Inside

Wallace had laughed when he saw him do it. He’d said, “They couldn’t have tracked you all the way up here. Not yet.” That had to be why the government wasn’t in any big hurry to take Laurel into custody. They didn’t understand how quickly The Crew might react, how fast they’d go after anyone connected to Virgil, anyone he loved, if they couldn’t reach him.

Virgil never assumed he’d be safe. If he died, there’d be no one to protect his sister. His service to the department was all he had to trade on her behalf. And right now he was damn glad he’d gone to the trouble of using that floss—because it was gone.

Someone had been in his room.

Maybe the management had sent over a maintenance man to fix a leaky faucet or running toilet. Or a maid had checked to make sure he had his full complement of towels. It could be either of those things—but didn’t have to be.

He considered making Wallace aware that there might be trouble. But the associate director’s TV was already blaring. He didn’t carry a gun and was probably worthless in a fight. And Simeon didn’t want him to know he had a weapon.

Setting his bag of groceries on the ground, he clutched the steak knife he’d stolen from the restaurant in his left hand. Fortunately, he was ambidextrous enough that he often fought with his left just to throw his opponent, who was more often right-handed, off balance. It wasn’t much, especially if he was facing two or three people, but today his experience and prison tactics were all he had.

Fully expecting a bullet to come whizzing out from the interior, he ducked as he threw open the door. But nothing happened. When the door merely shut, he didn’t know what to think. Especially because that floss hadn’t just slipped to the ground; whoever had gone into his room had tracked it inside. In the split second the door had swung wide, he’d spotted it lying on the carpet.

Not only that, the light was on, even though Virgil had turned it off.

He couldn’t imagine a maid would be that sloppy. But a maintenance man? Maybe.

Propping the door open with his groceries so he could get out fast if he had to, he crept inside. If someone was waiting for him, he couldn’t see who. Or where. The chair was tucked under the desk. There was no space under the beds. And only a very skinny man would be able to conceal himself in such a tiny closet. The door of that closet stood open, anyway, from when he’d taken out the ironing board.

Whoever it was had to be in the bathroom.

Pressing his back to the wall so his reflection wouldn’t be visible in the mirror, he listened for movement and heard…nothing. Then, just as he was about to step inside, he caught a slight rustling.

The shower curtain…

His intruder was in the tub.

Peyton’s chest seized the second Virgil threw back the shower curtain and hauled her toward him. She twisted her ankle struggling to stay on her feet despite her high heels, but the scream that built in her throat never escaped. He had her on the carpet outside the bathroom with a knife to her throat so fast she could barely whimper.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” he growled, pinning her beneath him.

Snippets of the many nightmares she’d had since starting work in corrections flashed through her mind as she stared helplessly up at him. He’d just been released from ADX Florence, could be as dangerous as anyone at Pelican Bay. She halfway expected him to slit her throat, but he cursed and threw the knife to one side instead.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” he asked again, only this time, in many ways, it was a different question. There wasn’t an edge of menace in his voice anymore. He was irritated and angry, yes, but she no longer felt that her life was in danger. He got up and backed toward the wall, but once he realized she didn’t have the strength to stand, he came forward again and offered to help her.

Shaking too badly to reach up, Peyton waved him off. She doubted she could put any weight on her ankle even if she could get to her feet. “I was…” She managed to shove herself into a sitting position and almost finished with, I was sure you were going to kill me. That was all she could think, over and over, as if she’d hit her head instead of her shin when he’d dragged her from the tub. But why repeat the obvious?

In an effort to make sure she didn’t, she closed her eyes and kept her mouth shut, too.

“Um, don’t freak out, but…you’ve got a little cut,” he said.

Peyton wiped the moisture from her neck and stared down at the red on her fingertips—blood. “Who are you?” she whispered. “Who are you really?”

He didn’t answer. He went to get a washcloth, then bent down next to her so he could press it against her injury.

The scent of his aftershave filled her nostrils, much stronger now that he was so close. And the beauty of his eyes was even more riveting. “Why are you in Crescent City?” she asked, taking the washcloth so he could let go.

He went into the bathroom and came out holding the letter she’d tried to retrieve.

“If you’ve read my mail, you know.”

Propping herself against the wall for support, she tried to decipher what was going on. “Virgil Skinner? That’s your real name?”

He walked over and pulled the groceries inside so the door could close. “Yes.”

As she’d guessed. “Are you…on parole?”

“Sort of,” he admitted.

Sort of wasn’t enough. “After sixteen years in corrections, I’ve never heard of anyone being ‘sort of’ on parole.”

“I was exonerated in my stepfather’s killing.”

Take another deep breath. “But…they have something else on you.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“What I did on the inside.”

Oh, hell… “Are we talking murder?”

When he didn’t respond, she knew she’d guessed correctly and the thought of that made her queasy. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Bitterness oozed through those three small words, but he didn’t attempt to justify or explain his actions. He acted as if it would be futile to even try, that she wouldn’t believe him no matter what.

He was seasoned, all right.

Pulling the washcloth away, she studied the size of the red streak to determine how badly she’d been cut. Her injury wasn’t life-threatening, but it stung. “How long were you really in?”

He guided the cloth back to her neck. “Fourteen years.”

A lot more than six…. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

Four years younger than she was. “That means you went in when you were…eighteen.”

“Like I told you before.”

“So it wasn’t all lies.”

“Not all of it.”

He’d spent nearly half his life in prison. The tragedy of that didn’t escape her. Neither did the fact that he’d gone in as an innocent young man, wrongly accused, and been shaped into a killer. How was that for proof that the penal system wasn’t working?

Her skirt had bunched up around her thighs. She smoothed it down, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Why did Wallace say you worked for Department 6?”

“He used them on another investigation, and he knew they were mostly retired military with some trained civilians. He figured it would make a believable background. I certainly don’t look like a regular cop.”

“No.” She had to clear her throat to boost the volume of her voice. “But…I still don’t understand. Why all the lies?”

His thigh muscles contracted as he crouched in front of her. He had so much physical strength—but that wasn’t the only thing that made him intimidating. Anger, determination, even resentment, rolled off him like sweat.