‘Pritchard,’ I cut in, my head throbbing. ‘Enough.’
He snapped his mouth shut gratifyingly fast.
We passed a small glass booth on the right where two officers sat with monitors, hands hovering over buttons and switches so thoroughly labelled that it looked like someone with OCD had got hold of a label-maker.
A third officer stood behind them holding a shotgun loaded with something that definitely wasn’t ordinary ammunition.
We continued, the corridor stretching long ahead, doors branching off left and right, each one small and identical, each one hiding a life that had gone terribly wrong at some point.
And some lives that had been wrong to begin with.
The first familiar name hit me like a slap.
Cell 4B had a plaque bolted to the wall beside it, shiny and new.
QUINTOS.
My jaw tightened.
A faint rustle came from inside the cell.
‘You! You bitch. You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you!’
I ignored his empty threats and kept walking, not deigning to respond.
He wanted attention. Quintos always wanted attention. Craved it. Money hadn’t been able to buy him decency, and now it couldn’t buy him fancy clothes and attention either.
A few doors down was another plaque.
CARNFORTH.
Ah. They’d kept them close. That was nice of them.
Louisa didn’t speak. Didn’t laugh. But something scraped softly inside the cell like a nail dragged along stone.
The sound made my skin prickle.
Another turn. Another corridor.
The air felt colder here, and the lights buzzed, like even electricity didn’t want to linger.
We passed a cell with no plaque. No name. Just a number. 4121.
No sounds came from inside, and somehow that was worse.
We reached the next checkpoint – a heavy door reinforced with horizontal bars like it belonged in a shipyard. Two guards stood there, faces grim, weapons held across their chests. One was a wizard. The other was a troll with a scar down his jaw that looked like something had tried to unzip his face.
The wizard guard held up a hand. ‘State your purpose.’
Pritchard puffed up. ‘Officer Pritchard escorting Inspector Wise to Isolation Wing D to see Shaun Bolton.’
The guard’s brows drew together. ‘Bolton?’
‘Yes,’ I said flatly. ‘Bolton.’
The wizard glanced at a clipboard, then at me. ‘We don’t allow physical contact with isolation inmates.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m not here to hug him.’
