The words hurt.
Scott would never admit how much, but they did.
It was rare prisoners got released on the same day, but they had. They went through reception together, both holding their clear plastic bags of belongings.
Scott had been about to ask whether Thomas wanted to go into town, get something proper to eat after three years of prison food, but a taxi pulled up next to the pavement.
Thomas hadn’t even looked back at him.
He hadn’t said goodbye.
He hadn’t said anything.
Scott watched with a slack jaw as Thomas climbed into the taxi, slammed the door shut and was driven out of his life.
They were cellmates, not friends, that’s what Thomas kept telling him, and Scott had never felt that more than when he watched Thomas’s taxi disappear into the distance.
Scott threw himself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, frowning at the wrapper that tickled his thumb.
It wasn’t a wrapper.
Scott’s heart began to thump.
He pulled out the piece of folded paper.
An unhappy face looked back at him.
He sat up fast, giving himself head rush in the process, which only made him feel more panicked.
Warren had seen them.
He’d got close enough to slip the piece of paper into his hoodie.
Scott flung himself out of bed, locking the bedroom door. He rushed to the window, yanking up the blinds to peer out.
Thomas had locked the gate.
He’d not sensed anyone following them home, and Scott liked to think he had a sixth sense for evil.
No car was parked outside of the front gate.
How had he got that close without Scott realising?
His hoodie had been on the whole time, except for when he yanked it off in the tattoo shop, and before that, at the salon.
“The salon…”
Scott pulled his phone from his jeans and called Zara’s number.
“If it’s burning or itching, remember to –”
“There’s a face in my hoodie – a drawing of one.”
Scott was overly aware he sounded hysterical.
Zara was quiet for a few seconds, then hummed. “Oh, that’s what it was.”
