Page 6 of On Your Life

Conner lifted everyday. Slept with a gun within arm’s reach. He was a machine and not someone that people fucked with. I figured he’d finally mouthed off to the wrong person. His endless flirting knew no limits even when it came to married women. To say it got him into a lot of trouble would be an understatement but he always found a way out of it. Until he didn’t.

I expected some pissed off husband finally caught up to him. That he’d finally met his match and didn’t win against some hot-headed bastard with nothing to lose. Not a girl that couldn’t be more than a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.

A girl who is now sitting in this prison. The same prison that Conner and I have worked at for the last ten years.

Every person in this briefing is visibly angry. Pens click repeatedly beneath the tables, boots bounce impatiently off the concrete floor, someone behind me keeps cracking their knuckles every few seconds—the tension is palpable.

No one is looking at anyone else. Every pair of eyes is locked on the image projected onto the wall.

My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. Her booking photo is displayed at the front of the room. She looks so afraid.

Her dark hair is still pinned into the neat bun she wore to court. Everything about her posture is controlled but the eyes don’t lie, they never do.

Big, glassy doe eyes stare into the camera like a deer frozen in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the highway.

I wonder what she was thinking in that moment. Disappointment maybe, that she was finally convicted of the crime she thought she had gotten away with.

Or maybe reality finally struck that she was about to be locked in a cell for the rest of her pitiful life. Either way, seeing the fear in her eyes brings me a surprising amount of satisfaction.

“I understand that this is a sensitive topic,” the warden says. He acts like he’s addressing strangers instead of the people who spent the last decade working beside Conner. “But we still have a job to do.”

Bullshit.

“If you feel like you can’t handle B pod at this time, let me or your supervisors know and we’ll have you relocated,” he continues.

His face reddens as the words leave his mouth, like he knows how ridiculous he sounds. He hardly leaves his office unless someone important is around, but today he decided we deserved a speech. The room erupts.

“I’m not working B pod.”

“If she says one thing about him, I’m putting her in solitary.”

“Fucking bitch.”

Everyone has something to say. Captain Chaney whistles loud enough to make my ears ring but nobody listens. The murmurs turn into shouting. Fists pound against the tables and chairs scrape across the floor.

“Quiet down!” the captain barks.

Silence settles over the room but it’s fragile. One wrong word and it’ll shatter all over again. The edge of the table digs into my palms. My knuckles have turned white from squeezing the edges.

The nerve of these people. The blatant disrespect. Not just to Conner, but to every one of us who has to walk these halls and know she’s breathing the same air we are while he is currently under six feet of earth.

They should have thrown her in solitary the second she got here. Hell, they should have handled her themselves instead of expecting us to protect her. I don’t trust myself to speak because I already know what I’d say.

I’m going to fucking kill her. And I'm going to love every second of it.

***

Rage is the only thing fueling my body. I don’t remember walking from briefing to B pod. One second I’m staring at the projector and the next I’m scanning my badge at the control door.

The heavy steel door buzzes before the badge reader lights up green and grants me entry. The only good thing about the warden is that he doesn’t know us. We used to bitch about it because he collected a fat paycheck while sitting behind a desk all day. Now it works in my favor.

When I volunteered to work B pod the entire room went silent. Captain Chaney asked me three different times if I was sure. I had to make up some bullshit excuse like trying to “heal” and “seeking forgiveness” because it’s what Conner would have wanted.

It’s the last thing that he would have fucking wanted. He would’ve wanted me to burn this prison to the ground and use her as kindling. To make sure everyone remembered who the fuck he was and make that cunt’s life a living hell.

That’s exactly what I’m going to do. The counter digs into my palm, my grip tightens to the point of pain on the fragile plastic device. The door slams shut behind me with a thunderous bang. Every woman in the pod looks up.

“Count!” the dayshift officer shouts.