My composure broke.
I reached over the center console and took her hand in mine.
Her fingers interlaced with mine, and she gave me a squeeze. I was scared she would push my hand away, but instead, she tucked it onto her lap. Her breath eased, in turn making it easier for me to focus on the road, not just the brave woman sitting beside me.
"Are you ready?" I ask her once I've parked the SUV in the prison’s parking lot.
She blinks rapidly, each movement making her eyes clearer. "Yup," is all she says as she hops out of the car, pulling her messenger bag behind her.
My hand finds the small of her back as we walk toward the administrative office. Again, I'm surprised when Mila doesn't push me away. She leans into the touch again. No doubt seeking whatever comfort she can.
It's hard not letting my mind run away with itself. Even under these messed-up circumstances. I shouldn't want to have my hands all over her. I shouldn't be looking to catch her eye.
Mila isn't mine to worry about.
She's a colleague. One who is going through something pretty intense at the moment.
I can lie to myself and say that I'm simply trying to do the right thing and be there for her, but I know there is something else going on deep inside of me.
My entire being responds to her. I try to tuck away the glow of my attraction to her as we're led into Carlyle Winthrop's office. The warden of the human jail is a mole shifter, and at the time of Markov’s sentencing, it was decided that having a shifter jailer would be enough to tend to Markov's need for specialized incarceration.
Carlyle's workspace is sparsely decorated, and only a few framed diplomas line the walls. He's been the warden for nearly twenty years, but it's clear he has spent very little time making his office feel like his own.
I can't help but wonder if it's because he is too busy or if it's because he spends very little time at work. It's an unfair judgment. One I'm making based solely on the fact that Sveta escaped.
"Agent Thrussell, Miss Starling," the large man says by way of greeting.
I want to correct him and tell him that he should address Mila as agent or doctor, but think better of it when she doesn't intervene. It dawns on me then that Carlyle knows her because he knows Mila as Miss Starling. As Sveta's daughter. Not a respected forensic anthropologist. Not a FUC agent.
"Where should we start?" Carlyle asks.
“Let's get to Markov’s cell,” I say. “Maybe we'll get lucky and find the next step of their plan."
The long walk to Sveta's cell takes entirely too long.
It doesn't help that we already know what we will find there. The pictures one of my team leaders sent me were enough to have the hair on the back of my neck raised in apprehension. I let my hand go to Mila's back again, hoping she doesn't mind that I offer her comfort in front of Carlyle. Her shoulders do slump a tiny bit. And I can only hope it's because she knows that she isn't alone in this. That I'm right here with her, ready to offer whatever support she needs from me.
"Here we are," Carlyle says, pointing to one of the cells. "This is where she bunks when she isn't in solitary.”
“Whoa,” is all I can think to say when we walk into the cell.
There isn't an inch of the walls that isn't plastered with drawings of DNA strands, mathematical calculations, and pages upon pages of notes that don't seem to have a beginning or an end.
Instinctively, my eyes go to Mila to see how she is faring with the scene before us. Her arms are crossed, and she is staring daggers at Carlyle.
"Your mother has been quite ill recently,” Carlyle says by way of explanation for the state of the cell. “It's been going on for weeks now," he adds, taking care to look saddened by his own words.
"She was fine when I came two months ago," Mila responds, narrowing her blue eyes slightly.
"Yes, well, around that time, she started being more erratic. She spent quite a bit of time in solitary. More so than usual."
"How often does she get sent to solitary?" I hear myself asking.
"More than the others. She makes the other prisoners uncomfortable. There's also the fact that they love to poke fun at her. They know just what to do to get a rise out of her. They call her the Bloody Doctor, and a fight breaks out. Every time, without fail. It's easier for everyone if she's kept from the general population sometimes. Especially when she is agitated. And as I said, she's been ill. She was hallucinating a few days before she escaped."
"What?" Mila, who is pale to begin with, goes even paler. Her face goes ashen, her hands trembling. "Hallucinating?" she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper. "She was seeing things?”
"I'm afraid so," the warden confirms.
It's on the tip of my tongue to say something, but the look in Mila's eyes stops me. I could swear that her blue eyes go black as she squares her shoulders.
"Why wasn't a psychiatrist called to look her over?" It's a demand for a real answer, one that makes a hell of a lot of sense. “Between hallucinations and the state of this room, it’s pretty clear she needed help.”
Carlyle shakes his head. "This cell is nothing compared to those of some of our more… creative inmates. And as you know, your mother was thoroughly evaluated by multiple psychiatrists when she was on trial."
"It's been over a decade. She should have been reevaluated."
"Oh?" Snark drips from Carlyle's tone. "You don't think I wanted that? The system is flooded
