Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

The settling-in process here had been way different than the other place. Mostly because she'd had to endure a cavity search in a cold, gray, concrete room lacking any signs of humanity. Yes, it was prison, but there were few things more degrading in life than bending over and showing two strangers your privates.

At least there's clean water. Her cell had a cleanish sink and toilet, too. Also different was that there were two bunks, and one cellmate read law books. A thick stack of them sat on the windowsill next to a pile of old gossip magazines.

"Where is everyone?" Emily asked the guard who'd escorted her to the cell after giving her a new set of orange clothes, toilet paper, and a small bag of toiletries. The slide-on tennis shoes were white, cheap, and uncomfortable, but they were new, so no complaints. After leaving Ed, she'd survived on Dollar Store snacks and could only afford thrift-store clearance items.

"They're all at work," said the guard. "Laundry room."

"Will I get a job?" Emily asked.

The woman laughed. "You won't last that long, stick girl."

Stick girl. Nice , she thought sarcastically, though it was better than narco chum or fertilizer in waiting.

Emily stored her stuff in a little cubby by the window and made her bed. One sheet. One scratchy gray blanket. Both nicer than the supermax. She slid into bed, hoping to take a minute to calm her nerves. The last thing she wanted was to come off as easy pickings.

Two minutes in, a woman with neck tats depicting bloody knives walked in, climbed the creaking bunk, and plopped down above her. Not one word. Though, her eyes had been loud and clear: "Come near me, piss me off, I'll shank your ass."

Fine by me. I'm not in a talking mood either. Emily closed her eyes.

A few minutes later, a small party of three popped by from the Bible team to welcome her, aka "Join us if you want to live," followed by the white power ladies. Scary as hell. Emily just nodded and said nothing.

She was just about to ask herself if the real troublemakers would show up when they did. Four or five different gangs passed by her open cell to size her up. No doubt for a shakedown later on.

"Fresh meat must get them excited," she muttered to herself.

"Who the fuck are you?" said a small brunette, stopping in the doorway. She had short hair and full sleeves of quotes in cursive.

Emily looked up from her bunk. "No one."

"You wanna play it that way, huh?"

Emily looked away. Better to not engage.

The woman strutted in, grabbed a law book from the sill, and plopped down on the lower bunk across from Emily. "Look, girl. Talk. Don't talk. Don't care. But if you wanna keep that blood inside your body, I suggest you start making friends."

"Friends can't help. Not when the guards are going to get me first." Or the cartel members once they realize who I am.

"Watchoodo?" she asked.

Emily shrugged. "They say I killed two guards in the supermax."

"Did you?"

"Just one. He tried to rape me. Took him out with a pen."

The woman laughed. "Girl, you're a fucking hero."

"No. Just a survivor."

"Yeah, well, you're right about one thing, the guards won't let you live long after that, but they ain't gonna get their hands dirty. They'll just pay someone here to do it."

"So how many packs of ramen is my life worth?" That was what they supposedly used as currency in these places, right?

"Five. Maybe six."

"I'm worth less than a gas station burrito. Good to know," Emily said.

"Look, I ain't saying I can help, because at the end of the day, we're all on our own here, but I can buy you some time."

"How much time?" Emily asked.

"A day or two," the woman replied. "You got money?"

Emily nodded. "A little. But I can't get to it right away. I need my friend to access it and—"

"How much you got?"

The woman across from Emily might be smiling, but she knew she was being preyed on. "My husband was a corrupt FBI agent. Trafficked women. He got caught, but that means our assets were frozen. He hid a few thousand in a safety-deposit box," she lied. "But what good is money here?"

"I get out in a week. And my girls here, well, they could use some commissary funds. Yanno?"

Ah. "Well, if you can keep me alive for a few weeks, I'll have my friend deposit the money wherever you like."

"Two days."

"What?" Emily asked.

"A few thousand will buy you two days."

Now the teeth were out. "I don't run my friend's schedule. He'll get here when he does, so it's not like—"

"Two days. He gets me two large, or we'll be the ones taking you out for the guards."

Emily swallowed. She could mention that she had no way of getting a hold of Charge, but it wouldn't make a difference.

"We got a deal?" the woman asked.

Emily nodded.

"Good. My name is Lita, by the way. That one is Knives." She pointed to the bunk over Emily.

Knives. Who would've guessed? "I go by Emily. What about the other cellmate?" Her eyes moved to the bed above Lita.

"Oh. She dead. Stabbed yesterday. Welcome to puta -fucking hell, Emily."

***

Food. Yes, God. Food. Emily had never been so happy to see canned string beans, soggy mac-n-cheese, and a browning apple slice in her entire life. It hadn't even bothered her when Lita took her orange Jell-O, another payment installment for keeping Emily alive for forty-eight hours. As long as she had something to eat and clean water, it was better than the last place.

During dinner, Emily was introduced to Lita's other "friends," who all worked in laundry and were in for murder, attempted murder, or kidnapping. As they ate and talked shit about the other inmates, Emily felt all eyes in the cafeteria on her, including the guards'.

"Why's everyone staring?" Emily asked Lita.

"You're a legend, girl. We get a lot of cop killers here, but a guard killer, too?" She slapped Emily on the shoulder. "You royalty, man."

Emily tried not to react, keeping her eyes glued to her tray in the noisy mess hall. She hadn't killed a cop, and if she had, she wouldn't feel proud. Not even if the officer had been a corrupt rapist like Hellman. Bottom line, killing wasn't glamorous or fun. It was dark and savage. It left a permanent mark on a person's soul, even if the world was a better place with one less violent asshole in it.

This was the reason she respected Charge. He'd come to grips with his place in the world, whereas she would never get used to taking a life, no matter what. That didn't mean she wouldn't do it, but it was the truth. Killing wasn't fun.

Lita leaned in. "Just remember, girl. Tick tock. Money talks."

Emily finished off her last bite of apple. "Just waiting for the bank to show up." That was, if Charge was still alive. It was possible he might not be. In which case, she was screwed. Emotionally and physically. All this time to reflect was making her see that her attachment to Charge wasn't just about survival. After all, there was that confession he'd made right after she'd saved him from Dearheart. Did he mean it?

Emily pushed away the thought like she'd done a thousand times. Did her no good to think about it when her energy had to go to surviving. Not into hit men.