I make my way through the normal routine of entering the prison, enduring the security check and questions, then I'm finally led back to Mason. I know he's going to be irate when he sees me, but I need him to answer my question.
I sit in front of the thick-paned window, facing Mason who has yet to look me in the eye. He's holding his head up with his hand and shaking his head with disappointment. "What the hell happened to you?" he mutters.
"I'm fine," I tell him.
He snaps his head up, glaring at me with anger. "The hell you are!"
"I need you to answer a question for me," I tell him.
He narrows his eyes and clutches his fists down on top of the short, white table beneath the glass. "You tell me what kind of trouble you've gotten yourself into, and I'll answer any question you want."
"It was a misunderstanding," I tell him.
"Says every battered woman," he quips.
"I'm not a battered woman, Mason. A woman did this to me."
He lifts his hands up in defense. "I'm not insinuating anything," he argues. "Who are you working for, Harley?"
"I can't tell you that," I say.
"You promised me you weren't going to be getting yourself in trouble. That was the deal," he argues.
"I'm not. I told you I'm helping for the greater good," I reply, leaning back into my chair, feeling the pain sear across my cheek.
"How did you get this job, Harley?"
I close my eyes and lean in toward the window. "It doesn't matter," I say, with a snipped inflection accenting my words.
"They found you, didn't they?" My lack of answer and facial expression gives him the answer he needs. "Jesus. You have two choices," he says quietly. "The first choice is to run like hell and get out of this state. The second choice is to give up."
"That's not fair," I tell him.
"Why do you think I'm in here, Harley? I’m protected in here at least. Pleading guilty was probably the smartest thing I could have done. Too many people are after us. You know that. I told you it was only a matter of time before all eyes were on you."
"This is it. I’m done." I tell him.
"You still have a chance to get away," he argues. "You don’t know what you’ll go through if they get their hands on you. Plus, depending on what hands find you first, you know what the outcome could be."
I run my fingers through my hair, scraping my nails against my scalp. I shake my head and look him right in the eyes. "Why did you do this to me? I wanted a career. I had aspirations. If I had a clue that you were conducting illegal practices, I never would have helped you."
"Keep your voice down," he shouts in a cold whisper. "My practices were not illegal. I was contracted to perform the research. Don’t you understand?"
"No, I don’t understand. Who were you contracted by? I was always under the impression that you were working on your own."
"The government," he answers simply.
"The government?" I question. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
He places his hand on his face and shakes his head.
"You said the ‘government’ ransacked your lab, taking everything except—whatever—then convicted you of murder? Yet, they contracted you first? Do you understand how your story doesn’t make sense? You’re contradicting yourself." His story changes so much, I can’t figure out where the truth ends and the lies begin.
He appears surprised by my questions and statements, but how could he not think I’d eventually find out? While I wanted to assume this was all a misunderstanding, I’m beginning to think otherwise.
"Well, yes and no. You know some of the research we performed didn’t go as planned, and for that reason, they had to put me away. The government couldn’t be left standing in front of the mess. When the news leaked, I lost the gamble. That’s the truth. I told you all the risks involved, and you went along with the research we were conducting." The risks … we could be well-known psychologists, Nobel Peace Prize winners ... or we could be criminals, but only with the slight chance that things went south, which ‘would never happen,’ but he’s saying they did go bad. The latter part of the options sounded more like a joke when explained to the rest of us. The first two options were the parts I was focused on. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help traumatized patients with PTSD undo the psychological damage done to them. It was what I spent my entire college career working toward. That, and I saw a chance to put my life’s passions together and jumped at the opportunity—music theory—and it seemed like a dream job. Not once did I truly consider that our research could cause damage or put us in the situations we’re in.
"I’m pretty sure you left out the part where the government contracted you, and there was a chance they’d lock us up afterward for knowing too much," I remind him. "And what part of the research didn’t go as planned? Did you really murder someone?" I was hoping it was false information. I was hoping there was confusion, or stories were mixed up. I was hoping he was wrongly convicted.
"You are very intelligent," he tells me. "You can still get away. You have to get out of this city for the next few years until I get out of here, Harley." He wants me to run from the government.
"Tell me. Did you kill someone using our research?" I’ve debated how to go about getting out of here for the last year, but with no money, and a fear of being found by the non-governmental scientists who are after Mason’s files, I’ve been forced to live in hiding, so my options have been limited.
"There isn’t a simple answer to your question," he argues, slamming his fists down. "I’m trying to protect you. That’s all I’m doing."
"Protect me? You’re stringing me along, using me as your safe until you need what I’m holding onto. You could have protected me by being honest before I agreed to your apprenticeship. Protecting me wasn’t convincing a landlord that you were my father so he’d take me in without a trace of credit to my name. Protecting me ... isn’t telling me to flee the state, or telling me never to contact my parents or friends again. You ruined my life."
Mason places his hand on the glass as if it’s a form of affection. "I never intended for this to happen."
"You know what—I’m turning the files in to an official. I’m not holding onto them for you anymore," I tell him. "That way, I’ll clear my name, right?" I’m not sure it’ll be that easy, but I can’t live like this anymore. I’ve been loyal to Mason for too long, and I’m seeing the truth now. He doesn’t care about me. He’s been using me all along.
"Harley," he hisses through a gritted snarl. "I sacrificed my freedom to keep that information private. It’s the only piece left. The government wants it, and they will exploit it. You have to understand."
What the hell is he talking about? "You told me you were going to turn it in at the end of your sentence in exchange for your freedom, which you need me for, if I’m not mistaken. You also told me this "thing" was wanted overseas by a private international company, which is why I had to be so protective. That’s who you said to watch out for, not the fucking government. Even after being detained by a government agent last year and almost questioned to death, you told me we didn’t have to worry about them since you took the fall."
"Well, I lied. They know the files are still out there, and they’re sure Isabelle Hammel is holding onto them for me. So, I just hope you didn’t walk right into the devil’s den and say something you shouldn’t have said." I most definitely walked right into a trap because, evidently, I had no fucking clue who the hell I was running from.