The way she looked when she held our daughter.
The way she watched me hold the baby like she couldn’t quite believe I belonged there.
My daughter’s tiny fingers gripping my shirt.
That little smile.
I don’t know if I’m getting out of here.
But I know one thing.
I am not dying in this chair.
30
Saint
She comes in alone.
No guards.
No visible weapons.
Which tells me everything I need to know.
Perfect hair.
Perfect posture.
Perfect predator.
She closes the door behind her with quiet precision.
“Mr. Lawson,” she says pleasantly. “I’m pleased you could join us.”
I don’t answer.
Silence is a weapon.
She walks a slow circle around me, heels clicking softly against the concrete.
“You’ve caused me a great deal of inconvenience,” she continues. “And you’ve made my son… emotional.”
I finally lift my eyes to her.
“Your son is trying to save lives,” I say. “You should try it sometime.”
She smiles.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Just amused.
“I didn’t raise him to be weak.”
She stops in front of me, studying my face like she’s evaluating merchandise.
