Page 8 of Faith Among Monsters

“I’ll do my best to make you comfortable while you’re with us,” he says, his voice smooth, polished, like each word hasbeen rehearsed. “The staff wing has everything you’ll need. Your room, a chow hall, showers.”

The last word lingers in the air, hanging heavy with the smoke.

I don’t react, though my fingers tighten on the strap of my purse where it rests in my lap.

“Will the computers…” I begin.

“I’ve already pulled the necessary documents for the inmates you’ll have access to,” he cuts in, his tone brisk.

Files? Paper copies?I press my lips together, forcing myself to stay calm. For now. “It was my understanding that I would have unfettered access to speak with the inmates.”

His smile sharpens, turning predatory. “With the exception of those in solitary, they’re free to speak with you. If they choose.”

He flicks his cigar, the ash dropping neatly into the tray beside him.

My jaw tightens. He’s not just playing games. He’s already trying to control the limits of my investigation.

“Did you pull the incident reports for…” I begin, keeping my tone measured.

“I’ve pulled the documents you need to conduct your work,” Sinclair interrupts smoothly, not bothering to look up from the cigar he’s rolling between his fingers.

Speak when spoken to. Got it, asshole.I keep my expression neutral, refusing to let him see the irritation creeping up my spine. “For Peter Cranston,” I press.

This time, his gaze flicks up briefly, but his face remains unreadable. I watch for any reaction and add, “And Graham Lancaster.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Lancaster was one of mine,” he says finally, his voice flat.

“I’m aware,” I reply, my words careful but firm. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. It’s relevant since it reflects on the behavior of your inmates in this setting.”

There’s a flicker of something in his steel-gray eyes, so brief I almost miss it. Amusement? Annoyance? I can’t tell.

“There is always a danger with violent criminals,” he says, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curls toward the ceiling. “Lancaster was aware of the risks, as is anyone who voluntarily steps off that ferry.”

My pulse stutters. Is that a warning?

“I’d like to review the incident reports at any rate,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “And speak with the guards and inmates who were present at both incidents.”

Sinclair leans forward slightly, just enough to crowd the air between us. “I’ll pull those reports.” His tone is smooth, like he’s granting a favor rather than complying with a professional request.

I tighten my grip on the strap of my purse, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“In the meantime,” he continues. “I’ve included several files for you to review. They’ll explain our rewards programs and detail how these men have built a functioning community.” His lips curl into a small, tight smile. “Self-sustaining.”

And a profitable endeavor for you,I think but don’t say.

“That will be helpful,” I reply instead, my tone flat.

Sinclair doesn’t react. He simply picks up his cigar again, taking another slow draw, his gaze drifting back to his desk like I’ve already been dismissed.

The silence stretches for a beat too long, and the weight of his presence presses down on me, heavy and suffocating.

“The files?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

He gestures to a neat stack on the edge of his desk. “I’m sure you can manage.”

I suppress the urge to bristle as I lean forward to pick them up. The stack isn’t light, but it’s far too small to represent even a fraction of the inmates here, much less the programs I’m supposed to evaluate.

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