Page 11 of Guess Again
“What do you say, E?” Pete asked. “It’s a good offer.”
Ethan looked down at the Callie Jones file and was about to speak when his phone chimed with a text message. He knew from the ringtone that it was the hospital. He pulled his phone from the breast pocket of his scrubs, read the text, and then looked at Mark Jones.
“There’s an emergency at the hospital. I’ve got to get back.”
“Well,” Pete said, “you’re certainly a man in high demand.”
Ethan looked at the governor again. “Can I think about your offer, sir?”
“Of course. Take the file,” Mark said. “Read through it while you make your decision.”
Ethan stood up and lifted the file from the table.
“I’ll just get a hold of . . . ?”
“Call me,” Pete said. “It’s been a while, but my number hasn’t changed.”
PART II
Machinations
CHAPTER 10
Milwaukee, Wisconsin Saturday, July 5, 2025
ELTONJOHN’S“GOODBYEYELLOWBRICKROAD”DRONED FROM THEspeakers as the woman stepped out of the shower. The song was on repeat, and she’d lost track of how many times it had played that morning.
Water dripped from her body as she stared into the bathroom mirror and hummed along. Tall and toned, she had a sharp angle to her jaw that gave off a masculine vibe. Counterbalancing the severe jawline were high cheekbones that curled under her eyes and climbed her temples like dual Nike swoosh logos. Long, yellow-blond hair functioned as the perfect complement to her brilliant blue eyes. All of which was about to change.
She opened the package of jet-black hair dye, squeezing the colorant cream into the developer bottle and shaking it like she were mixing a cocktail, singing along to Elton John as she worked. She placed the nozzle to her scalp and began applying the dye to her hair, amazed at how quickly it erased the yellow blond and transformed it to black. When her hair was properly saturated, she lathered it for ten minutes.
After an additional application she climbed back into the shower. The excess dye spiraled down the drain, taking, at least temporarily, her old self with it. When she stepped from the stall and looked into the mirror this time, it was as if another woman had taken her place. For the final step of her makeover she opened a blister pack of colored contact lenses. The radiant blue iris of each eye morphed into a dark brown caramel. Her eyes became a mystical companion to the jet-black hair and completed the transformation, which was startling.
She continued to stare into the mirror, with her naked body dripping from the second shower of the day. She smiled widely to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth. When she spoke, her voice was shaky and nearly orgasmic.
“Oh, Eugenia, don’t you look gorgeous!”
A tear sprouted from her newly caramel-colored eye and ran down her cheek.
“He’s going to love you.”
Oh, I’ve finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick road.
CHAPTER 11
Boscobel, Wisconsin Sunday, July 6, 2025
THEWISCONSINSECUREPROGRAMFACILITY, ONE OFWISCONSIN’Shighest security prisons, was quiet as the clock ticked toward midnight. Francis Bernard lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His cell had no bars. Instead, there was a thick, impenetrable door with a small rectangular window and a slot through which his meals were delivered. This was life in solitary confinement at the WSPF. It was miserable. It was brutal. And for most, it was inescapable. But Francis Bernard believed he had found a way out.
Francis had been an exemplary inmate, and his good behavior earned him luxuries other prisoners could not dream of. Included in the spiffs was an old Howard Fast paperback with a ratty cover and crumbling spine. Despite the book’s decrepit appearance, the words on the pages worked just fine and helped pass the time. The other extravagance was newspapers that allowed Francis to keep track of the world outside the prison. The books came as a reward for good behavior. The newspapers had to be earned.
He lay awake because he was after something specific on this night. He needed to know if the story was true. If his plan had any chance of working, it had to be. In fact, his entire life and existence depended on it. When he heard the locking mechanism on his cell door disengage, he sat up in high alert. The door opened and Mr. Monroe appeared in the doorway. Andre Monroe was the head guard at the WSPF and was a no-nonsense man who enforced the rules of the prison with brutal authority. To cross Monroe meant to bring a world of pain that no prisoner wanted and only a few could withstand.
At the sight of Monroe in the doorframe, Francis knew he was in trouble. The deal he had made was with Craig Norton, a lower-level guard. But somehow, Monroe had sniffed out the arrangement. Francis took a deep breath to prepare for the punishment—typically a stern beating from Monroe’s baton.
Francis nodded. “Mr. Monroe.”
“Francis,” Monroe said in a careful, almost jovial voice. “How are we on this pleasant evening?”
