before she got up and walked quietly over to the door, pushing in the small round button on
the knob until she heard the lock engage. It wouldn’t keep him out if he was determined to get in, but it might buy her a
little time if necessary.
She walked back over to the bed, shaking the blanket out of its folds and pulling it over her. She didn’t sleep under covers—they
made her feel trapped.
She turned off the light and lay back, staring up at the ceiling, running through all her options in her head. It didn’t take
long for her to conclude that she didn’t have any.
Chapter Six
Devon Malley lay on the cot in his cell. It had been two decades since he’d spent real time in jail, but the rhythms came
back to him quickly. In some ways, they’d never left him. There was a certain comfort to it all. There were few decisions
to make in jail. They told you when to get up, when to eat, when to shower, when to shit. If you knew how to protect yourself,
it was a simple existence. The trick was keeping your sanity.
Prison was the safest place for him now. He wasn’t one of those saps who couldn’t survive on the outside—he valued his freedom.
But the streets held dangers over which he had no control. In jail, he could keep his back to the wall and his mouth shut.
That would be enough to keep him alive. In the meantime, he had Finn on the outside, looking into things for him. It would
only be a few days, and then he’d know for sure what he was facing. He could handle the jail time until then.
The only thing he missed from the outside was Sally. When her mother had brought her to his apartment over a year ago, Devon
nearly panicked. He couldn’t imagine living his lifestyle with a kid hanging around. He’d hated the idea. But after a while,
he came to see that she was smart and tough—everything he would have hoped for her to be. He took pride in that; pride in
her. Were it not for the fact that he missed her now, jail would be a breeze. Still, he knew he had no choice. It was better
for her, too.
As he lay there, the sounds of the jail filled his ears. Those around him rustled in their cages. Some slept soundly, snoring
or talking through their dreams. Others were grunting openly as they relieved their sexual frustrations. There was no etiquette
about that in jail—men did what they had to do. He didn’t mind. The only sound that haunted him was the crying. There was
always one, a first-timer usually, new to the system. Sometimes it was on their first night; other times they managed to hold
themselves together until after there was a trial and a verdict—or a plea bargain that sealed the fate just as tightly—and
all hope was destroyed. Then the fear and the pain seeped out in low sobs. It made Devon’s skin crawl. The criers would be
taught a lesson the next day; the other prisoners would see to that. For now, though, the dismal sound had to be endured.
Devon did everything he could to block it out. He hummed softly to himself, he focused on the ceiling, he thought about the
women he’d slept with in the past. Nothing worked. The sobbing cut through everything else. It wasn’t until he lost himself
in memory that it disappeared.
Devon got the call in February, in the dead of winter, years before. It was Murphy. “We’ve got a job for you, Devon,” he said.
“What sort of a job?” Devon asked.
“Your sort. Meet me at the Body Shop tomorrow morning at ten.” Devon asked no more questions. Murphy wasn’t the type to be
questioned. Devon showed up the next morning fifteen minutes early.
There were four of them in the room, not including himself. Devon had worked for Murphy and Ballick before. They were sitting
on chairs against the wall. The third he’d never seen before: a thin man with jet-black hair and dark, angry eyes sitting
in front of Murphy’s desk. At the desk on that day was a fit man in his early sixties with silver-white hair pulled
the knob until she heard the lock engage. It wouldn’t keep him out if he was determined to get in, but it might buy her a
little time if necessary.
She walked back over to the bed, shaking the blanket out of its folds and pulling it over her. She didn’t sleep under covers—they
made her feel trapped.
She turned off the light and lay back, staring up at the ceiling, running through all her options in her head. It didn’t take
long for her to conclude that she didn’t have any.
Chapter Six
Devon Malley lay on the cot in his cell. It had been two decades since he’d spent real time in jail, but the rhythms came
back to him quickly. In some ways, they’d never left him. There was a certain comfort to it all. There were few decisions
to make in jail. They told you when to get up, when to eat, when to shower, when to shit. If you knew how to protect yourself,
it was a simple existence. The trick was keeping your sanity.
Prison was the safest place for him now. He wasn’t one of those saps who couldn’t survive on the outside—he valued his freedom.
But the streets held dangers over which he had no control. In jail, he could keep his back to the wall and his mouth shut.
That would be enough to keep him alive. In the meantime, he had Finn on the outside, looking into things for him. It would
only be a few days, and then he’d know for sure what he was facing. He could handle the jail time until then.
The only thing he missed from the outside was Sally. When her mother had brought her to his apartment over a year ago, Devon
nearly panicked. He couldn’t imagine living his lifestyle with a kid hanging around. He’d hated the idea. But after a while,
he came to see that she was smart and tough—everything he would have hoped for her to be. He took pride in that; pride in
her. Were it not for the fact that he missed her now, jail would be a breeze. Still, he knew he had no choice. It was better
for her, too.
As he lay there, the sounds of the jail filled his ears. Those around him rustled in their cages. Some slept soundly, snoring
or talking through their dreams. Others were grunting openly as they relieved their sexual frustrations. There was no etiquette
about that in jail—men did what they had to do. He didn’t mind. The only sound that haunted him was the crying. There was
always one, a first-timer usually, new to the system. Sometimes it was on their first night; other times they managed to hold
themselves together until after there was a trial and a verdict—or a plea bargain that sealed the fate just as tightly—and
all hope was destroyed. Then the fear and the pain seeped out in low sobs. It made Devon’s skin crawl. The criers would be
taught a lesson the next day; the other prisoners would see to that. For now, though, the dismal sound had to be endured.
Devon did everything he could to block it out. He hummed softly to himself, he focused on the ceiling, he thought about the
women he’d slept with in the past. Nothing worked. The sobbing cut through everything else. It wasn’t until he lost himself
in memory that it disappeared.
Devon got the call in February, in the dead of winter, years before. It was Murphy. “We’ve got a job for you, Devon,” he said.
“What sort of a job?” Devon asked.
“Your sort. Meet me at the Body Shop tomorrow morning at ten.” Devon asked no more questions. Murphy wasn’t the type to be
questioned. Devon showed up the next morning fifteen minutes early.
There were four of them in the room, not including himself. Devon had worked for Murphy and Ballick before. They were sitting
on chairs against the wall. The third he’d never seen before: a thin man with jet-black hair and dark, angry eyes sitting
in front of Murphy’s desk. At the desk on that day was a fit man in his early sixties with silver-white hair pulled
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