Page 66 of Pulling Strings

“Relax,” he said, an impossible request while the room around us filled with an unknown toxin.

Held breath began to go stale in my lungs. When Grimm turned to go, I exhaled in a call after him.

He stopped to look back, and I hated myself for what I said next.

“Take me with you.”

Hello, bargaining.

Smoke crawled up the wall and onto the gurney. I thought to hold my breath again, but that would only delay the inevitable.

Finally, Grimm bent down and patted my cheek. “I’ll see you in court, Mister Farrow.”

In the aftermath of the jailbreak, they forgot to put me back in isolation. Or maybe my time there had been served. I was surprised they didn’t lock me down there and throw away the key after the Bloody Hex practically emptied the place and made fools of everyone left in their wake. Which included me, so maybe I’d earned a bit of sympathy. Something must have gone wrong, after all. The gang wouldn’t have left me behind on purpose, would they? I struggled to believe it myself.

I spent the night in my old cell, finding it too quiet and lonely without Clyde. I hoped he escaped and hadn’t met a worse fate like some I’d seen in the riotous mess that had been made of the prison. Blood smeared the walls, bedsheets hung from cell doors, and at leastone had been tied as a noose off the walkway railing outside. A woman’s corpse hung between the third and second levels for hours before they finally cut her down.

I waited for someone to talk to me. A guard, the warden, even Holland Lyle. Surely they wanted to know how the Bloody Hex successfully sacked the prison, and where they went next. But I was as ignorant as everyone else. Was it part of Grimm’s plan to keep me in the dark? He’d given me a story I could sell, but no one was buying.

Time proved difficult to track with the daily schedule so thoroughly disrupted. No one was permitted to leave their cells, which was fine at first. Gradually, though, complaints arose as shouts echoing from one side of the cell block to the other. Within an hour or so—my best guess—it turned into a full-blown screaming match that no one bothered to silence. The guard staff was nowhere to be seen, content to let us sweat it out or howl ourselves hoarse.

I huddled in bed with my head sandwiched between the folded sides of my pillow. Sleep proved impossible with all the racket, so I laid awake, hunger gnawing at my stomach while the noise drowned my anxious thoughts.

“You’re going to trial, and you’re going to win.”

Absurd.

I never stood a chance at being anonymous. I’d been paraded around the Capitol in my youth as an exemplary specimen of the coming generation, then publicly kidnapped with my face plastered on every missing person poster, news bulletin, and milk carton in the city. My appearance hadn’t changed much between my teenage years and now, even if I’d managed to keep a low profile during my time with the Bloody Hex. But unlike Vinton, Avery, Grimm, and my kid brother, Iwas sighted publicly, and often. I didn’t recall how it started. Maybe I thought if the Capitol saw me, they would come to my rescue and save the day like the heroes my father convinced me they were.

But those hopes were dashed when the powers that be shifted from offering rewards to anyone who could find me to advertising bounties to those brave enough to hunt me down. The Capitol had wanted me dead for a decade. Now that I was firmly in their sights, they wouldn’t miss their shot.

The jeering and heckling in the cell block outside grew louder and targeted enough that I sat up and peered through the barred door. A guard—the first I’d seen since they’d dragged me out of the infirmary—approached.

“Got your court clothes, inmate.” He held a rolled garment bag and wore a look of disdain. Tossing a pair of polished black shoes through the bars, he said, “Just putting lipstick on a pig, if you ask me.”

He stuffed the garment bag in next and let it drop onto the floor.

“Someone’ll be by in a bit to take you to the showers,” he added, then turned on his heel.

“Are they gonna watch me, too?” I called after the retreating guard. He stopped and looked back, chagrined.

“I’m not shy,” I continued, “and I could use a lookout. This may come as a shock, but there are people in this place who want me dead.”

Or maybe not. Jax and his cronies might have made their getaway during last night’s chaos, but I had no way of knowing for sure.

The corner of the guard’s mouth curled in a sinister grin. “Oh, we all want you dead. But we’ll make sure you get out of here alive. And all the way to theguillotine, too.”

He left then, dodging random objects hurled by prisoners in the cell next door.

It would take days or maybe weeks to restore order to this place. Even with half the inmate population missing, the staff had lost all control. I was trapped in this powder keg, but only temporarily. I’d be long gone before it exploded.

Slowly, I climbed down the bunkbed ladder and went to inspect the offered clothing. Anything would be an improvement on my stained, smelly coveralls, and I was eager to get out of them. Unzipping the bag revealed a gray suit coat with a vest and slacks, a black button-down, a leather belt, and a tie. A small velvet pouch tumbled loose, and I caught it before it hit the floor. Inside nestled a tie pin, pocket square, and cufflinks. Checking the tags on the clothing found them to be my size.

Hot damn.

The clothes and shower would mask the past week of suffering. They might even convince a jury I was too young, too handsome, too great of a talent to waste. Regardless, if I was going to trial—and a possible death sentence—at least I would look good doing it.

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