Some of the D-block regulars start in as soon as I sit. “Blade! Hey, you hear about Calhoun? Bet he’s crying in the box.” The guy talking has a nose swollen twice its size, mouth split and purple.
I stare him down. “Somebody teach you some manners?” I say, eyes narrowing.
He snickers but looks away. Good. Because I have a feeling I know exactly who gave him that face, and I’m willing to bet it’s connected to Carrie. Every nerve in me is wound tight.
A handful of people drift through the gym who don’t belong—volunteers, probably, or social workers brought in to make this look like rehab instead of lockdown. I spot an older woman with tight gray curls and big glasses. She’s always at the library desk, stamping returns and peering over her bifocals. If she’s here, then Carrie won’t be far.
I shift in my seat, pretending to care about the cards I’m shuffling. That’s when I see her.
She’s moving through the tables, arms full of clipboards and handouts, hair twisted up in a messy knot, a few strands slipping free to brush her cheeks. She’s wearing that navy cardigan that hugs her curves in all the right places, a pencil skirt that makes her legs look long and soft, sensible flats that still make her walk with that unconscious sway. Her face is flushed from the heat.
She’s focused, mouth pressed in that line she gets when she’s nervous or trying to look busy.
My heart does something stupid, skips a beat, tightens in my chest like a fist. Doesn’t matter how pissed off I am, how much I try to keep my distance.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s all business, passing out supplies to a table of older guys who mostly just want to flirtand get her attention. She’s polite, but you can tell she’s always measuring her distance, always careful.
For a second, I just sit there, watching her. Every thought of fights, of the warden, of this stupid forced activity, fades to static. All I want is to pull her out of this room, wrap her up, and tell her everything’s going to be alright.
The activity is a joke—it’s supposed to be some kind of “community circle,” but it’s just forced small talk, coloring sheets, and pointless icebreakers run by the volunteers. A young guy with a clipboard tries to lead a discussion about “goals for the future,” but half the room is zoning out and the other half is just trying to figure out how to sneak extra cookies from the snack table.
I sit through it, arms crossed, tuning out as a woman in a bright yellow sweater drones on about “re-entering society” and “the importance of positive habits.” One of the older guys at my table draws cartoon dicks on his worksheet and tries to hide it from the staff. The clock barely moves. I wonder if this is some kind of punishment.
I keep glancing around, but I can’t catch another glimpse of Carrie. Just social workers, a couple of old nuns, and the volunteers trying to smile their way through hell. Every time the door opens, my eyes go up, but it’s never her. By the time they finally call time, half the guys have already drifted toward the exit. I’m one of the last out.
That’s when I see her. She’s not at the front or helping clean up. She’s slumped over her desk near the entrance, arms folded, cheek pressed to her sleeve. Her hair’s a mess, her glasses half-off her nose. For a split second, she looks so small it guts me.
No guards around. No one’s paying attention. I check over my shoulder, then cross the empty hall and kneel next to her.
“Carrie.” My voice is quiet, urgent. “Hey, wake up.”
She doesn’t move at first, so I touch her shoulder, gentle, careful not to startle her. “Carrie, come on. You can’t fall asleep here.”
She blinks awake, confusion flickering in her eyes, then exhaustion. She looks at me, and all that anger I was holding—about Jace, about not knowing what happened, about being dragged out for this bullshit—melts away. All I feel is concern. She looks like she’s been run over.
“Hey,” I say, voice low. “You okay? What happened?”
She rubs her face, trying to focus. “Sorry, I…I just needed a minute. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
I look around, making sure we’re still alone. “You don’t look so good. Want me to get you some water? You need anything?”
For the first time all day, I’m not pissed off. I just want to take care of her, keep her safe—no matter what else is going on.
I keep my voice low, not wanting to scare her. “Carrie, what happened to Jace? I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Did he get in a fight?”
She blinks hard, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Nico. I didn’t want him to get in trouble. He was just trying to help me. Someone—one of the inmates—crossed a line, and Jace…he stepped in. He didn’t even think about himself.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides, fighting the urge to punch the wall. “He’s in solitary now? For that?”
She nods, her breath catching. “He protected me. And now he’s paying for it.”
I watch her, the anger fading, replaced with something heavy. She’s holding it together by a thread, and I can see the cracks forming.
“Hey,” I say, touching her shoulder again. “Don’t blame yourself. None of this is your fault. Jace knew what he was doing.”
She bites her lip, but tears slip down her cheek. “It is my fault. I wish I could take it back. If anything happens to him?—”
Her face changes suddenly. Panic flashes across her features. She clutches her stomach, breathing shallow and quick, eyes darting toward the corridor.
