We walk through and get the okay from the male officer on the other side, and as we wander aimlessly into the foyer, tears begin to blur my vision.
For the first time in months, I feel safe.
Protected.
Secure.
There are rules here.
People follow them.
No weapons allowed.
No outside food or drinks.
There are business hours.
And little yellow claim tickets.
This place has been spared from the anarchy raging outside.
And I hate how much I like it.
How good it makes me feel.
Especially when there is a twenty-five-foot-long banner hanging from the third-story railing with Governor Steele’s face on it staring down at me. The quote, There is only one true law—the law of nature, is printed above his jowly scowl. It reminds me of the banners from the nightmares—the ones with the four horsemen of the apocalypse and the date April 23. Only this banner is even more terrifying.
Because this monster is real.
Then, I notice along the bottom of the banner, in a tidy little row, are the logos for half a dozen local businesses—Buck’s Hardware. Huckabee Foods. Pizza Emporium. Lou’s Liquor Superstore.
It makes me sick.
“What now, Rainy Lady?” Lamar asks.
I scan every floor, but all I see is wooden door after wooden door, the names stamped in bronze next to each one announcing which distinguished member of Congress works inside.
Or worked inside, I guess.
No laws probably means no congressmen. No senators. No secretaries answering phone calls.
No wonder they allow the public inside—this place is nothing more than a museum now.
“Nobody’s here,” I mumble as the dead eyes of every life-size portrait stare straight through me.
Nobody … including Wes.
“’Scuse me,” Quint says, turning toward the officer stationed at the metal detector. “Can you point us in the direction of where the, uh, accused are bein’ held?”
“They are in a secure, off-site location, sir.”
“Off-site? Like, in another buildin’?”
“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Well, shoot. We was hopin’ to see one up close and personal.”
“Then, I suggest you come back for the Green Mile execution event tomorrow afternoon. There are spectator stands on either side of Plaza Park, but if you get a seat on the right side, the accused will walk right past you.”
“Ooh, we’ll do that. Thank you kindly, sir.” Quint tips his invisible hat while I rush over to the desk with my yellow ticket outstretched.
I can’t get out of here fast enough. Not only because the sight of Governor Steele’s gaping pores makes me want to puke, but also because of what the guard just said.
Tomorrow.
We only have until tomorrow.
“Off-site,” Quint repeats as we walk across the capitol building lawn, stately oaks and ancient magnolia trees shading us from the May sun.
“Oh God. Do you think they’re keeping him at the jail? I assumed they were keeping the accused somewhere else because they released everybody from jail, but maybe he’s there.”
“Where even is the jail?” Quint asks.
“I don’t …” The words disappear on my tongue as I look across the street at a row of baby oak trees, as tidy and perfectly spaced as the list of sponsors on Governor Steele’s banner.
Plaza Park looks so much smaller in real life. It’s just a patch of grass in the middle of the city. Metal risers line the left and right sides, a group of police officers in riot gear laughs and drinks coffee near their patrol cars on the far side of the park, and right here in front, not much taller than the people they’re now feeding on, is a row of freshly planted saplings.
I don’t want to, but I find myself walking across the street, moving between the abandoned cars toward the spot where Wes’s grave will be dug. The grass is perfect—just like him. Another beautiful thing that will be destroyed here tomorrow. I kneel and run my fingers over the short green blades. I want to lie on top of them until the gravediggers come. Stop them with my body. I want to stage a protest, start a fire. But I don’t know how.
I’m not that girl. I’m the one who smiles and does as she’s told. I’m the one who gets good grades and doesn’t start trouble. I’m the one who blends in with the bad guys instead of rising up against them.
At least, that’s who I used to be. I don’t even know what I am anymore. Besides desperate.
“No!” a woman shouts, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary around here, except for the fact that she sounds really, really close.
“I told you, I don’t have anything!”
I sit up on my knees and swing my head in all directions. Quint must be alarmed, too, because he’s standing behind me with my duffel bag slung across his chest, frantically digging inside.
“Stop!” she screams. “Get off of me!” It sounds like it’s coming from the direction of a black BMW with the windows broken out.
I hear a slap, followed by another scream, and before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet, darting over to Quint. I reach into the bag and find the gun tucked inside a folded pair of jeans, right where I stashed it. Quint gestures for me to give it to him, but I can’t.
Because at that moment, I hear the woman growl a single word, “No.”
It’s long and bitter and broken and angry, but under that frustrated rage, I hear her powerlessness.
And I feel it as if it came from between my own gritted teeth.
Flipping the safety off, I sprint toward the muffled sounds of struggle—shoes scraping against asphalt, body parts thudding against the back of the car, grunting, whimpering. The noises are horrible, but they’re nothing compared to the scene I find when I come around the side of the BMW. Bare skin and bare breasts and fresh blood and flailing limbs. A hand wrapped around a throat. A hand wrapped around a gun. Panties around ankles and pants around thighs. Fingernails clawing. Lips turning blue.
I want to shoot. For the first time in my life, I want to shoot someone. But I can’t. He’s too close to her.
I growl the same powerless, “No,” that she did, point my gun at the sky, and fire a frustrated bullet into the air.
The greasy-haired man looks up—yellow eyes wide in surprise and yellow teeth gnashing in anger—but before he can swing his pistol in my direction, Lamar jumps out from the other side of the car, holding a whiskey bottle like a club. He bashes the sleazeball over the head so hard the bottle shatters, raining glass and the lifeless body of a possibly dead rapist down on the victim.
Quint grabs the guy’s gun out of his hand as Lamar rolls his body off the traumatized woman beneath him. She’s so exposed. Her skirt is bunched around her waist. Her blouse and bra are shoved up over her petite breasts. Just witnessing the emotion on her face feels like a violation, like even her soul has been bared without her consent.
“Can y’all get him out of here?” I ask, reaching for her hands to help her up.
Quint and Lamar nod and drag the scumbag away while I pull his victim to a sitting position as gently as I can. The woman cries and gasps for breath, her ruffled black hair stuck to her tears and fluttering in front of her mouth as I pull off my hoodie and drape it over her mostly naked body. She clutches it to her chest with one hand and pushes the wet strands away from her face with the other.