Except the door doesn’t lock. It hits a hand, the collision of bone and muscles and gristle, a hand that moves and flexes, a hand attached to a voice, one that barks in pain. I lift off, then come back down, my feet planted on the floor, my body turned sideways, shoulder against the door as I use every muscle I have to break through the appendage. It flexes, shakes, and in the moment it jerks back, I slam my shoulder again, the door moving past the place where the hand had been and clicking into place.
The door will lock behind you. I will be watching.
LOCK. The lock turns red a second before a chorus of unknowns attack its surface. And just like that, I lose my human pet. I take a deep breath and push my shoulder off the door, wincing slightly. Sometime, I’ll need to ice it. Once all the ass kicking is over and precious seconds are in greater supply. I roll the shoulder and turn. Before me, a long hallway, one final sprint, the exit door before me in full metal glory, the red sign above it a beacon to my fate. Only one issue stands before me, his legs spread in a fighter’s stance, halfway between me and the hallway’s end… a hulking giant of a man. I don’t move, I don’t advance. I just stand, my breath heavy as it breaks from my chest, and I stare.
I have fought many men in my lifetime. If I ever get through this moment, through this chapter in my life, if I ever avenge Jeremy and escape a prison sentence, I will learn how to do it properly. Because although I have fought many men in my lifetime, I have won very few times. And never without a gun or a knife, a weapon or an advantage. And right now, in this interaction right here, I have only one card to play and it is Mike’s instructions, and I square my shoulders and put all of my trust into the man I have never met.
Step 3: Fight. Take the keycard attached to his shirt.
That was the whole step. The map stopped at this hallway with its X, then continued out to the parking lot, the gate which I would open with the keycard. Why Mike could unlock every internal door yet needed me to fight this heap of muscle to get out of the parking lot made no sense to me. Should I survive this, I’ll be sure to give him a piece of my mind.
I stop dicking around and step toward the man. A few feet from him, I stop, the fluorescent light above our heads beaming down on the man’s features, his face hard and set, his hands raised and already clenched. I sneak a peek at his fists and my confidence withers. Muscular and strong. I have to lift my chin to look up at him. Maybe sexuality will work. I pull at the bottom of my sweatshirt, pulling the material up my stomach and over my breasts. When his eyes drop, I lift my knee and go for his balls.
Weak. Cowardly. I know. But you stand face-to-face with Goliath and see if you fight fair. Besides, any morality issues dissolve when one of his big meat hooks blocks my knee, his balls effectively protected, my sneak attack card gone, just like that.
“Not there,” he grumbles. He points, and my eyes wander up his outstretched finger, to his face. “Here.” Our eyes meet and his are blue.
“Really?” I frown.
“Hurry.” He closes his eyes and tenses. I don’t hesitate, widening my stance and throwing my sore shoulder into the jab, barreling the heel of my hand up, right at the underside of his nose, the connection of my hand and the delicate belly of his nose loud, bloody, and delicious. He staggers, a hand going to his nose as he swears loudly.
I don’t wait for a recovery, I see the green light hit the exit door and I step forward, yanking at the clip on his shirt, his identification coming off in my hand, a quick thank you whispered. I start, then stop, digging my nails into the guard of his holster, the pop of metal sharp and beautiful, my hand wrapping around the textured grip and pulling. Goliath doesn’t like that, he drops his head and hand and spins, reaching for me, but I am sprinting down the hall, the push on the door yielding me my first cool and perfect kiss of freedom. I spin and shove against the door and hear the slam of his head against the metal, his face bloody and furious in the thin window. I mouth an apology and then rip away from the door and into the freedom of the night.
The sky is clear, the parking lot small, our slice of prison surrounded by the buildings of the city. I jog down a set of steps, sliding the gun into my sweatshirt’s pocket, an unfamiliar unease stealing over me. A gun wasn’t on the list, wasn’t on my directions, but in this moment, I have nothing. No cash, no connections, no phone. I am free yet hunted, the night air terrifying in its openness. I zigzag through a line of cars, the bright lights of the parking lot shining down. And then, like clockwork, they all turn off. Mike. I look up and manage a smile, a wave of endorphins pushing through my system in the newly created dark. I am not alone. I can do this. I can force my life back into order, find my way back to good. I reach the gate and hesitate for a moment, staring at the bars before me, the one last guard between me and the outside world. Then, the photo of Jeremy’s battered face coming to mind, I swipe Ned Millstone’s card through the reader and jog on silent feet through the crack of the opening gate. I need to, in this final chance at freedom, at least find the truth.
Step 4: Go five blocks west to the McDonald’s and wait by the pay phone.
I flip the hood up on my sweatshirt and begin to jog, the weight of the gun slapping a hard and tempting beat against the knot in my stomach.
CHAPTER 78
Present
WHEN A PHONE rings in the night, you answer it. Especially if you’re on the force. Especially if you’re a mother with kids. Especially if you have thirty seconds before your husband will wake and any spousal love will go to shit.
Brenda sits up in bed and hunches forward, over the cell, the BLOCKED screen familiar and, at the same time, depressing. She’ll have to get up, go somewhere, do something. Probably uncover a dead body and knock on some mother’s door. “Hello.” She whispers the word.
“Boles, this is Eva Aransoti, dispatch number one eighty-nine. There’s been an incident at the Fourth Street booking station.” The crisp female voice is that of someone fully awake, with no regard or sympathy for anyone soundly sleeping.
Fourth Street. Deanna Madden. The case that won’t stop giving. She slides out of bed and walks to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her. This woman was a disaster. Lock her up and she was assaulting every person in sight. “I thought Madden was in solitary.” Maybe she won’t have to go anywhere. Maybe she could knock out this chat and then crawl back into bed. Still three good hours of sleep left before breakfasts and showers and lunch money and backpacks.
“She was. Something happened at the station and all of the inmates were released.”
Her eyes fully open. “All of them?” What kind of thing releases an entire pod of criminals?
“We need you and Reuber there.”
“Okay. I’m fifteen minutes out.” She feels along the wall and flips the light’s switch. “Wait.” She rubs her forehead. “Why me and Reuber?”
“Deanna Madden is the only one who escaped the booking compound. The others were redetained.”
“But Madden is free.”
“Yes. You can review the footage at the station.”
“I realize that.” Brenda stands, yanking down flannel pajama pants and digging through the dirty clothes basket for yesterday’s khakis. “Thanks,” she adds as a polite afterthought, before hanging up the phone, flipping the light off, and tiptoeing into the dark bedroom.
In the car, without coffee or a breath mint, she calls David. “Did you hear?”
“Yep. I’m walking out right now. Think she’ll head to the hospital?”
“I’m gonna call them next and have a plainclothes posted by his room. See if she shows.”
“All right. I’ll be at the station in ten.”
“See you there.” Reaching down, she flips on her lights and pulls out onto the quiet street.
CHAPTER 79
Present
THE GRIM REALITY of my situation looms larger as I run. I have nothing. My weapons, shipped to Mike. My apartment will have a new lock on it, crime scene tape stretched across its front. I cann
ot go to see the man I love, for I am a fugitive, with a name I can’t use, money I can’t access, and no one nearby to call on for help.
He was pushed out the window.
He was stabbed six times.
He was left to die.
Jeremy is my person; I only have two of them in the world. You do not fuck with my people; I will fight you to your death to protect them, I will climb buildings to kill you slowly over a drop of their blood. Jeremy’s blood was a flood that has gone unpunished, and I feel the hot prickle of vengeance push at my psyche, a tempting chorus I stop midsong, my hands covering useless ears, my breath hard and fast when I stop running and break, wheezing out a few exhales. I cannot do this. I cannot go red, not when everything else is falling apart.
I hear a siren and sink into a doorway. Stand in its shadows as a cop car, then a second, screams past. Then, my heart thumping in my chest, I step out and run farther. One more block. I see the golden arches ahead of me. They haven’t changed much in four years. Same fluorescent yellow, same billions served. I see the pay phone, installed against the building’s exterior brick, and slow to a walk. I don’t like it. Too brightly lit, exposed to anyone who drives by. I stop on the opposite curb, seventy-five feet from the phone. Debate Mike’s instructions, though I have nothing else to follow.
Against the restaurant, the phone begins to ring. I hesitate, the sole of my tennis shoe bending over the curved edge of the curb, then step forward, rolling off and across the asphalt and into the bright light.
“Hello.”
“Hey, babe.”
I have to smile at his tone, so warm and relaxed, like we didn’t just break a dozen laws together. “Hey. Talk quick, this pay phone has a freaking spotlight on it.”
“There’s an Uber car in the back of the parking lot. It’s a red Taurus. I paid with a credit card, the driver will take you wherever you need to go.”
I grip the phone. “Any change in Jeremy?”
“No.” His voice drops. “I’m sorry, Dee.”
I nod without speaking. It’s been too long, too many days. If he doesn’t come back… I try to refocus, bits of my psyche floating loose like flaking skin. “Thanks for getting me out. I don’t know how you did it, but I appreciate it.”
“No problem. One day, over beers, I’ll brag to you about the complexities of it all. Whenever that day comes, ooh and aah a lot for me.”
One day. “Deal. I’ll call you when I can.”
“Get a cell phone when you can.”
“I need cash, that’s my first issue.”
“Don’t have any friends in town?”
I bite on my bottom lip in response. The silence on the line grows, each second another embarrassing weight on my solidarity. I shrug, a motion he never sees. “I’ll call you when I can. If I can.”
“Be safe.”
I smile sadly. “Always.”
Then, before he has a chance to say anything else, I hang up the phone. Glance around and head to the back of the parking lot. See a red Taurus idling beside a Dumpster, and step toward it.
I stop beside the driver’s door and bend over. Look into the face of a woman, one in her midfifties, her white hair styled in the short-haired manner favored by grandmothers everywhere. I blink in surprise. She rolls down her window. “You Jessica?”
Jessica. I smile the friendly smile cams.com’s most popular coed. “Yes.”
“Hop in.”
I open the back door and slide into the middle of the backseat. She locks the doors and shifts into drive. I stare at the lock and run my hand along the handle. “Where to?” she calls back, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
“For the moment, please head south.”
She nods and doesn’t comment. I run my hands over the top of my jeans and try to think. I’d kill for some cash right now, no pun intended. I feel naked and unprotected. I turn my head and watch dark houses move past—catching myself seriously considering breaking into one of them. At three in the morning, how do I differentiate between an empty house and a sleeping one? I know of one house that’s empty, its new owner hovering between death and life. But I can’t go there, I can’t step inside the house where, just four days ago, I had so much hope.
“Mulholland Oaks. It’s an apartment complex on Greenvale Street. Please take me there.” Inside my chest, my heartbeat quickens, pushing blood to every vein, my hand trembling against the armrest until I grab it with my other hand and force it still. Forget planning or weapons or cash. I can’t wait any longer, both for logistics purposes and for my own control. The police will come looking for me. And I can’t not find out the truth.
I am unprepared, this is stupid and reckless, but I need it and I need it now. I feel a familiar tightening of my body, my brain, a loss of intelligent control, and I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and let it happen.
Four a.m. Smack-dab in the middle of my witching hour. Inside, a prickle of excitement flares. I am going to Simon for answers; that is what I need to remember. And if his answers are wrong? Well. I push aside that thought for now.
I reach out and tap the back of her seat, two blocks away from my complex. “This is fine. You can let me out here.” The car quiets, rolling to a smooth stop and I step out, she leaves, and I’m alone on the street. I flip up my hoodie and head home, a moving smile in the darkness.
CHAPTER 80
Present
PLEASE WALK ME through how this happened.” Brenda stands in the small office, David taking up valuable real estate next to her.
Before her, the station chief settles into a chair, waving them down. They don’t sit. “The short of it is, the manufacturer of our locks, the ones on the cells, internal and external doors… it’s a Russian company called Kavut. Their system was hacked and it went haywire.”
“Other stations had problems?”
“Nope. Just us.”
David shifts forward. “You talked to Kavut? Find out how many of their clients were affected?”
The man rubs his forehead. “Yes. It looks like it was just us.”
“Us, the TPD or us, this booking station?” Brenda prods.
“Us, this booking station.”
“I’d like to see the security footage.”
The chief props an arm on the armrest of his chair. “So would I. But it’s gone, was wiped out about a half hour after the incident.”
“Kavut glitch also?” David guesses, a pained expression on his face.
“No, our video system is an internal one.”
Brenda waits for the explanation but nothing comes. “So what happened?” She pulls at the front of her shirt. It’s so hot. God, she’s too young for menopause, it can’t be menopause. She stares at the chief and is perversely pleased to see a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face. It’s not just her.
“Tech guys are trying to figure it out. All video from the last thirty days is gone.” He waves a hand in the air. “A thousand hours”—he snaps his fingers—“whoosh.”
“And Deanna Madden is the only detainee missing.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Another two got out into the parking lot, but couldn’t get over the razor wire. Madden took a key from a guard, caught him by surprise in the exit hall, and that got her through the gates.”
“Who was the guard?”
“Ned Millhouse. He’s not an easy guy to overcome.” He taps a finger on his desk with a laugh. “She broke his nose. He heard a noise behind him, turned around and pow!” He pantomimes the jab, then points at them, his face growing serious. “If you see him, give him hell. We’ve all been ribbing him about it.” He coughs, his face sobering. “There’s another issue. She took his service weapon.”
Ouch. Ned Millhouse would have greater hell to pay than just ribbing. David glances at her, and they share a silent moment of communication. The stakes to find Deanna Madden just quadrupled. A gun, a hacked security system, and wiped camera footage with no logical explanation. Twelve hours before she goes to jail and the st
ars align for her to just waltz out. Beside her, David’s cell phone buzzes and he glances at it, opening the door and stepping out. She glances at the wall clock. Four thirty-five. Hopefully news of some sort. She’d issued an APB for Madden, which, at this time of morning, will go largely unheeded. This is Tulsa. Officers have bigger fish to fry then a missing camgirl, and it doesn’t matter who she had or hadn’t tried to kill. “We’d like to talk to any inmates and officers who’ve had contact with Deanna Madden.”
“No problem. I can make a list and round them up, if you want to…” His sentence dies as David props open the door and sticks his head in.
“Brenda?” He jerks his head toward the parking lot, a smile on his handsome face. “Jeremy Pacer is conscious and talking.”
The best news she’s gotten at four in the morning in a very, very long time. She beams a smile at the chief, who raises his eyebrows. “We’ll be back,” she promises. Then, she grabs the door and escapes into the hall, her boots slapping on the linoleum floor to keep up with David.
CHAPTER 81
Present
ON THE FOURTH floor of Hillcrest Hospital South, there is a moment of quiet, the two nurses working in tandem on the left side of Jeremy’s bed, his sister on the right side, his hand gripped in both of hers. A doctor is coming, is still minutes away, but all will be fine because he is awake and is speaking, even though his face is twisted in pain and his hand is trembling between hers.