“Who are you?” he asked.
The stranger stared at him as if he could set him ablaze with his eyes. “You’re supposed to get out soon. I’m not going to let that happen.”
Scotty forced a smile. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
The stranger sniffed. “Because you killed my daughter.”
Scotty looked away to hide the ripple of concern he felt running like seismic activity beneath his expression.
Is that where I know this guy from?
It didn’t make sense. The high school slut’s dad was a skinny guy with glasses. An accountant or lawyer or something. Scotty pictured him at the funeral—the funeral he’d attended as her grieving ex-boyfriend. It still gave him shivers of joy remembering all those mourning people, and him, smack in the middle of the crowd, the only person who knew what happened to her.
He closed his eyes and fought his way from his daydream.
Stop it. Pay attention.
This man wasn’t her father.
Are they trying to pin another murder on me?
Scotty returned his attention to his visitor and repeated the phrase he’d said so many times before—at his trial, at his parole review boards...
“I never killed anyone.”
The man pulled a photo from the chest pocket of his linen short-sleeve shirt, slapped it to the table and slid it forward. “You killed that girl. We proved that. But you killed my daughter, too, same as if you pulled the trigger.”
Scotty glanced down at the mugshot of his first cell mate, Jugger.
Wait.
That’s who this is? But if his daughter is dead—
Nothing made any sense.
Jugger had been dead for years. He’d promised to be his right hand, and he’d failed. After Jugger, he’d hired one assassin after another. He’d spent over ten years hunting her, the one who rallied the whores from the Academy to claim rape, the one who pointed the police toward his missing ex-girlfriend. Orchestrating a hit from prison wasn’t easy. Finding Siofra McQueen proved even harder.
Is this her father?
Is the old man saying she’s dead?
Scotty leaned as far back in his chair as he could with his wrists chained to the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The iron-haired man shifted in his chair. He seemed agitated, as if he were straining against invisible bindings. Scotty felt confident those hidden ropes were the only thing keeping the old man from pouncing on him like a tiger.
“I was there. Remember? I put the cuffs on you, you piece of shit. Name’s Mick McQueen.”
Scotty pictured the dark-haired girl in the honky tonk and the man in the booth she’d pretended to struggle against. The man’s image remained fuzzy. He’d only had eyes for Shee.
Mick continued. “You had your ex-cellmate try to kill my daughter. He missed.”
I’m aware.
“He hit my other daughter.”
Laughter exploded from Scotty as if he’d been holding it back since his incarceration, spittle atomizing into a cloud around him. A drop landed on his accuser’s chin and the man’s scowl pinched deeper. He didn’t wipe it away. He just glared.
“You’re kidding?” Scotty glanced at the camera in the corner of the room. “I mean, not that I hired anyone, but that is some shitty luck, my friend.”
A tornado of emotions gyrated inside Scotty. He’d thought for a moment the daughter that should be dead, was. That didn’t fit his new plan. He’d spent the last year thinking about her—not just fantasizing about what he’d like to do to her, but planning. He’d be out soon. He’d hire someone to find her, but he’d be the one to finish her.
He’d be the one to make sure she suffered for ruining his life.
Just a little longer.
It would be a lot easier to get things done right when he was free.
He smiled, anticipating the release of it.
She’d be older now, but he bet she still looked pretty good. He’d work her until she felt his whole damn prison sentence.
Mick McQueen stood, his fists squeezed tight at his sides. His movement snapped Scotty from his thoughts. It looked as though the guy might pounce on him, after all.
The old man ran his tongue over his front teeth. “Look for me at your parole hearing.”
Scotty smirked, but his stomach soured.
Could this guy cause trouble? He knows about Jugger. Does he have proof, though? What else does he know?
This couldn’t happen now. Not when he was so close to getting out.
Scotty lolled in his chair. “That it?”
“That’s it. I just wanted to see your face. Make sure I was right. I am.” Mick moved to the exit. Scotty waited for the sound of the door opening, but it didn’t come. Instead, the man spoke again.
“Hey, Scotty, you like your new spot?”
Scotty twisted in his seat. He’d been recently transferred from Chesapeake to the Jacksonville, Florida brig. He’d wondered why.
“Are you making friends?” asked McQueen.
Scotty scowled. He wasn’t making friends. He’d already narrowly avoided being attacked once and he’d only been there two days.
“No?” the man continued. “That’s too bad. I guess you shouldn’t have raped all those little girls.”
Scotty sat up. “I never—”
A cold sweat beaded across the back of his neck.
Oh no.
That’s what the other inmates had said to him. Something about him and little girls. At the time he thought they’d been referring to the women he’d raped. But now—
McQueen shook his head, somehow looking regretful and giddy at the same time. “Shame how rumors get started. Nobody likes kiddie predators.”
Scotty jerked on his chains. “I’m going to kill you.”
“See you at your parole hearing.” McQueen grinned and knocked on the door to be let out. “If you live that long.”
&&&
Scotty’s eyes fluttered open, the light above him, blinding.
Someone gasped. He turned toward the noise. A dark-skinned
