to come get you.”
I swallow, nodding, then tuck my badge into my shirt.
The metal door swings shut behind me, but suddenly my mind yanks me backward, back to my apartment one week ago, when everything started to unravel for real.
Rodriguez stood in my living room, arms crossed, his presence filling up all the space, even with half a dozen agents moving through my drawers and closets. He barely looked at the mess they were making. His focus was only on me.
“Carrie,” he said, his voice calm in that way that made it worse, “you’re in serious legal jeopardy here. We have reason to believe you’re an accessory to multiple federal crimes.”
I remember how my hands shook, twisting the edge of my sleeve, trying not to show how scared I was. “I haven’t done anything. I told you, I wasn’t involved.”
He just shook his head, a slow smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You say that, but we have evidence of your involvement. Lying to a federal agent, covering for fugitives, possible conspiracy charges. You could face years in prison, Carrie. Decades, if the prosecutor decides to make an example out of you.”
My heart hammered in my chest. I could barely speak. “That’s not true. You’re just trying to scare me.”
