But the way the other inmates studied Nick told him he wasn’t going to be so lucky.
He ate quickly, feeling vulnerable out in the open. Depositing his tray back on the cart, he retreated to his mattress on the floor. He felt better with his back to the cinderblocks.
A few stragglers sat at empty tables. One guy cleaned tables. Another mopped the floor. Two guys played a game of chess, and a small group banded around them to watch. Nick almost wanted to go over and see if he could get in line to play, but he watched from a distance. He still attracted too much attention. There was a tension he couldn’t describe building in the room. And it seemed to swell whenever one of the other inmates made eye contact with him.
The walls were depressing. The food was depressing. On top of fear, sheer hopelessness weighed on him like a steel blanket. Halfway through the morning, a short, stocky white guy with a full sleeve of multicolored tattoos approached. He sat on the closest steel bench and faced Nick. Had he been assigned to interview him?
“So, you’re the beast?”
“Beast?” Nick asked, confused.
“You raped a girl, right?” the man asked, his eyes creasing with disapproval.
“No.” For the first time, Nick made purposeful and prolonged eye contact. Anger kept his voice and gaze steady. “I didn’t.”
The man considered Nick’s answer. “What’s your story?”
Nick sensed a test. “My girlfriend was raped and killed. The police and the DA pinned it on me. I just want to get out of here, find the one who did it, and do her justice.”
“Half the men in here claim they’re innocent. Why should I believe you?”
Nick shrugged, exhaustion sliding over his body in a wave. He’d been afraid to close his eyes. Hell, he was afraid if he blinked, someone would kill him. But lack of food and sleep was wearing on him. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the hypervigilance. “If you don’t want to, there isn’t anything I can do about that.”
“This is true.” The inmate nodded. “I’m Shorty.”
OK.
“I’m Nick.” What the hell? Not knowing what else to do, he reached out a hand.
Shorty shook it with only the briefest of hesitations.
What did an introduction mean? Had that been a test?
This was so confusing. He felt like he’d been dumped into a reality TV show with no description of the game he was supposed to play.
During the next few hours, three other inmates introduced themselves to Nick and asked for his story. Were they comparing notes? Nick kept his statements simple and honest and hoped that came through.
Not much else he could do. Everything depended on Ms. Dane.
Nick got up to use the toilet. He passed by a cell. A hand grabbed his uniform collar and yanked him off his feet into the dark space. He landed on his side, his shoulder smashing into the concrete. A body jumped on top of him. A fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded through his nose and mouth. Nick tasted blood. He wrapped his arms around his head to block the blows while he got his bearings. Adrenaline shot through his bloodstream, shocking his heart into a panicked frenzy.
Questions fired through his mind. Would the guards see? Were there cameras in the cells? Nick had never ventured inside one.
Were they going to kill him?
Trying to block the raining fists, Nick squinted around his forearms. One man was delivering the beating, but others watched from the doorway. They seemed to be standing guard.
A punch connected with his ribs. He couldn’t protect his head and his torso at once. Primal instinct sent a blast of energy through him. He was going to die if he didn’t fight back. As shitty as his life was, he couldn’t just let it go.
Nick rolled a shoulder to cover his face. He lashed out a hand. His fist connected with his attacker’s body.
The guy got to his feet and delivered a kick to Nick’s ribs. The pain just about split him in two. He coughed and wrapped his hands around his middle. When the foot came in for a second kick, Nick grabbed the ankle and pulled. Surprised, his attacker went down on his back. Nick scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving, his lungs crying for air.
Blood dripped down his face and onto his uniform. He almost went after his attacker, and then stopped when he recognized Shorty—and saw the three larger inmates in the doorway. They helped Shorty to his feet. Then the four of them stared at Nick.
What. The. Fuck?
He couldn’t take them all on.
His chest heaved. He wiped a hand across his face and waited. A few long minutes passed until one of the men tossed Nick a towel. “Get yourself cleaned up before the guards come in.”
Nick nodded and wiped his face. The four men stepped aside and let him out.
Two guards burst through the door. One eyed Nick’s face. “What happened?”
Snitches get stitches.
Had that been some sort of test?
“I tripped,” Nick said.
“No one attacked you?” they asked, scanning the room.
“No,” Nick lied. “These guys were just helping me up.”
The guard frowned. Clearly they didn’t have cameras inside the cells, just in the main room, and the inmates all knew it.
Who’s fucking stupid idea was that?
“You’re sure?” the guard asked.
“Yep.” Nick wiped his nose.
The guard frowned, not convinced. “You need to go to the infirmary?”
Nick shook his head. Dizziness swam in his head. “I’m good.”
The guards shot a warning look around the room. Shorty wasn’t in sight. Nick wondered if his knuckles were bleeding. He limped to the toilet and relieved himself. Returning to his mat, Nick put his back to the wall. He huddled on the mattress, pain and cold blotting out every other sense.
And waited.
He might have to spend a year or more in this place. The thought of living out the rest of his life in a concrete box made him want to throw up.
Or kill himself.
Today he’d received a beating. He had no idea why.
Or what was next.
Chapter Twenty-One
He lifted his binoculars and watched the three girls standing at the edge of Scarlet Lake. He guessed the girls were about sixteen. The sun reflected off the water like a mirror. One girl handed something to her friend. A joint?
He adjusted the focus of his binoculars to zoom in on the girl’s face.
Yep. They were passing a joint around.
He shifted his aim lower. Tight yoga pants cupped tighter asses. He licked his lips. A hand slid down to his crotch. He rubbed himself through the fabric of his pants before giving in to the urge and lowering his zipper.
But it wasn’t enough.
Frustrated, he zipped up.
There was no doubt about it. He needed to replace Tessa.
He’d thought coming back to the place where she’d died would help with his self-control by reminding him that all actions had consequences. And that he absolutely had to stay out of trouble until this whole mess blew over. But he hadn’t counted on those girls and their skintight pants.