appearances, she could have been a fiberglass mannequin, modeling the latest in prison attire.
“Watch this,” Victor said, a mischievous little smile on his bearded face.
He stabbed a button. There was a static pop and then—
SQWEEEEEEEEEEEEE
—a hideous siren filled the room, the sound from coming from a speaker directly above the cells. Even inside this control room it was loud enough to burst eardrums. Out there, Hardie thought, it must be unbearable.
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“I SAID, DID YOU SEE THAT?”
Hardie shook his head; Victor killed the siren.
“She didn’t even twitch,” Victor said. “It’s like she zones out of this place entirely. Sometimes we think she’s playing dead—and of course, one of us has to go in there to check on her. Creepy, isn’t it?”
Hardie watched the woman, who was utterly still. Not even a strand of her raven-black hair moved; everything was perfectly arranged, and she was somehow at peace with her surroundings.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Victor said. “She’s been trying to screw her way out of this place for months now. When her mask is off she gives you these eyes—and for a minute, you’ll be thinking, wow, maybe I should just forget this job and go for it, right? Give her a go, who’s to know? Well, let me tell ya, brother—I hear that’s how we lost one of your predecessors. It wasn’t pretty.”
“What’s she in for?”
“What?”
Hardie asked, “What did she do?”
“What does it matter?”
He wondered what her face looked like under the mask. Strangely, he found himself picturing his ex, Kendra, under the mask. His curiosity was soon satisfied as Whiskey and Yankee ordered her through the same drill as the others. Back against the bars, head kept still while they unlocked the mask. She slipped it off and turned around to face the guards.
Prisoner Two was absolutely gorgeous.
Prisoner Two was not in her cell.
Instead, she was sitting in a beautiful, lush suburban garden on the warmest day of spring.
Back in college, her philosophy professor had invited the entire class—seventeen freshmen—to his own backyard for a Friday afternoon barbecue. The professor and his wife lived in a beautiful little California oasis, complete with a koi pond and perfectly manicured hedges and stone gardens. At one point the entire class had gathered in the professor’s living room for dessert, but the woman now known as Prisoner Two had lingered in the yard for a short time. Not more than a few moments, nowhere as long as a minute. But enough time to permanently record the scene in her memory; she traveled back there now and relished every detail. The smell of the grass. The harsh, smoky scent of charcoal as it hung in the air. The late-spring sun on her forearms. The memory of a shy smile from a boy in her class, and the warm feeling in her stomach. The knowledge that the weekend was ahead of her, and she could do whatever she wanted. She was eighteen years old and healthy and people told her she was beautiful and had yet to experience all the good things that could happen to her.
Barking commands jarred her back to cold reality.
They were here to photograph her again.
She took a deep breath and held it, trying to clear her mind. It was time for her little game. She both looked forward to it and dreaded it. The mechanics were simple—a matter of conjuring the right memory. But the aftereffect was painful.
When they removed her mask, Prisoner Two broke out into the world’s silliest grin, like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Boys had always told her she had a beautiful smile.
And the trick to smiling like she meant it was traveling back in time two decades, back to when she was a teenager and truly didn’t have a care in the world, and she’d sit out in the backyard sipping screwdrivers while listening to her drunk friends crack crude jokes. She transported herself back there and smiled, almost feeling the slight
“Watch this,” Victor said, a mischievous little smile on his bearded face.
He stabbed a button. There was a static pop and then—
SQWEEEEEEEEEEEEE
—a hideous siren filled the room, the sound from coming from a speaker directly above the cells. Even inside this control room it was loud enough to burst eardrums. Out there, Hardie thought, it must be unbearable.
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“I SAID, DID YOU SEE THAT?”
Hardie shook his head; Victor killed the siren.
“She didn’t even twitch,” Victor said. “It’s like she zones out of this place entirely. Sometimes we think she’s playing dead—and of course, one of us has to go in there to check on her. Creepy, isn’t it?”
Hardie watched the woman, who was utterly still. Not even a strand of her raven-black hair moved; everything was perfectly arranged, and she was somehow at peace with her surroundings.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Victor said. “She’s been trying to screw her way out of this place for months now. When her mask is off she gives you these eyes—and for a minute, you’ll be thinking, wow, maybe I should just forget this job and go for it, right? Give her a go, who’s to know? Well, let me tell ya, brother—I hear that’s how we lost one of your predecessors. It wasn’t pretty.”
“What’s she in for?”
“What?”
Hardie asked, “What did she do?”
“What does it matter?”
He wondered what her face looked like under the mask. Strangely, he found himself picturing his ex, Kendra, under the mask. His curiosity was soon satisfied as Whiskey and Yankee ordered her through the same drill as the others. Back against the bars, head kept still while they unlocked the mask. She slipped it off and turned around to face the guards.
Prisoner Two was absolutely gorgeous.
Prisoner Two was not in her cell.
Instead, she was sitting in a beautiful, lush suburban garden on the warmest day of spring.
Back in college, her philosophy professor had invited the entire class—seventeen freshmen—to his own backyard for a Friday afternoon barbecue. The professor and his wife lived in a beautiful little California oasis, complete with a koi pond and perfectly manicured hedges and stone gardens. At one point the entire class had gathered in the professor’s living room for dessert, but the woman now known as Prisoner Two had lingered in the yard for a short time. Not more than a few moments, nowhere as long as a minute. But enough time to permanently record the scene in her memory; she traveled back there now and relished every detail. The smell of the grass. The harsh, smoky scent of charcoal as it hung in the air. The late-spring sun on her forearms. The memory of a shy smile from a boy in her class, and the warm feeling in her stomach. The knowledge that the weekend was ahead of her, and she could do whatever she wanted. She was eighteen years old and healthy and people told her she was beautiful and had yet to experience all the good things that could happen to her.
Barking commands jarred her back to cold reality.
They were here to photograph her again.
She took a deep breath and held it, trying to clear her mind. It was time for her little game. She both looked forward to it and dreaded it. The mechanics were simple—a matter of conjuring the right memory. But the aftereffect was painful.
When they removed her mask, Prisoner Two broke out into the world’s silliest grin, like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Boys had always told her she had a beautiful smile.
And the trick to smiling like she meant it was traveling back in time two decades, back to when she was a teenager and truly didn’t have a care in the world, and she’d sit out in the backyard sipping screwdrivers while listening to her drunk friends crack crude jokes. She transported herself back there and smiled, almost feeling the slight
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