Inside (13 page)

After dinner, she went into the kitchen to rinse off the dishes and felt a measure of relief at being able to escape her guest, even for a short while. The time they’d spent together had dragged by. The clock on the wall indicated it hadn’t been an hour. She wished John would leave, but she didn’t ask him to go because having him around stopped her from visiting Virgil.

When he walked into the kitchen carrying their glasses, Peyton mustered yet another smile.

“I heard Wallace was in town on Friday.” His tone suggested this was idle chitchat, but it made Peyton uncomfortable all the same. The associate director hadn’t visited the prison. How had John learned he was in town?

“Who told you that?”

“Sandy saw him at Raliberto’s.”

“Sandy?”

“My sister.”

Before quitting a year or so ago to be a stay-at-home mom, Sandy had worked as a nurse at the prison. Embarrassed that she’d been too preoccupied to recall his sister’s name, Peyton ducked her head over the sink and kept washing dishes. “Oh, right. Of course.”

“He had some guy with him she didn’t recognize. Somebody in a baseball cap.”

“Really?”

He scowled when she did nothing to further the conversation. “You didn’t see Wallace while he was here?”

He knew there’d be some reason for Rick to visit Crescent City and that she’d most likely be aware of it. “Briefly.”

“Oh, boy.”

This made her turn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He usually doesn’t show up unless something big’s coming down. Or there’s trouble brewing. I’m almost afraid to hear what it was this time.”

“Nothing. He had a meeting with the warden. That’s all.”

“That’s where it starts,” he joked. “Any idea what it was about? Or will we hear at the weekly meeting?”

His interest struck her as too intrusive until she remembered that a couple of weeks ago, while breaking up a fight, he’d inflicted harm on one of the inmates. The case was under review to see if he’d acted appropriately or let himself get out of control, so he was probably worried about the outcome and whether he’d face disciplinary action.

She decided to tell him just enough to relieve his anxiety. “Thanks to the recent media reports that the
Hells Fury might be responsible for the murder of Judge Garcia in Santa Rosa, the CDCR wants us to step up our efforts to curtail gang activity. He didn’t say but I’m pretty sure it had to do with that.”

“How can we step up our efforts?” he asked. “To do that, we’d have to build a SHU big enough to accommodate everyone in gen pop. And then we’d have to answer to all the activists who are crying that isolation’s cruel and unusual punishment.” He shook his head in obvious disgust. “No one likes the problems we’re dealing with, but they don’t like the solutions, either. Not the ones that actually work.”

Was he advocating more force? Or attempting to justify how he’d behaved when that fight broke out?

“There aren’t any easy answers.” She wasn’t up for a debate tonight, not when she was so preoccupied.

“Wallace came to the prison, then?”

Unsure how to answer, she stayed as close to the truth as possible. “No. He met the warden for lunch.”

“You weren’t with them?”

“What?”

“I stopped by your office on my break. Your assistant said you’d gone into town with the warden.”

She’d just acted like she
wasn’t
at the meeting. Scrambling to cover her gaffe, she tried to clarify. “I was supposed to be there, but one of my friends called. She was in the middle of an emergency, so I had to beg off.”

It wasn’t a good excuse. Any meeting with Wallace, especially one in which they left the prison, would be important, making it unlikely that she’d accept outside calls. But she hoped he wouldn’t think of that. For all he knew, she had a friend who was dying of cancer.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then shrugged and
seemed to accept her words. “So you have no idea who the other guy was?”

“Nope.”

“Who do you
think
he could be?”

She wanted to blurt out that it had nothing to do with him but couldn’t without revealing that she knew more than she was saying. Wishing she’d never let him stay for dinner, she finished loading the dishwasher. “No one special.”

“He wasn’t part of the meeting?”

Averting her face, she bent to fill the soap container. “Not that I heard of.”

He leaned against the counter, considering.

“Why are you so worried about this?” she asked. “That meeting had nothing to do with the fight you broke up, if that’s what’s got you going. The warden specifically mentioned the gang problem.”

“I just can’t imagine who that person could be.”

“It’s no fun to eat alone. Maybe he was someone Wallace met at the restaurant and they ended up sharing a booth. For all your sister knows, the guy could’ve been another C.O. She hasn’t met every officer. We’ve done some hiring since she left.”

“She said he didn’t act like a C.O.”

Peyton laughed. “Not all C.O.s act the same.”

“But there’s a certain feel about them.”

“I’m not convinced of that. Anyway, what else could he be?”

“A reporter.”

No one who worked in corrections was ever happy about having a reporter around. Rarely did they heap praise on the system or those who ran it. Unless it was published in the local paper, which was generally supportive, prison articles were almost always steeped in
criticism. That threatened change, and everyone feared change—the loss of jobs, the loss of tools necessary to do the job, a cut in funding, a court-ordered oversight. On top of this, John had been involved in an incident the media could easily use to “prove” the abuse so many inmates claimed. He didn’t want to be named in a story like that. No one did.

“What makes you think it might be a reporter?”

“My sister said Wallace spoke in a low voice and kept leaning close. She tried to say hi to him, but he practically ignored her. When she approached, they hurried out.”

“Wallace wouldn’t try to wine and dine a reporter with
tacos.
” She tried to make a joke of it, but John didn’t even crack a smile.

“Since that judge was murdered, there’ve been a lot of media hanging around. Maybe he was trying to head off another scathing article condemning us.”

If such an article condemned
him,
he’d probably receive harsher disciplinary action than he would otherwise. No doubt that played into his thoughts. “I’m sure it was nothing, John. Really. Investigative Services is still reviewing the incident. Lieutenant McCalley hasn’t decided yet how he’s going to react.”

“How do you know?”

She faced him. “Because he would’ve told me.”

His mouth rose up on one side. “You’ll put in a good word for me, right?”

This was the reason she didn’t fraternize with the C.O.s. She didn’t want personal relationships to interfere with her ability to be fair. “I’ll review the facts and make sure whatever action he takes is appropriate.”

John didn’t like her response. His smile faltered, but he covered it by acting as if he’d expect nothing more.

A few of the empty food containers were still on the table. More than eager to send him on his way, Peyton motioned toward them. “Get those, will you? I’ll wash them so you don’t have to take them home dirty.”

“Sure.” He walked out, but when he returned he brought only one dish—and her phone.

“Why—?” She didn’t get the question out before he handed it to her.

“It buzzed. So I grabbed it for you,” he explained.

She’d received a text message. From Wallace. Her iPhone gave a short hum by way of notification with every text and automatically displayed the message.

Anxiety pulled her nerves taut as she read what Wallace had sent. She’d just convinced John that nothing unusual was going on, and now he’d seen this:

Skinner’s angry. See if you can settle him down. That woman’s death was his fault, not mine. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t joined up in the first place.

That was easy for Wallace to say. His safety and well-being had never been at risk. Neither had he experienced the same kind of fear, physical pain and pressure Virgil had known—as a mere teenager. But Wallace’s reaction was beside the point. What concerned Peyton was the curiosity that lit John’s eyes.

“Something wrong?” he asked, obviously trying to gauge her expression.

He’d read the text, all right. He also knew it came from Wallace. Her iPhone clearly identified the sender.

“A mutual friend was in a…car accident in which the other driver was killed,” she said. “That’s tragic.”

“Truly.”

Her explanation wasn’t enough. He must have a million unanswered questions. How could the—fictional—driver believe it was Wallace’s fault? Why would he come to her to calm that person down? And what, exactly, had someone named Skinner joined?

John waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Thanks to his sister, he already knew far more than Peyton wanted him to. Slipping her phone into her purse so the same thing couldn’t happen again, she finished the dishes, thanked him for dinner and walked him to his truck with the excuse that she’d brought home a lot of work tonight.

Then she reclaimed her phone and sat in the living room, reading and rereading that message. Skinner couldn’t go inside Pelican Bay. This investigation was already starting to unravel.

A
blanket of fog covered Highway 1, forcing Peyton to creep around the turns of the snakelike road hugging the rocky coastline. She couldn’t see the ocean to the right, or the towering redwoods to the left. Even when she rode the bumper of the car in front of her, she could barely discern its taillights. But she’d made herself wait until it was late enough that she could approach the motel without fear of being spotted and was relieved to finally be on her way—until she arrived. Once she’d parked around the corner and hurried to Virgil’s door on foot, she grew nervous because she had no idea how she’d be received.

“It’s me,” she murmured, following a brisk knock.

He opened the door, but he didn’t speak. Setting his knife on top of the TV—he’d come prepared in case she was someone else—he stepped back so she could enter.

The warmth of the room embraced her as she closed the door. The television was on, but Virgil wasn’t watching the kind of station most of the ex-cons she knew would pick. What with all the X-rated movies available on pay-per-view in this motel—she suspected that was part of the reason Rick Wallace preferred it—she
thought a man in Virgil’s shoes would be taking in as much skin as possible. Pornography was expressly forbidden on the inside in any form, so it wasn’t as if he’d have another chance in the coming months. Instead, he was in the middle of a program about Egypt on the History Channel.

“I’m here to see if you’ll change your mind,” she said bluntly.

“About…”

Although he was dressed, she kept picturing him without his shirt as she’d seen him in her home last night. Her mind brought up other images, too, erotic images of them together, which made it strained and awkward to treat him as though he hadn’t had his mouth on her less than twenty-four hours ago. “Going inside Pelican Bay.”

He sank onto the bed and propped himself up on his elbows.

“No response?” she said.

“The fact that Laurel’s babysitter was shot gives me more reason to go in, not less, Peyton.”

She liked the way he said her name, the familiarity of it. “But you don’t understand. The people here… There’s not a lot going on this time of year. And thanks to the isolation, Crescent City’s like the typical small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially when that business has to do with the prison that supports us.”

“So?”

Why was he making her spell it out? “That means there’s less anonymity here than in some places. Folks notice the smallest details. Not only do they notice, they share every observation with others.”

Sitting up, he found the remote and muted the TV. “Someone’s said something to you?”

It was too warm in the room for the snug-fitting leather jacket she’d worn. She shrugged out of it as she explained what had happened with John. “His sister saw you at Raliberto’s with Wallace,
and
he read a text Wallace sent me about you,” she said when she came to the most significant part.

“I’m going in as Bennett, not Skinner,” he told her. “He’ll never connect me with that text. Chances are he’ll never connect me with the man his sister saw at the taco place, either.”

“Maybe not right away. But he can feel there’s been a change. And he’s asking questions. That makes me nervous.”

“Why would he be so curious?”

“General boredom. Like everyone else. And he was reprimanded for being overly zealous in breaking up a fight two weeks ago. One of the inmates wound up with a cracked skull that might’ve had nothing to do with the original altercation. John’s about to be disciplined for it, so he’s looking over his shoulder.”

“He’s got an abusive streak and he’s afraid it’ll cost him his job?”

She’d been afraid he’d jump to that conclusion. The investigation wasn’t complete, so she didn’t know for sure, but she sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. “If I thought he was truly abusive, he wouldn’t be working at Pelican Bay. He panicked and used more force than necessary. It won’t happen again.”

“There’s a good chance you won’t hear about it even if it does.”

“How would he keep it from me?”

“There are ways to hurt people without cracking their skulls.”

“Don’t act like you know more about Pelican Bay or the people who work there than I do,” she said. “You haven’t even been inside. Not yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. One prison isn’t that different from the next.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with you, okay? I’m against having you go in. That’s all I’m here to say.”

“You’re spooked because of this guy. John. It’ll be fine.”

“You can’t be sure it’ll be fine.”

He got off the bed. “It’s not your decision, anyway.”

The wait, the pressure and the fear for his sister, not to mention that he probably felt somewhat responsible for Trinity Woods’s murder, had to be driving him crazy. He’d been on edge ever since she’d arrived. So had she. Add to that the tension between them—which they couldn’t relieve in the same way they had last night—and the surfeit of emotion threatened to erupt into an argument.

An argument over nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Peyton focused on her purpose. “Why not leave, go and get Laurel, disappear?”

“Because it’s not that easy—not without resources. And, in case you haven’t noticed, a man doesn’t build up a lot of resources in prison.”

“You’re sticking it out to get your compensation money?”

“No. Considering all the red tape, I don’t have much chance of getting that money. I’m doing it because life on the run is not what I want for my sister or her children.
Someone who’s always lived in an ivory tower wouldn’t understand, but—”

“Excuse me?” she broke in. “I’ve never lived in an ivory tower.”

“You’ve never lived the way I have, either.”

“I work in the same kind of place.”

“By choice. You get to leave at the end of each day and pick up a hefty paycheck for your trouble. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I’m only trying to help.”

“And I don’t need your help. I’ve told you that before. Quit treating me like some sort of…pity project. I’ll make it on my own.”

Feeling as if he’d just slapped her, she tensed. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“I’m doing the best I can to protect the people I care about, okay? If it works, Laurel will have a new identity. She’ll be able to remarry and live the rest of her life without fear and without running. I owe her that.”

“You do? Why?” she challenged. “Did you ask for this?”

He hadn’t expected that question. It took him off guard—she could tell—but he quickly rallied. “She’s the only person who’s ever been there for me.”

“When are
you
going to be there for you?”

He scowled. “You’re not making a damn bit of sense.”

“Then let me be clearer. I don’t want to see you hurt!”

He rolled his eyes. “Come off it. At least be honest. What happens to me has no bearing on you. We’re not even friends.”

Virgil had plenty of reason to be upset. But his
responses were more personal and much harsher than Peyton had foreseen, and she wasn’t willing to put up with it any longer.

“Forget I ever came here.” Grabbing her coat, she turned to go, but he moved up behind her and put a hand on the door, holding it closed.

“Let me out,” she said, but only halfheartedly. She didn’t really want to leave. She wished she could lean into him, that he’d be as tender with her as he’d been last night.

But what he was feeling didn’t even resemble tenderness. She knew that when he spoke. His voice was low, grating. “I thought you didn’t date anyone who worked at the prison.”

Now he was looking for something else to fuel his anger. “I don’t.”

“Then what was John doing at your house?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer. You have no say over what I do or who I see.”

“Did he bring a keepsake for your cabinet?” he asked, his lips brushing her ear.

She held the door handle in a death grip but didn’t turn it. “He brought me dinner, okay? That’s it. Now please let me go.”

“You just told me you turn him down whenever he asks you out.”

“I do.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you turned him down tonight.” Taking her coat, he threw it on the chair, but she didn’t face him. She wasn’t sure how their clash of wills would play out if she did.

She rested her forehead against the wood panel. “He’d already brought dinner. I didn’t have the heart to send
him packing. He’s recently divorced, lonely. I think he’s looking for a friend.”

He slid his hand up under her T-shirt, leaving a swath of gooseflesh as he skimmed his fingers along her bare skin. When she didn’t resist, he changed direction and slipped his hand into her jeans, where his touch became far more intimate.

Get out of here before it’s too late
. He was no longer holding the door. She could go. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for this kind of contact, and neither was she. But knowing tonight was probably the last time she’d see him before he was incarcerated, she hoped for a better parting, one that would allow them to feel okay when they assumed their respective roles.

“Friendship isn’t what he’s trying to get from you,” he murmured. “He wants this.” His tongue plunged into her ear as two fingers claimed her with enough force to make her cry out. But it didn’t hurt. Pleasure burned through her veins.

“How do you know?” she breathed.

“Because I want it, too.”

Scarcely able to speak above the racket of her heart, Peyton squeezed her eyes shut. “We can’t…make this mistake again.” She wasn’t sure who she was talking to. That comment hadn’t really been directed at him. She was just grasping for a way to hold on to her resolve. But he answered.

“You’ve already given it to me once. What’s one more time?”

“It’s one more time.”

“Good thing you’re too nice to say no.”

She wanted to correct him. She wasn’t going along with this because she was “nice.” Nice had nothing to do with it—or him. Especially right now. She could
sense his anger, but she didn’t complain, even when he peeled down her jeans and took her from behind without ceremony or foreplay.

Although she’d never been treated this roughly, feeling Virgil unleash his frustrations gave their coupling an eroticism that caused every nerve to quiver. He made sure she knew he was the one in control, but she felt safe with him at the same time. Physically, anyway. Emotionally, she hadn’t felt safe from the beginning.

The rhythm of their lovemaking escalated so fast they were out of breath within seconds. Then it was over as suddenly as it had begun and he withdrew as if he didn’t care any more about her than if he’d used a blow-up doll.

Stunned by such intensity followed by…nothing, she fixed her clothes while waiting to see if he’d say anything. Or kiss her. Or hold her. Or coax her to the bed.

He didn’t. He went into the bathroom without so much as a “thanks for the quick piece of ass” and closed the door.

He’d done this on purpose, she realized. He wanted her to hate him. And, in that moment, she did.

What the hell had he just done?

Cringing as the outside door banged shut, Virgil stared at the haggard image looking back at him in the bathroom mirror. He wanted to go after Peyton, to apologize, even beg her forgiveness. But he wouldn’t let himself. He deserved to have her go, would deserve it if she never spoke to him again. There wasn’t any point in pursuing her, anyway. She couldn’t possibly want him in her life, especially now. He’d acted no better than the other inmates he’d served time with—which, in a perverse way, was exactly what he’d been aiming for.
He didn’t have anything to offer her. He needed to understand that and so did she.

He’d made his point. But he felt terrible about it.

“You’re a complete asshole, like she said,” he muttered, and splashed some water on his face before slumping against the wall. Did he really think that little power play could diminish her, make her any less than she was? That the harshness of his actions could obliterate how he’d begun to feel about her?

Not really. He didn’t want Peyton to matter as much as she did, so he’d taken steps to ensure that she stayed out of his life. It wasn’t fair to encounter someone like her when he was at such a loss, not after everything he’d been through. He wished he could relegate her to a different part of his brain or scare her away entirely. When he was bucking against her, telling himself he’d been using her from the start, it seemed to be working. He lost himself in lust and anger, had actually believed, for a few seconds, that he’d stamped out every other thought or feeling.

But in that final moment, he’d reached for her breast and felt something else, as well—something that let him know he hadn’t won the battle he was waging. The regret that’d washed over him then had left him feeling worse than ever.

She hadn’t put his medallion in a glass case with all her other keepsakes. She was wearing it.