Today I’m supposed to remove the stitches from Shane Nelson’s forehead.

I tossed and turned all night thinking about it. I dreamed of being back in that farmhouse. In my dream, the necklace was tightening around my throat and the smell of sandalwood filled my nostrils. Then I heard a crack of thunder, and some other noise in the background I couldn’t make out, and then…

I was awake.

After the third time I woke up in a cold sweat, I gave up on sleep. I got up and made myself a cup of coffee. That was at four in the morning, and now I’m running on empty. Actually, it’s a good thing. If I am exhausted, I’ll be less panicked when Shane shows up.

At around two in the afternoon, Officer Hunt leads Shane down the long hallway to the waiting area outside the examining room. He takes a seat, his wrists and ankles shackled once again, waiting his turn after the two other men in front of him. Of course, after I spot Shane sitting out there, I can’t think straight anymore. I have to keep asking the inmates to repeat what they just said five seconds earlier.

When it’s Shane’s turn to see me, Hunt grabs him by the arm and yanks him out of his seat. Shane needs a little help to stand, given his arms and legs are restrained, but Hunt is a lot rougher than he needs to be. And what’s up with the shackles each time? I thought before it was because he had been in a fight, but now he’s still cuffed.

Do they really think he’s that dangerous? The only other guy I’ve seen in the last few days who was shackled like this had an angry sneer and hate symbols tattooed all over his face.

But what am I saying? Of course Shane is dangerous. I know that better than anyone.

But he doesn’t look dangerous as he shuffles into my examining room and struggles to climb up on the table, a pained expression on his face. When he slips, he apologizes to me. “Sorry I’m so slow. It’s just hard to do anything chained up like this.”

You deserve it. The words are on my lips but I don’t say them. It would be unprofessional. Instead, I mutter, “Let’s get this done.”

He is struggling to find his balance on the exam table, and once again, I have to put out a hand to help him. He flashes me a grateful smile, and it looks so much like the old Shane, my cheeks burn, and I have to look away.

“Thanks, Brooke,” he says. “I appreciate it.” “Uh-huh,” I mumble.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

I watch him attempt to scratch his nose with his hands shackled together. Finally, I ask the question that’s been running through my head since last week: “Why do they do this to you?”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “Do what?”

I nod down at the cuffs on his wrists. “Practically none of the other men get shackled this way. And I assume they’re all just as bad as you here.”

He cracks a lopsided smile. “Oh, I’m the worst.” I stare at him.

“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” His fingertips dig into the khaki of his prison jumpsuit. “That I’m a monster? That I deserve all this?”

His brown eyes hold mine, and this time I refuse to look away. “Fine— don’t answer the question. That’s your right.”

I expected some nasty retort from Shane, but instead, his shoulders sag. He nods his head toward the closed door separating us from the guard. “You want to know why I’ve always got shackles on? It’s because he hates me.”

“Who?”

“Hunt. He hates my guts.” “But why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Who the hell knows? Maybe I remind him of somebody. Sometimes people just don’t like each other. But it sucks if you’re a prisoner and the guy who doesn’t like you is one of the

correctional officers. Makes your whole life a living hell. I mean, he has the power to make things really bad for me.”

I hope he does. I consider saying those words, but what’s the point? There was a time when I would have wanted to spit it in his face, but the years have taken some of the fight out of me. After all, Shane is in prison. He’s serving his time for the terrible things he did. Everything that happened is in the past.

I wanted Shane to suffer after what he did, and I got my wish. He’s stuck here, day in, day out, at the mercy of a bunch of guards who think he’s the scum of the earth. Getting beat up, and he can’t even do anything about it or else it will be worse next time. Sleeping in a cell every night.

His life is hell.

“So how have you been?” Shane asks me as I peel open the suture removal kit.

“Fine.” Do not engage in conversation with this man.

“Do you like working here?”

“Yes.” It’s the truth. Even though I’m still a little scared of the prisoners, and I miss my heels, I find it to be rewarding work. And I want Shane to know that his presence here doesn’t intimidate me. “The inmates are nice.”

“Yeah. To you.”

I get as close to Shane as I dare. It’s not my first choice, but you have to get close and personal when you’re removing stitches. “They’re not nice to you?”

“Do you see the stitches on my head?”

I grab the first stitch with the forceps and snip it free. “I thought you walked into a fence.”

“Yeah, well.”

I snap the second stitch. “You know, my son got bullied a lot last year.

It was really hard. The other kids even gave him a black eye.”

Shane blinks up at me. “They gave him a black eye in preschool?”

For a second, I am lost for words. I don’t know why I told him any of that. Five minutes ago, I swore to myself I wasn’t going to share any more personal information with this man. Especially not about my son.

Our son.

What would Shane say if he knew the truth? If he knew that a few weeks after that awful night, I started throwing up in the toilet. I had hoped it was a stomach bug, but when it didn’t get better, I caved and bought a pregnancy test. And when I saw the two blue lines on the test strip, my entire world shattered into pieces.

I had to tell my parents. They leaned on me hard to get an abortion, but I wouldn’t do it. But one thing we all agreed on was that Shane could never know. We carefully picked out the outfit I wore to Shane’s trial so that nobody would see my growing baby bump. And after the trial was over, I left Raker and didn’t return.

Until now.

Shane is looking at me curiously. I need to say something to fix this.

So I smile and shrug. “Kids are tougher than they used to be.” “Guess so.”

I snip the next few stitches in silence. When I lean over him to get out the last one, I notice his gaze lowering. I glance down to see where he’s looking and…

Oh God.

My shirt is hanging open just enough to give him a fantastic view of my cleavage. And boy, is he taking advantage. I clear my throat loudly.

Shane rips his gaze away from my boobs. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

He’s not the first prisoner to look at me that way, although he is the first to apologize. “Don’t ever let it happen again,” I say sharply.

“It’s just…” He scratches his neck which is turning red. “There aren’t a lot of, uh, you know, women here. And I don’t ever…”

The last stitch comes free and I straighten up. I realize what he is saying. He’ll never be with another woman again. Ever. For the rest of his life.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again. “That was incredibly rude, and… I should have controlled myself.”

No, he should have controlled himself eleven years ago. If he had, he might not be here right now. I ignore his second apology as I run one of my gloved fingers over the laceration. “Looks pretty good. There will be a scar, but hopefully not too bad.”

“I don’t care, but thanks.” He hesitates. “And I’m sorry about what I said last time. About that night…”

I put my hands on my hips. “So you admit what you did.”

“No, I didn’t kill anyone. But I understand you don’t want to hear that you got it wrong.”

He is so full of it. He’s not apologizing for the sake of apologizing. He’s apologizing because he wants to talk about it more. I remember the word Elise underlined in his chart:

Manipulative.

“I was there, Shane.” I toss the tray with the stitches in the garbage, and I put the scissors and the forceps in the sharps container. “I know what happened.”

“Obviously not. You said yourself you couldn’t see anything.”

I remove my gloves with a loud snap. “So if you didn’t do it, who did?”

“You know who it was, Brooke.” I shake my head.

“It was Reese.” His eyes are like saucers, now that he has my attention. “It had to be. He’s the only one who—”

This isn’t the first time he has accused Tim. That was the crux of his defense all those years ago. But he couldn’t convince a jury, and he sure won’t convince me now. Does he think I’m stupid?

“Shane, stop it,” I growl.

“No, please, Brooke. You have to believe that I—” “Stop it!”

At the sound of my raised voice, Officer Hunt bursts into the room, ready for action. He towers over me, and his face is curled into a sneer. He has little semi-circles of sweat under his armpits. “What’s going on here? Is there a problem?”

Shane presses his lips closed. I shake my head. I don’t want Hunt to know about the past Shane and I have together. “No, everything is fine.”

Hunt narrows his eyes at Shane. “Are you done here?” “Yes, all done,” I say tightly. “Take him away.”

Hunt nods briskly. “Great, let’s go.”

I see what’s going to happen a mile away. Hunt grabs Shane by the arm to get him off the exam table, but because there is a step to get down and his legs are shackled, he can’t keep his balance. He goes toppling off

the table and clocks his head on the side of my desk with a sickening thump.

I leap into action, bending down next to Shane, who is now on the floor. He groans, his eyes cracked open, but he’s woozy and there’s an egg rising just below his hairline.

This happened once on the football field during practice. I had been on the sidelines with my friend Chelsea when Shane got taken down by a brutal tackle. Just like now, there was a sickening crack as his body made contact with the ground. I raced across the field to make sure he was okay, my heart thudding in my chest. I was so scared he had been badly hurt, and I still remember the rush of relief as I slid my hand into his, and his eyes fluttered open as he squeezed my hand. It was the first time I realized I was falling for Shane Nelson.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap at Hunt.

Hunt doesn’t even look the slightest bit perturbed that he just gave one of the prisoners a concussion. “Relax. It was an accident.”

I look at Shane’s face—his eyelids flutter the way they did all those years ago when he got knocked out on the football field. “Shane, are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he mutters.

“Nelson is tough,” Hunt speaks up. “He’ll be fine.”

Just when I think this situation can’t get any more uncomfortable, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. A second later, Dorothy peeks her head in. She is still wearing those half-moon glasses, and she peers at us over the rim, somewhat accusingly.

“What’s all this commotion?” she demands to know.

Shane is struggling to sit up, but he’s having a hard time of it, between the knock on the head and the shackles. I straighten up to look Dorothy in the eyes. “Officer Hunt caused Mr. Nelson here to fall, and as a result, he had a significant head strike. He definitely has a concussion. I’d like to admit him to one of the beds in the infirmary for observation tonight.”

For the first time, Hunt looks like he cares about what just happened. “Dorothy, that is absolutely not true. I was just assisting the inmate to his feet, and he tripped. It was entirely unintentional.”

Dorothy’s shrewd blue eyes look Hunt up and down, then rake over the rest of the room, taking in the entire situation. I hold my breath—this

woman is not known for advocating for the prisoners.

“Marcus,” she says sharply. “Why on earth is Nelson shackled for medical appointments? He’s not a risk.”

“I believe he is,” Hunt says. “Based on what?” she retorts.

He doesn’t have an answer for that, which is a bit of a relief. Dorothy folds her thick arms across her chest and scowls at both of us, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.

“Marcus, I want you to take those shackles off the inmate immediately,” she snaps. “Brooke, admit him to the infirmary overnight. Can you both handle this, or do I need to babysit?”

Hunt and I exchange looks. Judging by his expression, he wants to knock me onto the floor right next to Shane. Lucky for me, I’m not a prisoner at Raker Penitentiary.

“We’ll take care of it,” he grunts. “Good.”

I help Shane sit up, and Hunt gets the key out to unlock the shackles on his wrists and ankles. Hunt hesitates for a split second before doing it, casting a glance back in my direction. I watch him fit the key into the lock, and my fingers fly to my neck. The last time I was alone with Shane, he tried to strangle me. All of a sudden, I’m not so excited for his hands to be free.

But nothing happens. When the cuffs are off, all Shane does is rub his wrists, looking relieved to finally be free. He doesn’t try to choke me. He doesn’t even try to get off the floor right away. He looks like he’s barely hanging on to consciousness.

“Can you walk?” I ask him.

He rubs his head. “I think so. I’m just dizzy.”

Hunt helps me walk Shane down the hallway to the infirmary, and we get him settled in a bed. The bump on his head is swelling up, and he has to stop twice on the way to the infirmary because he’s too dizzy to go on. It makes me think about the night someone tried to kill me. That night, Shane got a knock on the head the same as he did today—the EMTs on the scene found the lump on his skull to prove it. He claims he was knocked unconscious before anything even happened to me.

And for the first time in ten years, part of me wonders if he might have been telling the truth.

‌But he can’t be telling the truth. Because if he is, the man who tried to strangle me all those years ago is still out there.‌