Page 672 of Lessons in Cruelty

“Feel worse, too.” I push myself up, crack my neck left, then right. “What time is it?”

“Just after nine.” He nods to the guard hovering behind him. “Open it.”

I freeze mid-stretch. “The fuck is happening now?”

The guard fumbles his keys while Barnes watches with the patience of a man who bills by the hour.

“You’re being released.”

The cell door swings open with a screech that sets my teeth on edge.

I don’t move.

“As in, I can leave?”

“Indeed.”

I swing my legs off the slab, bare feet hitting cold concrete.

“Jesus, took them long enough,” I mutter. “Let me guess, Melissa came to her senses and told them it wasn’t me.”

“The complainant told the detective today that she doesn’t remember what happened. That helps us, but it does not mean the case is over. The prosecutor decides whether to go forward, not Miss Parker.” Barnes steps aside to let me exit the cell, then falls into step beside me as the guard leads us down the corridor. En route, he hands me a shopping bag with clothes inside.

Sweats, socks, sneakers, a shirt, and a hoodie.

All in my size.

All in Rooke’s preferred clothing brand.

Surprised they don’t have ‘PWNED’ printed all over them.

“It’s over,” I say under my breath.

I don’t just mean being arrested and all this bullshit.

I mean all of it.

Rooke won.

He fucking won.

“Not yet,” Barnes says, bursting the tiny bubble of relief swelling up inside me. “Right now, they still have your arrest, her original statement, her injuries, and whatever forensics they pulled. But if her memory doesn’t come back and she can’t testify clearly, it gets much harder for them to prove this beyond a reasonable doubt, and that’s good for us.”

The feeling when I strip out of the jumpsuit is better than sex…and lasts just as long. The moment the clothes Rooke chose for me touch my skin, I’m miserable again.

We stop at the processing desk, where a bored-looking woman slides a plastic bag across the counter. Wallet, phone, keys. The knife I had in my hoodie pocket is missing—presumably being used in the nearby kitchen for someone’s sandwich.

My phone’s dead.

Something Barnes says has finally had time to process in my fucked up brain.

“So even if Melissa says she can’t remember, they’ve still got a case?” I tear open the bag, shoving my wallet into my pocket.

Barnes waits until I’ve signed for my shit before answering.

“Best-case, her lack of memory gives me leverage to push for a dismissal or a very light outcome. Worst-case, the prosecutor will try to go forward on the photos, medical records, and witnesses, and let a jury decide.”

A fucking jury? Jesus.