Page 67 of Imprisoned

My fingers curl around the arms of my chair. The memory of what happened during that session floods my mind—Axel’s hands on my skin. I force myself to focus.

“Mr. Morrison was... present and engaged throughout our session. We discussed his progress and therapeutic goals.” The lie slides smoothly from my lips.

“In your professional opinion, Dr. Matthews, do you believe Morrison could be involved in these murders?”

I take a measured breath. “While Mr. Morrison has a violent history, I’ve observed significant progress in his impulse control and emotional regulation. During our sessions, he’s demonstrated a genuine commitment to addressing his past behaviors.”

Detective Lorenzo’s eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”

“Based on my clinical observations and the fact that he was in session with me at the time, I don’t believe Mr. Morrison was involved in these murders.” I meet his gaze steadily, even as guilt churns in my stomach.

“Do you have notes from your sessions with Morrison?” Detective Roberts asks. “A psychological profile?”

“I can’t offer you that information unless you have a warrant.” My jaw clenches. “I’m sure you must know it’s a HIPPA violation.”

Detective Roberts nods. “Of course.” He slides his hand into his pocket and produces the warrant, which I quickly read. It provides access to all prison records for Axel Morrison.

I reach for the thick manila folder in my desk drawer. Inside are pages of careful observations, analysis, and psychological assessments—all crafted to paint the picture of a violent man struggling toward rehabilitation.

“Here’s my complete profile.” I hand over the folder. “I’ve documented his progress, regression patterns, and behavioral shifts over our sessions.”

Detective Lorenzo flips through the pages, scanning my neat handwriting. The irony of my detailed clinical observations hits me—analyzing Axel’s psychopathy while falling deeper into his web. Every note about his manipulation tactics was written between moments of surrendering to them.

“This is thorough, Dr. Matthews.” Detective Roberts hands the file back. “Please can you make us a copy for our next visit. We will be back tomorrow?”

“Certainly. I’ll make a copy ready for you.”

He nods. “Thank you for your time.”

“Of course.” I stand as they move toward the door. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

The detectives nod and exit, leaving me with the weight of my deception. I sink back into my chair. Those notes represent hours of crafting the perfect cover—documenting therapy that never really happened and progress that was never the goal.

My fingers trace over my desk calendar, hovering over Saturday. There are just a few more days to maintain this facade.

What have I become? Not only was I in the middle of stealing money when they walked in, but I just lied to law enforcement to protect a murderer.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, returning to the banking site. The numbers swim before my eyes as guilt crashes over me. I minimize it again, unable to look at the evidence of my crimes.

Opening my case files, I focus on actual work to settle my nerves. A new document catches my eye—surveillance footagetimestamped from the day of the murders. I click through, noting the guard rotation schedule.

Hall and Kingston were both off their posts during the murders, but their time cards show them clocked in. Following the digital trail, I uncover a pattern—large deposits to their accounts correlating with Marcus Kane’s drug shipments.

More files reveal a web of corruption. Marcus has been buying off guards for months, building his empire within these walls.

“Oh God.”

If Marcus’s crew had this much control that day, they could have easily staged those murders to frame Axel. The corrupt guards would have given them access to any part of the prison.

Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I copy the files to a secure folder. If the wrong people discover I’ve found it, this evidence could get me killed.

I glance at the clock as Martinez leads Axel into my office. The chains clink softly as Axel settles into his usual chair. Despite being in solitary, I managed to convince Eleanor that it was dangerous to leave him there without his sessions, and she agreed. I told her the backward steps he had taken ever since his month-long solitary was due to a lapse in our sessions, even though it was a lie.

“Leave us,” I tell Martinez.

He smirks, tapping his pocket over what I know is likely Axel’s latest payment before stepping out.

“I found something.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Marcus has been buying off guards—Thompson, Martinez, others. There’s a paper trail of deposits matching his drug shipments. Those murders? They had access to do it, to frame you.”

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