Page 61 of Imprisoned

My pulse spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. “Of course. What seems to be the problem?”

She places a spreadsheet on my desk, pointing to highlighted sections. “These therapy supplies—the invoices don’t match our usual vendors. And the amounts are...” She frowns. “Substantial.”

“Oh, that.” I pull up the fake documentation I’ve prepared for this exact scenario. “I’ve been implementing a new art therapy program. The supplies are specialized, which is why they’re from different vendors. Here’s the proposal I submitted last month.”

Eleanor scans the document, her brow furrowing. “I don’t remember approving this.”

“It went through Fields in accounting first. He said it fell within our discretionary budget.” The lie flows smooth as silk from my lips. Amazing how easily deception comes now.

“Hmm.” She hands the paper back. “Just keep me in the loop next time?”

“Absolutely.” I flash an apologetic smile.

Eleanor doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, she settles into the chair across from my desk, her expression thoughtful. “Willow, I’m starting to wonder if I misjudged you when we first met.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound merely curious rather than defensive.

“When I hired you, you seemed so... eager to connect, to be part of the team. You joined me for lunch those first few days and asked about staff gatherings.” She leans forward, studying me. “But since then, you’ve kept mostly to yourself. I thought perhaps you were just settling in, finding your footing, but it’s been months now.”

Guilt stabs through me. Eleanor has been nothing but supportive since my first day. She championed my hiring, mentored me, and invited me into her life. And here I am, stealing from the prison she’s dedicated her career to, planning my escape with one of her most dangerous inmates.

“I’m sorry,Eleanor. The truth is...” I hesitate, then decide a partial truth might be more convincing than another vague excuse about work stress. “I’ve been going through a rough breakup. My relationship of three years ended right before I started here.”

The lie feels safer than claiming work stress again and explains my emotional withdrawal.

“I didn’t want to bring personal drama into the workplace,” I continue. “I thought throwing myself into work would help, but I guess I’ve been more affected than I realized.”

“Oh, Willow.” Eleanor’s expression softens with understanding. “That’s a lot to process while starting a demanding new job. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wanted to seem professional, capable. Not someone dealing with emotional baggage.”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t isolate yourself.” She reaches across the desk, her hand stopping just short of mine. “We all need support during difficult transitions. Why don’t you come over for dinner this weekend? Mark’s making his famous lasagna, and the kids have been asking about you.”

The memory of my one visit to Eleanor’s home right after I started working here—the warm family dinner, her children’s easy laughter, her husband’s kind eyes—twists the knife of guilt deeper. These are good people—people who welcomed me and trusted me.

“I’d love to, but...” I glance at my calendar, pretending to check. “I promised my mother I’d go shopping with her this weekend. She’s been feeling a bit lonely lately.”

It’s not entirely a lie. I need to spend time with my mom—to get her on a plane to Brazil before everything falls apart.

Eleanor sighs, disappointment evident in her expression. “Another time, then?”

“Definitely,” I lie, knowing there won’t be another time. In a matter of days, I’ll be gone. Eleanor will discover my betrayal and any friendship we might have had will be destroyed forever.

“You know,” Eleanor says, standing to leave, “when I recommended you for this position, I told the board I’d never seen someone with such natural insight into the criminal mind. Such empathy balanced with clinical distance.” She pauses at the door. “I still believe that. Don’t lose yourself in this work, Willow. Don’t let the darkness you study seep into you.”

Her words hit too close to home. The darkness has already seeped in—or perhaps it was always there, waiting for someone like Axel to draw it out.

“I won’t,” I promise, another lie to add to my growing collection. “And thank you, Eleanor. For everything.”

She smiles, unaware that this might be our last normal conversation. “See you at the staff meeting tomorrow?”

I nod, forcing a smile until she closes the door behind her.

As Eleanor’s footsteps fade, I pull out my burner phone and text Axel.

Someone is watching. Photos. My mom. Need to move the timeline up.

His response comes instantly.

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