Page 7 of Faith Among Monsters

I know immediately who he means.

I swallow hard and nod, my mouth suddenly dry.

At the end of the hall, a door stands open.

The tension I’ve felt since stepping off the ferry tightens into something sharper, heavier. My stomach twists as I realize this is it, my first impression on the man I’ve been sent to take down.

The warden.

Sinclair’s office is everything I expect and nothing like it at the same time. The space is large but feels cramped, like it’s suffocating under its own weight. The massive desk dominates the room, its surface cluttered with neatly stacked papers, ledgers, and folders. A phone sits at the edge, cord twisted andknotted, while an ashtray on the corner holds a smoldering cigar. The thick, acrid scent hangs in the air, clinging to my lungs with every breath.

But it’s the man behind the desk who holds my attention.

Sinclair rises as we step in, his presence filling the room as easily as Dax’s had on the dock. He’s clean-cut and clean-shaven, his salt-and-pepper buzz cut giving him an air of precision and control. Steel-gray eyes bore into me, cool and assessing, as if he’s already cataloged every weakness I have in the span of a single glance.

“Take her things to the staff wing,” Sinclair says to Dax, his tone brisk and commanding. “She’ll find her way there when we’re done.”

The staff wing. There’s something off about the way the words linger in the air.

I clutch the strap of my purse tighter, unsure why the gesture feels necessary. My fingers dig into the leather as I turn to Dax, handing him the small bag that’s still in my grasp.

He takes it without a word, the muscles in his arm flexing briefly as he adjusts the weight of the other bags he’s already carrying. His gaze flicks to mine, brief, unreadable, and then he steps back, leaving me with Sinclair.

The door shuts behind him, and the silence that follows is suffocating.

For a moment, Sinclair doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just watches me like a predator waiting to see how its prey will react.

I lift my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze.I’ve faced worse than this. I’ve stared murderers in the eye and walked away untouched.

But there’s something about Sinclair.

His calm. His precision. His complete lack of emotion.

I came here to find the monster in charge of this place. I think I just did.

Chapter Four

Faith

“Sit,” he says, his tone clipped.

I do, lowering myself into the chair across from him. The leather creaks faintly under my weight. He remains standing for a moment, the silence stretching between us as he studies me. His gaze is sharp, clinical, like he’s dissecting me piece by piece.

Finally, he eases into his chair, leaning back as his hands tent in front of him on the desk.

Does he not realize I’m a therapist? I know exactly what he’s doing. Letting the silence hang, waiting for me to fill it. It’s a power move.

I hold his gaze, my spine straight, ignoring the urge to fidget. As I do, Dax’s low warning echoes in my mind.Don’t challenge him.

But I’m not here to cower. I’m here to evaluate the program’s recidivism rates, nothing more, nothing less. At least, that’s all Sinclair needs to know.

He picks up his cigar, rolling it between his fingers before taking a slow, deliberate draw.

Or does he know I’m more than a threat to his funding?

The smoke curls lazily in the air between us, the acrid scent clinging to the back of my throat. He exhales slowly, his lips twisting into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Faith,” he says, stripping me of my title.

Games.

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