The next morning, before I start my clinic, I make a trip to the infirmary to check on Shane.

While I’m walking down another long hallway of flickering lights, a voice from behind me calls out my name. I pause and turn around in time to see Marcus Hunt sprinting down the hallway in my direction.

Great. What now?

I hope he doesn’t start harassing me for dates. I can’t deal with that on top of everything else. One thing I can say for sure though is that I’m going to start carrying my pepper spray in my hand instead of leaving it in my purse while I walk out to my car. One good spritz of that stuff and he’ll know to leave me alone.

“Brooke.” He skids to a stop in front of me. “Hey.”

“Hello.” I avoid his eyes. “What do you need, Officer Hunt?”

He tugs at the collar of his stiff blue correctional officer uniform. “You can call me Marcus.”

I don’t respond to that. “What do you need?”

He grabs a few sheets of paper that he had stuffed into his pants pocket. He hands them to me—they’re filled in with his spidery handwriting. The name on the top sheet of paper is Malcolm Carpenter.

“I know you were trying to get that mattress for Carpenter,” he says. “We got one for somebody a couple of years ago, and I remembered these were the forms that needed to be filled out. I tried to fill in as much as I could for you.”

I look down at the papers in my hands, stunned. I have been struggling to get that mattress for Mr. Carpenter with little success, and Dorothy has been actively trying to keep me from getting it. I even attempted to call Dr. Wittenberg, who is apparently my supervising physician, even though I have never met the man—and I wasn’t able to connect with him either.

“Wow,” I say. “Thanks so much.”

“No problem.” He winks at me. “Hey, we’re on the same team, right?” “Right…” I wait for him to follow up by asking me for drinks again,

but he doesn’t. “Anyway, I better stop in the infirmary. I’ll release Nelson if he looks okay.”

At the mention of Shane’s name, Hunt’s eyes darken. He swivels his head in the direction of the infirmary door, his gaze seething. He hates Shane, and it’s not clear why. According to Dorothy, Shane hasn’t done anything particularly terrible during his time at the prison.

“I’m sorry you have a problem with Shane Nelson,” I say. “But he’s been perfectly fine with me.”

Well, except for trying to kill me that one time. “I’ll just bet he was nice with you,” Hunt grumbles.

“And if I have any concerns about my safety, you’ll be the first to know.” I meet his eyes. “I promise.”

He considers this. “Just be very careful.” “I will.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t think I’m actually going to be careful, and he’s right. Whatever harm Shane tried to bring to me all those years ago, I don’t think he’s going to try anything now, surrounded by guards capable of shooting him if they need to. And the truth is, when I look at him now, it’s hard to imagine he was ever capable of it. Even when we were in the courtroom, when the memory of the air in my windpipe being cut off was still fresh in my head, it was hard to look at Shane and imagine him trying to kill me. He just seemed like Shane—the boy I fell in love with on the football field.

I still can’t wrap my head around what made him do all those terrible things. Split personality? A moment of insanity? But it doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s paying the price.

The infirmary at the Raker Penitentiary is a small unit with six beds, where we can administer basic medical treatments. We can do IV antibiotics, give fluids, and monitor patients who are too sick to be in the general population but not sick enough to be in the hospital. I’ve been stopping there first thing in the morning to do my rounds, then I make another stop before I leave.

Shane is the only prisoner who is currently occupying a bed in the infirmary. He is lying flat on one of the mattresses, his eyes shut, the bruise on his forehead much darker than it was yesterday. Even though Dorothy said yesterday that he didn’t need to be in shackles, he’s got one leg chained to the bedrail.

There’s a fresh-faced young nurse’s aide named Charlene who is sitting at the infirmary desk. I walk over to her and nod toward the beds. “Nelson do okay overnight?”

“Yes, no problems.”

I can’t help but ask: “Why is he shackled to the bedrail?”

Charlene shrugs. “Hunt came in here before he went home yesterday and put the cuffs on him. I don’t know why. He’s mostly just been sleeping. He only woke up for breakfast. I gave him some Tylenol for a headache, and he was really nice. Very polite.”

“Good,” I say.

“He’s cute too, isn’t he?” She giggles, then her face turns red. “I need to get out more, huh?”

“Yeah…”

She looks at the third bed, where Shane looks like he is still asleep. “I wonder what he did to end up here.”

Charlene is young enough that she wouldn’t remember the excitement around Shane’s trial, even if she is from the Raker area. But I’m not going to be the one to clue her in. “I… I don’t know.”

“I used to look them up on Google,” she goes on. “A lot of these guys have done something bad enough that it was in the news. But it was always such a bummer to find out. I’d rather not know.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean.”

I leave Charlene to her paperwork and walk over to the bed where Shane is still asleep. I watch him for a moment, blowing air softly between his slightly parted lips. I had been hoping that my hovering over his bed would wake him up, but it hasn’t. So I reach out and touch his shoulder.

Shane’s eyelids flutter, and he reaches out and rubs them with the balls of his hands. When he takes them away, he blinks up at me. His eyes widen and he sucks in a breath. “Brooke…”

“Shane?” I say.

He blinks again. “Oh, sorry, I… it was just weird waking up and you’re there. It was kind of like, you know, déjà vu a little.”

“Yes, I get it.” I grimace. “How are you feeling?”

He yawns as he uses the button to lift the head of the bed. “Kind of like my head got slammed into a desk.” He offers me a weak smile. “I’m okay. Just a headache.”

“How bad on a scale of one to ten?” “I don’t know. Four maybe. Five?” “Nausea? Dizziness? Confusion?”

“No, I’m okay.” He struggles to adjust his position in bed, thwarted slightly by the cuff holding his right ankle in place. “Just the headache. That’s it.”

I look down at the shackle on his ankle. “I can tell Officer Hunt to take that off.”

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Honestly, I’m used to these things by now. It’s not a big deal. And if you push the issue, he’s just going to hate me more.”

“Fine. If you say so…”

I perform a neuro exam, verifying that there’s nothing concerning that would require me to send Shane out for a scan of his head. He looks fine though, like he said. Just the bruise on his head. Although I notice the way he winces when I shine my penlight in his eyes. He has a worse headache than he’s letting on.

“Do you want anything stronger for that headache?”

He massages his fingers into his temple. “No, it’s fine. I had a Tylenol.

I can manage.”

I have no idea why Elise wrote “drug-seeking” in his chart. The guy is clearly in pain and he doesn’t even want to ask for anything. “You look pretty uncomfortable. I can give you a Fioricet, if you want?”

He nods gratefully. “Okay, sure, I’ll have some of that.” “No problem.”

“Also…” His brown eyes peer up at me. “I promise I won’t bring up that thing we were talking about yesterday ever again.”

My jaw tightens. “Good.”

“I know what you think of me,” he says, “and I know whatever I say to you, you won’t take it seriously…”

“Shane…”

“But there’s just one thing I have to tell you…” His words come out quickly, like he’s afraid I’m going to leave before he finishes, which is a real possibility. “I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t say it…”

“Please don’t do this, Shane…”

“You need to stay away from Reese.” His slightly bloodshot eyes are huge staring up at me. “Just do that for me. Okay?”

“Shane…”

“I don’t care if you think I’m a… a killer,” he chokes out. “Just… you’ve got to stay away from Tim Reese. He’s dangerous. Please, Brooke.” I look into his eyes, and there’s real fear there. A chill goes down my spine. I don’t know how he could think Tim is dangerous. Tim is so obviously not dangerous. I could never believe that about him. Shane has to

be faking it.

He has to be. “Fine,” I say.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He leans back against the bed, his facial features relaxing. “Thank you, Brooke.”

It won’t be the first time I’ve lied to him.