“It’s requiring every ounce of strength in my body not to follow you right now.”
“I understand.”
“But I’m strong. Stronger than most people know.”
Does she really not get that I see that? Does she not see the Hazel I glimpsed in those stories she shared? “You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met.”
Her long lashes flutter. “You were raised by a strong single mom. Your sister’s a cop who won the Worldwide Woman of Inspiration award.”
“Exactly.” Drawing a breath, I turn back around and walk into the bathroom.
I leave the door cracked, just in case.
Hazel doesn’t join me in the shower.
It’s probably best, if our goal is platonic co-parenting. Her hormones are wonky, and I won’t take advantage, no matter how badly I want her.
It’s been only a week since she plotted to cut me completely out of her life. I’m still on thin ice, and sleeping together again could shatter that cold, crystal surface for good.
Besides, I’ve got work to do.
It always feels weird, deliberately entering a prison. The smell is the same when I walk through the door—disinfectant and desperation. This isn’t the same place where I served my sentence, but I’d know the scent of human confinement with my eyes closed. I draw deep, soothing breaths as I make my way through the metal detectors, determined to get the job done and get the hell out of here.
I’m sitting in a dented folding chair when the security guard buzzes a man through the visitor area. I stand up to greet him, hugging him tight like a buddy I haven’t seen in six years.
We’ve never met before.
“Great to see you, man,” he says. “How’s Katie and the kids?”
That’s the code phrase my contact gave him in advance, so it’s my turn to deliver my own.
“Doing good. Joe’s getting his tonsils out next week.”
“No kidding? Hope he gets lots of ice cream.” The man takes a seat as the security guard watches me hand him the pre-approved photos I’ve brought. They’re family snapshots, though not any family I’ve met.
Inmate D467 doesn’t know them either, but he picks up a photo of an old guy blowing out candles on a birthday cake. “Did Grandpa get a new couch?”
That’s another coded message, and just what my contact is hoping to hear. “Sheila gave him her old one,” I say carefully. “It’s kinda like that one you had back in Tulsa.”
“I can see that.” He chuckles softly, tilting the photograph sideways. “Mine had blue stripes, not gray ones. The arms are the same, though.”
I say a prayer the wiretap I’m wearing picks up everything. I usually take good mental notes, but plenty of things go over my head. “What ever happened to that fluffy black cat you had when you lived there?”
“Kidney failure.” He shakes his head sadly, another important signal. “She lived to be sixteen years old, though.”
We continue like that for the length of our visit, a carefully constructed conversation of code words and details.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but I don’t take these jobs very often. For my own protection, I’m given virtually no information about my assignment.
Once, when I pressed my contact for details, he threw me a bone. “It’s a program for specialized inmate rehabilitation and redistribution,” Ark Man grumbled.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“You’re making the world a better place,” he insisted. “The less you know beyond that, the better.”
Behind me, the security guard shuffles his feet. “Time’s about up, gentlemen.” He sounds bored and completely unwary. “Say your goodbyes.”
I lock eyes with Inmate D467. His are warm brown and clear. “Got any questions for me?”
