And now, both witnesses to the hideous act are dead.
Leaving me alone to live with what that man’s done.
Which is why I’m writing you. I will not let him live his life as if he isn’t the vilest creature on this Earth.
He will pay for what he’s done, and that’s where you come in.
I want you to help me get away with murder.
Sincerely, Dutch Panchek.
After making sure that the letter was sealed, I walked it up to my brother, who was a corrections officer at the same prison that housed Wake Westfield—life was grand, how it worked out like that. What were the odds that my brother would be working the same prison?
It was a happy coincidence, one that I planned on capitalizing on handsomely.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, looking at the letter as if it was going to grow teeth and bite him.
“I’ve never been more sure about something in my life,” I admitted. “Take it to him. Bring me back his reply.”
As far as my brother knew, I was writing an inmate to research my upcoming book that I’d made up just for a ‘cover.’
Though, now that I’d been thinking about it for so long, I might very well write it. The psyches of inmates were definitely an interesting thing. Some inmates were apologetic about the reason they’d been imprisoned, while others were straight-up uncaring. I loved the dynamic of the ones that knew they’d done something bad, yet couldn’t give a single fuck.
“Do you think that you can get me a meeting with him next week?” I asked, blinking big blue eyes in his direction.
My brother, who was a redhead just like me, stared at me with the same blue eyes. Only, they weren’t nearly as ‘sweet.’
At least, I hoped mine appeared sweet.
“You’re so full of shit,” Tomas grumbled. “I’m doing this only because I know that you’re going to find a way to get it done on your own. And don’t try that same bullshit you tried the first time.”
“You mean, don’t try to talk to the inmate?” I asked. “Without first getting your approval?”
The thing was, being a psychologist, I was put in front of a lot of criminals that needed to be diagnosed. I spent a lot of time at the prison talking to them about decisions that got them into their predicament in the first place.
The one Tomas was talking about in particular was actually a man that’d killed his wife while he was having flashbacks of war. The man had thrown a punch in his sleep, knocked the wife backward, and she’d fallen and hit her head on the corner of the nightstand. She’d suffered a brain aneurysm.
When I’d gone to visit and talk with the man, he’d had another flashback, and had tried to take me out like he’d once taken his enemies out.
I’d left that day with a bruised ego and a bruised tailbone from throwing myself backward.
Tomas had gone out of his way to make sure to vet the guys I saw beforehand and make sure they were restrained if need be.
“I do what I want,” I told my brother. “You know that.”
“I do,” he grumbled. “Just promise that you’ll let me talk to him, feel him out, before you go about trying to meet him, okay? It’s gonna take me a few days.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have one.”
He sighed and left with my letter in his hand.
I felt the nervous butterflies that felt more like a swarming flock of birds take flight in my stomach.
Would he freak out and tell someone? Or would he keep my secret?
Well, soon I’d know the answer.
I just wasn’t sure I was ready for it.
CHAPTER 3
I suffer from ‘CHS.’ Can’t hear shit.
-Wake to Davis
WAKE
“You’re what?” I asked as I leaned back in my bunk, my overly long hair partially hiding my eyes as I tried to sleep despite the lights still being on.
“I’m getting out soon,” the man on my left, Kyle Davis, better known by his last name only, said. “They told me last week that I was getting a court date.”
I grinned. “That’s good news, man. You sure you’re ready for that?”
Davis said a few choice words and then, “I’m ready for some pussy. I’ll figure the rest out after.”
I snorted out a laugh.
Weren’t we all?
It’d been nearly eight long years of nothing but my fist—sometimes I spiced shit up by switching from my left fist to my right—and I was more than ready for a warm, willing pussy myself.
Later in the week, I had my own parole hearing.
What were the odds that six of the men I was closest to in this place were getting out at nearly the same time?
Was this a setup?
I didn’t do coincidences.
I did facts. Cold, hard facts.
And something in my gut was telling me that shit wasn’t right here.
They didn’t just let men go from prison without having a reason.
I mean, Davis still had four years left of his sentence. Aodhan, our resident Irishman, still had six. Then there was Bain, who had three. Cassius, who had two. Then there was Etienne, who had three years left on his sentence, without the possibility of parole.
So what the fuck was going on?
I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but shit wasn’t right.
Good things didn’t happen to men like us.
We made things happen.
There was a huge difference.
“Mail!” a guard, the redheaded one who had a permanent scowl on his face, growled. “Westfield.”
I got up and took the letter from him.
He narrowed his eyes at me and said, “I have something to talk to you about later.”
I looked at the letter and frowned.
It wasn’t opened.
Usually, if I had mail either from my brother or sister, it was opened. The contents already perused to make sure they weren’t conspiring with us to break us out.
“You got mail?” Davis asked. “It’s not even Wednesday.”
Shit was definitely getting weird lately.
“Is it from your sister?”
I looked up to find Etienne awake and staring at me from his own cell across the walkway in front of me.
“No,” I admitted. “Actually, I’m not too sure who it’s from.”
“Your sister coming to visit soon?” Davis asked.
I narrowed my eyes. “My sister will not marry you, motherfucker.”
I’d met Davis, Aodhan, Bain, Cassius, and Etienne in prison. Though, I’d known Aodhan because he’d once been married to my sister.
Of all the places for us to meet up again, this place hadn’t been the one I’d expected.
I liked them all, and they’d all proved more than once that they would have my back if shit hit the fan—and inside of a maximum-security prison that housed all of the baddies of the region, that happened more often than not.
“You never know,” Davis grumbled.
I knew.
My sister, Danyetta, was likely to never marry anyone ever again.
Hopefully, that was something she just said and never followed through with. But my sister was as stubborn as they came.
“Well, if it’s not from your sister,” Etienne asked. “Then who’s it from?”