Page 155 of Wait for Him

She finishes whatever she's writing, types into her computer and slides everything back.

"Through the door on the right, down the hall, wait at the second checkpoint."

And I'm dismissed.

I'm screaming inside.

Why the fuck did I come here?

Closure?

For what?

My feet keep moving anyway. Down the hall, through the second checkpoint, where I trade my pass for a visitor badge. Another officer opens the door and directs me inside.

I choose a table. Then I wait.

My leg bounces so hard I'm probably shaking the damn thing, but the moment Wesley walks into the room, my entire body stops.

For one breath, I'm right back there.

His eyes move over me, and it doesn't matter that I deliberately wore the largest clothes I own. I can feel that gaze getting underneath them anyway, and suddenly I'm not thirty-nine and sitting in a prison visiting room. I'm that terrified twenty-something woman again, screaming and crying and bleeding while he takes whatever the fuck he wants.

I grip the edge of the chair.

No.

Not today.

"Well. This is unexpected."

His voice is rougher than I remember. He's only been in here a couple of months, but he already looks worse than he did during the trial. Thinner. Older. The expensive polish is gone.

I beg my body to cooperate. My mouth to work. I will not give this man the satisfaction of watching me fall apart in front of him again.

"How are they treating you in here?"

The voice that comes out doesn't sound like mine. I'm too far away from myself again, watching the conversation instead of sitting inside it.

"Is that what you came all this way to ask?"

"Humor me, Wes." I lean forward and rest my forearms on the table. "I've heard stories about how they treat men who harm women in here." I pause. "Have they taken your virginity yet?"

His eyes narrow. His jaw starts ticking while he stares at me in silence.

Interesting.

“I was just kidding around because of the rumors, but damn, I guess that part is true.”

“I never said that. And it’s not fucking true. Get to the point of why you’re here, Rosie.”

"You don't get to call me that," I growl, my palm slamming down on the table hard enough that the crack turns heads and gets the nearby officer's attention.

And just like that, I'm back in my body. My palm stings. My heart is pounding. Wesley Finnegan is sitting across from me in prison clothes, and there are officers twenty feet away.

He can't hurt me.

Not here. Not anymore.