“Sounds great,” I managed, discreetly wiping my sweating palms on my scrubs.
She walked me through the protocols, her voice taking on the soothing quality of someone who’d talked plenty of nervous new hires off the ledge. Safety procedures that soundedcomprehensive on paper but probably got a lot messier in practice.
But her relaxed demeanor did help. This woman sounded brilliant. Hell, she could probably work anywhere she wanted. If she’d chosen to stay here for seven years, this place couldn’t be a complete disaster.
Right?
I wasn’t leaving one violent man just to spend my days getting abused by others.
Right?
“Now, as for staffing,” Dr. Mercer continued, leading me back toward the nurses’ station, “I’m the medical director, which means I oversee all care, diagnose, order medications and tests. I handle the most complicated cases. I’m here Monday through Friday, and I’m on call after hours. We have a nurse practitioner for nights, who can prescribe as needed.”
She ticked off my responsibilities on her fingers. “You’ll take vitals, triage sick calls and injuries, administer medications, dress and stitch wounds, and document everything.”
“Sounds good.”
Better than good actually. Now that she’d walked me through everything, it all seemed … manageable. Mundane even. Just like any other nursing job, except the patients would be in shackles and orange jumpsuits instead of those awful hospital gowns that never quite closed in the back.
By all accounts, this would be textbook medical care. Checkups for diabetics needing insulin. Chronic illness monitoring. The occasional accident requiring stitches. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
Maybe this really would just be another typical job. Maybe I’d been overthinking everything. Maybe?—
“MEDICAL!” A man’s voice exploded through the corridor. “WE NEED MEDICAL NOW!”
Dr. Mercer was already moving, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she sprinted toward the entrance. I followed, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
A correctional officer buzzed the metal door open with hands that shook slightly. Behind him, four other COs were supporting two separate inmates.
“Two inbound! Code red!” one of them barked.
And that’s when I saw the blood.
So. Much. Blood.
It painted the orange jumpsuit crimson.
“Fight,” a CO said, breathless. “Happened fast.”
Jesus, this was from a fight? This looked more like someone fed the first inmate through a wood chipper. He hung between the guards like wet laundry, his muscles gone slack with that particular exhaustion that comes from taking too many hits. Blood painted his face in thick streaks in such volume that I couldn’t map the actual damage underneath.
The second inmate was standing upright. Unmarked. His bloody knuckles the only evidence he’d been involved at all.
Dr. Mercer took one look at both men and made her choice.
She took the victim.
And gave me the predator.
3
HARPER
A dangerous prisoner at Coldwater Penitentiary was bleeding in my exam room, and I was basically alone with him.
Sure, the CO stood guard outside the door, theoretically close enough to rescue me should the inmate make a move. But as a nurse, I knew the cold, clinical truth: It only takes three seconds to crush a windpipe. Two to snap a neck. One wrong breath, and I’d become another statistic.
Jesus. What the hell had I been thinking, taking this job?
