He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I am trying to scare you. Because this is real. You have one way out. Cooperate with us and help yourself, or keep quiet and go down with the rest of them.”
I could barely sleep after that. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Rodriguez in my apartment, his voice a low threat, the sound of agents turning my life inside out. The first night I just stared at the ceiling, heart racing, the clock ticking away hours I know I’ll never get back.
The days crawled by. Rodriguez didn’t show up at my door again, but he texted me updates, each one cold and matter-of-fact. He sent links to news stories about the raid, articles thatmentioned the “ongoing investigation” and “multiple persons of interest.” Sometimes he just wrote,We’re still waiting for your decision,orIt’s not too late to help yourself.
It was like he was dangling the future over my head, waiting for me to break.
I kept hoping for something from Marcy, but there was nothing. Her phone went straight to voicemail. She wasn’t with her friends. No one knew where she was. With each day that passed, I grew more certain she’d run off with Jinn, maybe hiding somewhere, maybe in more trouble than I can imagine.
By the fourth sleepless night, exhaustion and worry finally cracked something inside me. I scrolled through my texts, found Rodriguez’s number, and typed a message with shaking hands.
I’ll do it. I’ll help you however you want. But you need to find my sister. Marcy might be with Jinn. Please. I need to know she’s safe.
I stared at the message for a long time before pressing send, then sunk back on the bed, all hope and fear and shame tangled together.
The shrill wail of the prison siren jerks me out of my thoughts, the sound bouncing off the concrete, making the fluorescent lights above me seem even harsher. For a moment, I forget where I am, but then the panic hits fresh—this isn’t my apartment, or the street, or any place I know. I’m inside, deep inside Northwood, and every step feels like it echoes down a long, empty hallway.
My shoes squeak on the floor as I round a corner, clutching my folder against my chest, and almost run into a man in a faded orange jumpsuit. His head is shaved, arms thick with ink, and he looks at me like he’s never seen anything softer in his life. His smile is slow, a leer that makes my skin crawl.
“Lost, sweetheart?” he says, his voice too casual, a threat underneath it.
I can’t find my voice. I freeze, wishing for an officer, anyone, but the hallway is empty, the siren still howling in the background. My heart pounds. The man takes a step toward me, gaze raking over every inch, and I feel impossibly small.
I freeze, uncertain whether to turn back or move forward, wishing desperately for a guard or anyone else to show up. My whole body is tense, knees ready to buckle, but I force myself not to show it. I have to keep going. I have to prove I can do this.
He starts to step closer, but heavy footsteps ring out from behind, someone barking out, “Move along, Cooper!” The man glances over his shoulder and scowls but melts back against the wall as a guard rounds the corner, his gaze never leaving me.
I remember Rodriguez’s threats, Marcy’s absence, the deal I just made. I have to see this through. If I want to save my sister, if I want a shot at saving myself, I have no choice but to keep going.
I reach a small metal plaque readingLibrary. I press the button and wait until the lock buzzes, then step inside, closing the chaos and noise of the prison behind me.
For a moment, it almost feels like a different world. The air is still, carrying the faint scent of old paper and floor wax. Rows of tall shelves march from one end of the room to the other, heavy with worn paperbacks and battered hardcovers, some so old their spines are faded to nothing. There’s a long wooden desk near the front, stacked neatly with check-out slips, a battered pencil jar, and a faded sign that readsPlease Return Books on Time.
Light streams in from a high, narrow window, painting stripes across the floor and making the dust sparkle in the sun. It’s not fancy—nothing here is—but it’s quiet. There’s an odd comfort in the way the shelves muffle sound, in the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant, faraway voices beyond the thick walls. Someone has tried to add a little warmth—a fake plantin a chipped ceramic pot, a faded rug by the reading corner, a few magazine clippings of old movie stars tacked to the bulletin board.
A moment later, I hear the soft scrape of shoes and glance up to see a woman with short gray hair coming out from between the stacks. She looks maybe sixty, sharp but not unkind, with reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose and a lanyard around her neck. There’s a calmness about her that makes the library seem even quieter.
“You must be the new assistant,” she says, her voice gentle. “I’m Mrs. Jackson. Don’t let the building scare you. It’s just a library, like any other, once you’re inside.”
I manage a grateful smile. “Thank you. I’m Carrie.”
She gives a warm nod and gestures to the desk. “Put your things there. I’ll show you how we keep track of the books. It’s not high-tech, but it works for us. Most of the men are grateful just to have a place to sit and read for a while.”
After my shift in the library, I head toward the back hallway to find the staff exit, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. As I pass a wide window, I pause, drawn by a patch of sunlight streaming through the glass. The yard beyond is fenced with razor wire, but for a moment, in the afternoon glow, it almost looks peaceful—like any field at the edge of summer.
I stand there, barely breathing, when a movement on the grounds catches my eye. Three men walk together along the gravel path by the far fence. Even at a distance, I’d know them anywhere.
They’re dressed in identical faded uniforms, heads bowed in conversation or just silent, keeping close the way only brothers can.
For a long moment I just watch them through the window, pressed up against the painted cinderblock wall.
My breath fogs the glass as I fight the urge to knock or wave, anything to let them know I’m here. But I stay hidden, heart in my throat, watching them make their slow circle of the yard. I don’t know if they ever glance my way, but I watch until they’re called back inside, my hands pressed to the glass, wishing for a sign—anything—that maybe I haven’t lost them completely.
12
WRECKER
No one here calls me Wrecker. I’m Levi or prisoner 2099, just another number in a jumpsuit on the yard.
