A Spanish soap opera played on the TV on the wall. He had no idea who had the remote, if anyone.
Even after Shorty’s olive branch and his seeming acceptance among most of the inmates, the hair on the back of Nick’s neck still bristled. He would never be able to let his guard down. The constant state of vigilance wore on his nerves. Did all the men in this place feel the same? The Man didn’t appear to be nervous. Was that an act? Sure, he was the size of an armored truck, and he had a group of like-sized buddies, but the AB was outnumbered six to one. Plus, there were several other gangs that looked equally deadly. The brothers with the BLOODS tattoos weren’t fucking Boy Scouts.
The truth hit Nick with shocking clarity.
They have nothing to lose.
The Man had said he was being charged with manslaughter, and he was a repeat offender. Once his trial was over, was he going to state prison for the rest of his life?
Their lack of fear wasn’t due to a lower threat level, but indifference.
Nick’s breaths tightened. His palms began to sweat. What would happen if he was found guilty? He’d go to state prison for a minimum of twenty-five years. Best case scenario: he’d be forty-five years old before he could get out.
Worst case: he’d get life without parole and never see the outside again. He’d spend the rest of his life in a concrete cage. He’d listened to the experienced prisoners talk about the state prison, about living in a four-by-eight with one hour of yard time a day.
His vision dimmed as this real possibility swept over him. Hopelessness was a thousand pounds sitting in the center of his chest. It pressured his lungs and cut off his air until he choked.
Stop it!
“You OK, man?” Shorty asked.
“Yeah. I’m cool.” Nick beat a fist on his chest and coughed. “Just need a drink of water.”
He got up and walked to the water fountain, beating back the impending panic attack. How could he even feel sorry for himself when he was alive and Tessa was dead? He pictured her face, her smile, her eyes.
Then the photo the cops had shown him of her dead body.
Slipping in when he was vulnerable, grief swamped him. He missed her so much it hurt, and knowing he’d never see her again made him feel like he’d been stabbed in the heart too.
He held onto the vision of Tessa, dead, and let his fury build. In here, anger was a much more useful and acceptable emotion. Anger made him appear strong.
She’d broken up with him, but Nick just knew she hadn’t wanted to. The way she’d cried didn’t make sense otherwise. If breaking up made her miserable, why did she do it? Just days before they’d been really happy together.
The more he thought about it, the less it made sense, and the more his chest ached.
If he ever found the man who’d killed her . . .
He leaned over the water fountain and drank. Cool liquid slid down his throat but did nothing to chill the hot swirl of emotions in his belly.
In the far corner of the space, a dozen inmates were working out. With no exercise equipment, they were creative about it. A pair took turns sitting on a bunk while the other bench-pressed him. Another guy sat on his partner’s shoulders while he did push-ups. But Nick didn’t trust anyone enough to buddy-up, and he prayed he wasn’t here long enough to develop any tight bonds. Some of these men had been here a long time.
He turned back toward the chessboard. Two new players had started a fresh game. Watching seemed the safest option. Nick headed back across the room. He stepped aside as an inmate exited a row between tables. The man passed close. Too close, Nick realized, but it was too late to get out of the way.
The man’s shoulder bumped Nick’s, and the rest played out in slow motion. A quick twist of the orange-clad body. The sharp sting of a blade sliding into Nick’s belly. A second and third hot slice of agony as the man punched the weapon into Nick’s gut again and again. The instinctive response to cover the wounds, to keep his insides from gushing out. The hot rush of blood between his fingers.
No one came to help. Orange bodies slunk backward, unsure of the situation.
Unwilling to get involved.
An alarm blared. It sounded far away, muted by the throb of Nick’s pulse in his ears. Cold swept over him, in him. He dropped to his knees.
The door burst open. Feet pounded on concrete. Men shouted. Nick fell sideways, his shoulder hitting the concrete.
Hands rolled him to his back and moved his hands from the wounds.
Pressure.
He blinked at the ceiling. Fluorescent lights blurred and dimmed as shadows leaned over him. He knew they were guards by their shape and voices.
More shoes beat on cement.
Someone grabbed Nick’s chin. “Stay with me.”
But he couldn’t. He drifted. Sounds and light faded. His heartbeat slowed. Pain consumed him, and the darkness that followed was a relief.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Morgan sailed out of the municipal building, her step brisk, her mind whirling. “I can’t wait to tell Nick tomorrow. We finally have a break in his case. I’ll stop by Bud’s house and give him the good news tonight. He needs some encouragement.”
Nick’s dad needed hope, and she couldn’t wait to give it to him.
“I wouldn’t build his hopes up too much.” Lance fell into step beside her on the sidewalk. Since they’d gotten word of Voss’s escape, Lance hadn’t stopped scanning their surroundings. “This won’t mean much until the DNA test comes back.”
At six thirty in the evening, the visitors’ lot was mostly empty.
“It’ll mean one of the prosecution’s key witnesses lied, and the video with Nick fighting Jacob just took on a whole new meaning. Nick’s account looks a lot more truthful than Jacob’s now. Bryce might not want to admit it, but between those photos and Voss’s camp near the murder site, I can poke a hundred holes in his case against Nick.” At the end of the walk, Morgan stepped off the curb. “Bryce relied on an abundance of physical evidence without the due diligence of making sure there wasn’t an alternate explanation for it.”
Her phone rang as they reached the Jeep. Bud’s name was displayed on the screen. Morgan answered the call. “Hi Bud. I was just going to call—”
“Morgan.” Bud’s voice was hoarse. “I just got a call from the jail. Nick’s been stabbed.”
Morgan froze. “What?”
“Stabbed,” Bud said. “By another prisoner. That’s all I know. I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“I’ll meet you there.” Numb, she lowered the phone and explained. “We need to go to the hospital.”
Lance opened the passenger door for her. “Let’s go.”