Page 10 of The Heir
"The fuck was that?" I whisper.
"He's one of the good ones," she hisses back. "Hehatesit here. So do I. We help each other out."
Well, fuck me. Stacy strikes again. The guard has that boy-next-door look to him, which means I never really gave him a second thought. They all blend together with menacing faces and disinterest in human rights. But maybe… maybe this guy is different? I lose myself in thought while picking up cards, putting them down, and for the first time? Losing Go Fish to Stacy.
"Holy shit, I won? Oh, you owe me hot chips and deodorant—maybe a haircut?" Stacy babbles happily as she scoops up the cards again.
"Yeah, sounds good," I mumble. Dante has always said that the Consortium has a hand in nearly everything. Maybe that guard is involved? Maybe he's their man on the inside. Maybe he'll happily get me out.Wow, I really owe Stacy aton. Way more than some hot chips.
Truth be told, I'd be lost without her in here. She knows the way everything works. She knows who to trust. I'd be willing to bet she knows every blind spot, every nook and cranny of this godforsaken jail where I could stow away in the night. Maybe I'll miss my flight—or bus or whatever they use to transport people—and take Stacy with me. She could use a break. I'd be more than happy to give it to her.
"What's his name?" I interrupt Stacy as she lists all the things she wants.
"Huh? Who?"
"That guard. The one you said… stuff. About." I tip my head towards the cell bars.
"Hands off, girly. You're married, if I need to remind you." She shuffles the cards again and again. Cardstock on cardstock is a really grating sound, now that I think about it. And now it'sallI can think about.Fwip fwip fwip. Fuck. It echoes around my ears and strums my taut nerves like the world's worst banjo.
"His name's Dylan," she says as she puts the cards down. Thank fuck. "He absolutely hates Steve."
"Steve?" I ask, reaching for the cards.
"My ex? C'mon, girl. Are you feeling okay?" She rests the back of her hand on my forehead.
"I don't know. Maybe. It all just… it all feels so real, you know? I'mconvicted. I'msentenced. And I'll be extradited to Illinois." I chew on my lip and taste the coppery sting. I'd kill for a lip balm.
"Yep. Sucks, doesn't it?" Stacy shrugs and looks at the clock on the wall. "Oh, look at that. My lawyer should be here soon."
"Cool," I mumble, half-listening. I stare a hole into the cinderblock of our cell. I'm still staring at the wall when the guards get her and take her out to the visiting area. I think she says something to me, but I don't quite hear it. My lip is a bloodied mess by the time her guard friend pops by.
"Hey. You doing okay?" He cocks his head to the side. "You, uh, you need a tissue?"
"Huh?" I shake my head and focus on the man. "Oh, shit. I'm fine. Thanks."
"Listen, Crawford—I mean, Lyons. Sorry. It's rough in here, you know? But you just have to find the light. You can do that, yeah?" He smiles. It's… disarming. It feelsgenuine. "I'm Dylan, by the way."
"Dylan…." I murmur. "Dylan. Nice to meet you."
"Great to meet you, Lyons." He huffs out a breath and peeks at his watch. "Mind if I sit? I've got a few minutes before I need to get back on patrol."
Numbly, I gesture to Stacy's empty bunk. "Hey, do you know anything about my transport?"
"Oh, yeah, I volunteered for that. It's always nice to get out and about, right?" Dylan cocks a half-smile. "Nervous? Don't worry. We'll take good care of you, okay?"
"Thank you," I breathe out a whisper. "It's all just… so much."
"Hey, hey. I know. It's a big adjustment. But think about it like this, right? A bus is just a liminal space. It's not a destination. It can be very healing to reflect and meditate during the journey. You'll knock 'em out of the park in Chicago. Think about it, huh?" He leans over and pats me gently on the shoulder. "I gotta get going. Just… think about it."
I nod and smile as Dylan resumes his patrol. This could really work—itwillwork. I'll get out. I'll get away. I'll get my husband back, my life back, my friends—a tear rolls a salty path down my cheek at the thought, soaking into the threadbare pillowcase. I miss Helena so much. I miss Dante even more. And god, I miss the little life that we made together.
Of course, I only knew about it for a week—if that, really. But it wasmine. It wasours. As I drift off to sleep, images of a little boy with my eyes and Dante's soft, black hair trickle into my mind. We could have had a son. But Ella took it all away. And I swear to god, I'll kill her for it.
Dante
Tonight's the night. With that seductive wink on my mind, I've been working myself to the bone. Her sentencing was only a few weeks ago, and her transport to Illinois istonight. I've gathered intel on every single employee of that fucking jail. I've convinced Roman's team to hack into their scheduling system, their medical records, absolutely everything I could find to getme back to Melody.
On the surveillance system, I've watched her spend hours with her cellmate. Laughing, playing games, wiling away the hours, the weeks. She spits out three pills twice a day, flushing them down the cell toilet. Good. She doesn't need them. She's not psychotic. And hell, if she needs medication for anxiety and depression? That's fine. I'll get her the best care money can buy. I'll work through her triggers with her.
