Page 118 of Sin Like the Devil

“You want to know what happened?” I lean forward in the armchair. “All the shitty decisions I’ve made finally caught up to me. And I hope the day comes when the same thing happens to you.”

I stand and head for the door. I’m not going to sit here and be lectured about the benefits of opening up and sharing my pain. Not from a power-hungry opportunist who wants to package it with a fancy label and sell my sickness to the highest bidder.

When I open the door, it isn’t Langley waiting outside. Although he surely thought that he was being helpful by bringing me to therapy today, it infuriated me to no end. I’d gladly take his meddling ways over the displeased mug staring back at me now.

“Ah, Ripley.” Elon’s thin lips pull into a grin as he looks me over. “Good to see you back on your feet.”

“Is it?” I respond blandly.

“Nice bruises. You look like a punching bag.”

“Spare me the small talk. What do you want?”

Flashing teeth, he beckons me into the corridor. “Let’s take a walk.”

The command feels like being offered a steep cliff to hurl myself off. I don’t trust the sadistic gleam in his eyes. Between more of Doctor Galloway’s torture fest or whatever trap Elon’s sprung for me, I should’ve just stayed in bed.

“No cuffs?”

“Will they be necessary?” He cocks an overgrown brow. “I can assure you that declining or running isn’t advisable. I’ll simply return with a friend or two.”

“You’ll need more than that to drag me anywhere.”

“I’m aware. But they will be able to carry you after I’ve jammed a sedative in your thigh. So, care to take that walk?”

Considering my options, I see no alternative. He nods in satisfaction when I fall into step beside him, keeping a safe gap between us. I don’t fancy getting stabbed with a hypodermic needle.

When he doesn’t lead me to the warden’s office or the solitary floor, the first flickers of panic set in. I look around the reception, fruitlessly searching for a means of escape.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns.

“Think about what?”

Elon looms over me. “Starting any shit. This place is locked down tighter than Fort Knox right now. You’ll only get your ass kicked.”

Now that he mentions it, there’s an array of blank-faced guards manning every wall, corner and doorway. At least triple the usual fanfare. Their weapons are no longer carefully concealed—batons, tasers and glinting cuffs hang on every belt loop.

Biting my lip, I watch the show over my shoulder as Taylor, a loud-mouthed girl whose room is a few doors down from mine, gets pulled aside for a random pat down.

“Are you serious? I was just walking!” she shouts.

“Up against the wall, inmate.”

“No! This is such horseshit.”

When she doesn’t comply, Kieran, the wanker who struck me with his baton, shoves her hard. She slams into the wall with a pained squeak, her hands forced to flatten and legs spread apart by his foot.

“You asshole!” she screeches.

Tension is at an all-time high. Some patients don’t raise their heads as they scuttle past. Whatever fire filled Harrowdean’s population before, recent displays of force seem to have tamped a lot of it down.

But others like Taylor? They’re openly defiant. Bickering and shouting. Fists swinging and arms getting pinned. It doesn’t take much to provoke a guard into getting handsy. They seem determined to prove their point.

We’re still their puppets to control.

And puppets don’t have any rights.

Her head turned to the side and cheek smashed up against the wall, Taylor’s gaze connects with mine. I’m unnerved by the venom directed towards me churning there.

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