Page 50 of Claim

I rolled the card between my fingers, felt the corner bite into my skin.

On the other hand…

If I let him take my case, he’d come back. He’d have to. And maybe he’d stop me doing something really fucking stupid before this place finished rearranging what was left of me.

I stared at his name until the letters swam.

Then the door opened before morning buzz and Dent stood there, keys in hand. “Slade.”

I shoved the card into my pocket and pushed myself upright. “Yeah?”

“You’re moving.”

I swung my legs off the bunk. “What? Where?”

He gave a thin smile. “You’ve got yourself new digs.”

My stomach tightened. New digs meant a new cell. New landing. New problems.

It’d been a week of keeping out of Ghost’s way, both of us circling, neither willing to light the fuse, but management thought something was brewing, anyway. And if they thought weapons were involved, splitting us up would be their first move.

“Grab your stuff.” Dent held the door open with his back.

Colin stirred on the other bunk, rubbing his eyes, confused. I dropped from the bed and gathered what little I had into the string bag: toiletries, folded paper, nothing worth calling possessions. I shot Colin a look. He was the only one in here who might’ve thought he was helping by letting slip that Ghost and I were circling each other, that things might get messy if left alone.

Had he gone to the screws?

Probably.

Probably told himself he was doing me a favour.

I didn’t bother saying goodbye.

Dent waited, impatient, and I stepped out into the corridor with my bag over my shoulder, the door slamming shut behind me.

“Where?” I asked him.

“Different wing.”

“Why?”

“Operational.”

Operational was prison-speak for someone’s decided something.

Dent walked me through corridors I didn’t recognise, past doors that stayed shut, the sound of the place changing pitch as we went. Every prison had its own noise. You learnt it. The rhythm. The scrape and shout and metal-on-metal under everything. This one didn’t match mine. Different echo. Different timing. A different wing.

Men watched as I passed, eyes lifting, heads turning. New face. New meat. I kept my bag tight in my fist.

Dent stopped at an open door.

Inside, there was no top bunk. No second mattress. Just one narrow bed bolted to the wall, sheets folded neat at the end.

I looked at it. Then at him. “What’s this?”

“Single cell.” He jerked his chin. “In.”

“Why?” I stepped inside, cataloguing the space.