He slipped into the shirt, small tremors still moving in the muscles of his back.
“You want to tell me about it?” She meant the scars, so he turned away, not just because she’d doubt the story, but because that’s what prison had taught him. Don’t rat. Don’t trust. Keep your shit together. Elizabeth seemed to understand, sitting on a narrow chair and leaning forward, her eyes intent, but still soft. “Your scars didn’t come from fights in the yard.”
She didn’t make it a question.
He sat on the bed, so close their knees almost touched.
“Shanks are stabbing weapons. Most of those scars come from long cuts with a thin blade. Did Officer Preston do it?”
“Some of it.”
“And the warden.”
Again, it wasn’t a question; and he shied from the directness of her stare. He didn’t talk about the warden. That was primal. Even the guards spoke his name in a whisper.
“The warden tortured you.”
“How do you know that?”
“His initials are carved into your back in three different places.” She watched his face. He kept his eyes down, but felt the sudden flush. “You didn’t know that, did you?” Adrian’s head moved, and Elizabeth leaned so close he felt her breath. “What did they want from you, Adrian?”
“They?”
“The warden. The doctor. The two guards I know about. They tortured you. What did they want?”
Adrian’s head was spinning. She was so close. The smell of her hair and skin. She was the only person since Eli to ever care, and Eli had been dead for eight years. It was making him dizzy. The truth. A woman. “How do you know these things?”
“You have ligature marks on both wrists. They’re faint, but clear enough to someone who knows what they look like. Most of the wounds were stitched, which means the doctor was in on it. Otherwise, you’d have gotten word out through the infirmary. A phone call. A message. Whatever they wanted, they didn’t want you talking to anybody else.” Elizabeth took his right hand in both of hers. “How many times were your fingers broken?”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“That’s scar tissue under your nails, those white lines.” She touched a nail, and her hands were gentle. “I won’t take you back,” she said. “If you tell me your secrets, I’ll keep them.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your friend. And, because there are larger things happening here. The warden. The guards. Whatever else is going on in that godforsaken prison. That doesn’t mean others aren’t looking for you—state police, FBI even. Killing a prison guard is like killing a cop. It’ll be worse even than before. You can’t go back. Not ever. You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me what they did?”
“Don’t the scars tell you enough?”
“Can you tell me what they want?”
“No.” He shook his head and met her gaze at last. “I need to show you.”
24
Beckett went home at five in the morning. His wife was asleep, so he crept in quietly and undressed by the shower, nudging aside the ruined shoes, leaving his clothes in a heap. Stepping in, he let hot water sluice off the dirt and smell and traces of William Preston’s blood. Beckett had seen a lot of carnage in his day, a lot of beatings.
But this …
The man’s face was just gone. The mouth. The nose. When Beckett closed his eyes, he saw it again, the drag marks and the stumps of teeth, the spilled blood clotted with dust. Preston had been dead now for hours; and the death had catalyzed what was shaping up to be the largest manhunt Beckett had ever seen. SBI. Highway Patrol. Every sheriff’s office in the state. Dyer was talking to the feds, and literally screaming every time some bureaucrat dared a no. That was the dangerous heart of it. People were worked up, angry, eager.
And Liz was in the middle of it. The manhunt. The frenzy. She mattered in so many ways, and the world, it seemed, wanted her life ripped to shreds. The Monroe brothers. Now this.
“Jesus…”
Beckett scrubbed his hands across his face, but barely recognized himself. He felt sick in his heart, and not from the shattered face or the gray bones or the slick, vinyl bags birthed from beneath the church.
It wasn’t even about Liz.
He braced his hands on the shower wall, water beating down, but none of it hot enough or hard enough. He thought of Adrian’s trial and of all the women dead in that goddamn church.
It had to be Adrian.
But what if it wasn’t? What if the bodies in the crawl space were only five years old? Or ten? If Adrian wasn’t the killer, did that mean his conviction paved the way for someone else to hunt and kill for thirteen more years?
Nine women under the church.
Lauren Lester.
Ramona Morgan.
Beckett felt them like a weight, as if their souls were stone and steel and stacked eleven deep on the crown of his head.
“Sweetheart…”
That was his wife’s voice. Distant.
“Charlie?”