Lance felt the zing of that comment bounce around the room.

He admitted that the case had appeared pretty open-and-shut at the beginning. Originally, even he had thought Nick looked guilty. He’d lost faith in the criminal justice system over the years. Too many criminals walked on hard charges. But maybe this time the system would actually work the way it was intended.

Morgan’s body shifted forward an inch. “Did Chief Horner tell you about the accusations against Dean Voss last year? And that he was on the yearbook committee with Tessa?”

She never raised her voice, but her posture and tone had become commanding in a way he hadn’t expected. She slid into the offensive in a perfectly ladylike fashion. It was like watching Perry Mason disguised as Donna Reed. Lance imagined she often took opposing counsel by surprise.

“I’ll have the test expedited.” The DA’s eyes went flat. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Morgan’s direct attack either. “Be careful, Ms. Dane. You’re stirring up more than a few hornets’ nests. You’re bound to get stung.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Jail, day 5

Nick retrieved an evening chow tray from the cart. As he turned, Shorty gestured to him. Nick walked over, and Shorty motioned to the empty spot on the bench next to him. “You can eat here if you want.”

No one had bothered him much since his beating two days ago. Nick had added staying far away from cell doorways to his growing list of habits. He’d also spotted other blind spots and avoided them as well.

Nick sat down, hoping no one would attack him in full view of the surveillance cameras.

“I’m not that hungry. You want an extra biscuit?” Shorty asked.

Nick hesitated. Trying to analyze the subtext was giving him a headache. If he took the biscuit, did he owe Shorty something in return? If he didn’t take the offer, would Shorty be offended?

If there was one thing he’d learned since he’d arrived here, it was that jail operated on a system of respect. The worst thing a man could do was show disrespect to another. Every man had a place on the hierarchy, a spot he’d earned. Insults, even perceived ones, threatened that established pecking order.

Chaos resulted.

Plus, Nick figured if he stuck with honesty, he wouldn’t have to remember what he’d said. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t help but wonder why you’re making it. If I accept it, does that leave me with any obligation?”

Shorty tossed the biscuit onto Nick’s tray. “You’re a smart kid. We trade food all the time, but this is a one-time peace offering.”

Spurning the biscuit would be offensive and signal that Nick held a grudge. Had the beatdown been a test?

“In that case, I accept,” Nick said. The meatloaf tasted like cardboard, but hunger drove him to eat every bite. At home, he would have bypassed the soggy green beans, but today Nick ate every scrap of food on his plate.

The two guys on the opposite side of the table joked between themselves. They didn’t give Nick a second look. He realized that he was no longer being eyeballed. Had he passed whatever test he’d been put through?

They finished eating, shoveling their food with the concentration of the perpetually hungry.

Shorty lowered his voice. “Do you have your PIN yet?”

Nick shook his head. He was still waiting to be issued his prisoner personal identification number, which he would need to do everything from make phone calls to purchase items at the commissary.

“That sucks,” Shorty said. “We’re making a spread tonight. I could spot you.”

A spread was a meal the inmates put together with food they’d purchased from the commissary like tuna, ramen, coffee, and candy. Nick had watched them have one the first night he’d been here.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather wait until I can contribute. I don’t want to mooch.” Nick had already seen one man smacked around for welshing on a debt.

Shorty nodded. “Next time.”

Nick wandered to the chess players and watched two games. Neither of the players was very good. Nick could have wiped the board with either of them, but he thought that wouldn’t be the best idea. Still unsure about his status, he remained a silent observer, limiting his involvement to a low-key congrats to the winner.

A Spanish soap opera played on the TV on the wall. He had no idea who had the remote, if anyone.

Even after Shorty’s olive branch and his seeming acceptance among most of the inmates, the hair on the back of Nick’s neck still bristled. He would never be able to let his guard down. The constant state of vigilance wore on his nerves. Did all the men in this place feel the same? The Man didn’t appear to be nervous. Was that an act? Sure, he was the size of an armored truck, and he had a group of like-sized buddies, but the AB was outnumbered six to one. Plus, there were several other gangs that looked equally deadly. The brothers with the BLOODS tattoos weren’t fucking Boy Scouts.

The truth hit Nick with shocking clarity.

They have nothing to lose.

The Man had said he was being charged with manslaughter, and he was a repeat offender. Once his trial was over, was he going to state prison for the rest of his life?

Their lack of fear wasn’t due to a lower threat level, but indifference.

Nick’s breaths tightened. His palms began to sweat. What would happen if he was found guilty? He’d go to state prison for a minimum of twenty-five years. Best case scenario: he’d be forty-five years old before he could get out.

Worst case: he’d get life without parole and never see the outside again. He’d spend the rest of his life in a concrete cage. He’d listened to the experienced prisoners talk about the state prison, about living in a four-by-eight with one hour of yard time a day.

His vision dimmed as this real possibility swept over him. Hopelessness was a thousand pounds sitting in the center of his chest. It pressured his lungs and cut off his air until he choked.

Stop it!

“You OK, man?” Shorty asked.

“Yeah. I’m cool.” Nick beat a fist on his chest and coughed. “Just need a drink of water.”

He got up and walked to the water fountain, beating back the impending panic attack. How could he even feel sorry for himself when he was alive and Tessa was dead? He pictured her face, her smile, her eyes.

Then the photo the cops had shown him of her dead body.

Slipping in when he was vulnerable, grief swamped him. He missed her so much it hurt, and knowing he’d never see her again made him feel like he’d been stabbed in the heart too.

He held onto the vision of Tessa, dead, and let his fury build. In here, anger was a much more useful and acceptable emotion. Anger made him appear strong.

She’d broken up with him, but Nick just knew she hadn’t wanted to. The way she’d cried didn’t make sense otherwise. If breaking up made her miserable, why did she do it? Just days before they’d been really happy together.

The more he thought about it, the less it made sense, and the more his chest ached.

If he ever found the man who’d killed her . . .

He leaned over the water fountain and drank. Cool liquid slid down his throat but did nothing to chill the hot swirl of emotions in his belly.

In the far corner of the space, a dozen inmates were working out. With no exercise equipment, they were creative about it. A pair took turns sitting on a bunk while the other bench-pressed him. Another guy sat on his partner’s shoulders while he did push-ups. But Nick didn’t trust anyone enough to buddy-up, and he prayed he wasn’t here long enough to develop any tight bonds. Some of these men had been here a long time.

He turned back toward the chessboard. Two new players had started a fresh game. Watching seemed the safest option. Nick headed back across the room. He stepped aside as an inmate exited a row between tables. The man passed close. Too close, Nick realized, but it was too late to get out of the way.

The man’s shoulder bumped Nick’s, and the rest played out in slow motion. A quick twist of the orange-clad body. The sharp sting of a blade sliding into Nick’s belly. A second and third hot slice of agony as the man punched the weapon into Nick’s gut again and again. The instinctive response to cover the wounds, to keep his insides from gushing out. The hot rush of blood between his fingers.