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“Fine. Save your own ass,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect more from you.” She’d never spoken to him like that before. The words had tumbled out before she could stop them.

He bristled just as she expected. “Welcome to the real world. You want to work in corrections you’ll have stand on the front lines like the rest of us.” As if
he’d
ever been on the front lines. The son of a congressman, he’d gotten a leg up thanks to friends of Daddy’s; he’d never actually worked in a prison. “I have no problem with that,” she said. “Fischer put me in charge of this, anyway.”

There was a slight pause as he digested what she’d told him, but he didn’t respond to it. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he said, and then he was gone.

I
t was going to be a long night. After spending a couple of hours at the water’s edge, where he’d eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while staring out to sea, Virgil returned to his motel room and settled in with the TV on and Peyton’s files at hand. He figured he’d study until he was too tired to continue and, eventually, he might be able to sleep. He knew how to survive an endless night. He’d endured plenty of them in prison. Until he’d managed to establish himself in the pecking order, he’d been so terrified he’d scarcely dared close his eyes. Only by refusing to back down, even if he was getting his ass kicked, had he earned any respect.

If he could adapt to that environment, he could adapt to anything, couldn’t he? One would think so. But all the coping skills he’d developed wouldn’t transfer to this latest challenge. Getting out had filled him with too much hope. Hope that he’d be able to break the grip The Crew had on him. Hope that he could forget the past decade and a half and live a normal life. Hope that his sister would be safe, that she could raise her children in peace.

And that wasn’t all he wanted. Not since meeting Peyton Adams. She’d entered his mind so many times
since she’d dropped him off, it made him angry with himself and with her. All through dinner, such as it was, he’d been thinking about how soft her skin had looked—especially when she had her hair slicked back and was wearing that no-nonsense business suit—how tempting he found the curves beneath her tight-fitting sweater and those faded blue jeans, and how much he admired her basic decency. She wasn’t like the other wardens and C.O.s he’d met. Some of them were good people, too. Eddie Glover had made a world of difference for him at Florence. But Peyton had a certain sensibility no one else possessed….

He craved more—of her time, her attention,
her
—but he knew that wouldn’t be wise for either of them.

How had he let her get under his skin so quickly?

Maybe that wasn’t
too
odd. Even Wallace found her attractive. He’d mentioned how pretty she was before they’d met her at the library, had joked about wanting to get in her pants. He’d obviously thought talking so crudely was the best way to relate to an ex-con, but Virgil hadn’t been impressed.

The phone rang.

Hoping it was his sister, or Wallace calling with an update, he grabbed the handset. “Hello?”

“Is Hal Geribaldi there?”

“Who?”

“Hal.”

Virgil racked his brain, trying to figure out if he recognized the voice. He didn’t, but that brought little relief. “How did you get this number?”

“Isn’t this the Redwood Inn? Room fourteen?”

“No.”

“Sorry, man.”

Virgil disconnected, then sat staring at the phone.
Was it really a wrong number? Or had someone used it to confirm that he was in the room?

He pictured the caller standing next to Pointblank Thompson, a man who’d gotten his nickname by shooting a cop at close range, or Pretty Boy McCready, who’d gotten the name from his good looks. Imagined this stranger, whoever he was, holding the phone so they could hear his voice. Imagined Pretty Boy, a former cell mate, nodding once to signify that they’d found him. And wondered if someone from The Crew would be knocking on his door.

Were they coming for him? Already?

It was possible. He’d been out five days and hadn’t made contact. They had to assume trouble, had to have started searching; they’d grown nervous way back when his exoneration was only a possibility. That was when they’d begun tailing Laurel, just in case he decided to break away. They were afraid a “lifeboat,” as they called an exoneration, might lure him into a legal life. They were also afraid of what he knew and what he’d tell.

But they didn’t need to worry about what he’d say. So far Virgil had refused to snitch on anyone. He understood all the arguments for ratting out those he’d once considered friends. Because of their criminal activities, he’d be doing society a favor, et cetera. He didn’t care. The authorities would have to find someone else to inform on The Crew. Although his former brothers would do their damnedest to take him out, his personal code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to turn traitor.

He’d soon be providing intel on the Hells Fury, but he didn’t view that in the same light. He hadn’t made them any promises. Perhaps the distinction was a bit blurry, but as crazy as his rationale sometimes sounded, even to him, this was the only way he could save Laurel, get
out of The Crew and be able to live with himself when it was all over.

If The Crew hurt Laurel, however, he’d forget about the delicate balance he was trying to achieve. Redemption wouldn’t matter. Starting over wouldn’t matter. His future wouldn’t matter. He’d scrap all his good intentions and make their destruction his final mission.

His life had been a tug-of-war from the beginning, hadn’t it? Thanks to his mother and uncle. Maybe he was never meant to escape what they’d done. Maybe, in the end, he’d become what other people had, for all these years, believed him to be. And maybe his actions would lead him straight back to prison, if he didn’t get killed along the way. But at least if he went to prison a second time, he’d deserve to be locked up.

Climbing off the bed, he went to his duffel bag, pulled a slip of paper from the zippered pouch on one side and studied the phone number scrawled across it. Pretty Boy’s number since he’d gotten out of prison. Virgil was tempted to call him, to tell him that as long as Laurel was okay he wouldn’t nark on anyone. He could get Pretty Boy to buy it. But even if Pretty Boy managed to convince Horse and Shady, the man who was really calling the shots, the gang couldn’t allow him to disrespect them by walking off unscathed.

Just in case they were scrambling and hadn’t yet decided how to react to his sudden disappearance, Virgil dared not call. Doing so might make them move on Laurel more quickly than they otherwise would. He wanted to give Wallace as much time as possible to get her to a safe place.

With a sigh, he tossed the number on the desk and stepped over to the window, where he held the drapes so he could peer out.

Fog made it difficult to see the parking lot, but a car idled in front of the lobby, its headlights boring holes in the mist. That car seemed suspect. But everything seemed suspect. He’d been living without trust for too long, had lost the ability to feel safe.

The phone rang again. Still leery, he stood to one side of the window as he answered. “’Lo?”

“Virgil?”

It was Peyton. Letting go of his breath, he sank onto the bed. “Yes?”

“You okay?”

He pictured that car, wondered if he had any reason to worry. “Fine, why?”

“I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“You were trying to wake me up?”

“Since we’ve become friends, I knew you wouldn’t care.”

She was teasing, and now that she was at a safe distance, he welcomed the distraction. It relieved the tension inside him and gave him a chance to reassure himself that The Crew wasn’t outside waiting. “Am I to assume you regret your earlier decision?” he asked.

“What earlier decision?”

“To take me back to the motel?”

“That was
your
decision. I would’ve been happy to feed you.”

“I was more interested in dessert.”

She ignored that comment. “I just spoke to Wallace.”

His hand tightened on the phone. “Is Laurel okay?”

“He was getting on a plane and didn’t mention Laurel. Should he have?”

“He’s supposed to be taking care of her.”

“Then that’s where he’s going. Trust me, he doesn’t want to screw up. He has big plans for his future.”

The comments Wallace had made about Peyton rose in his mind again.
Wait till you see her. She is
so
hot. What I wouldn’t give for a piece of that.
“In more ways than one.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t like Wallace?”

“Not particularly.” He got up to check the window, saw the same car sitting in the parking lot. Surely it didn’t take more than a few minutes to rent a room…. “Why not?”

“A lot of reasons. But I don’t care who or what he is as long as he keeps his word. He
will
keep his word, won’t he?”

She hesitated. “He…should.”

“You don’t sound too certain.”

“I can’t promise what’s out of my control, Virgil.”

“That’s one of the reasons you’re worried about this operation, isn’t it? You know they don’t expect me to come out of it alive.” No response.

“It’s a pretty smart plan, really. If I get killed, they won’t have to pay me the money they owe me. Easy way to save a large sum without risking one of their own people.”

“I’m positive that’s not true. No one’s thinking any such thing. And even if they are, you’ll get the money.”

In other words, he’d live to see the day. He could tell she planned to ensure it. But he wasn’t convinced she’d be able to make much of a difference. What went down in prison tended to happen very fast and not right
under the nose of the warden or the chief deputy warden, either.

But he didn’t say that. It felt good to have someone on his side. Somehow, he believed Peyton cared about his well-being, that she was sincere even though it would serve her better to look out for her own interests.

“I told Wallace, by the way,” she said.

“Told him what?”

“That I’m aware of who you really are.”

He checked the window again. Car still there. “Why’d you do that?”

“I wanted more information.”

“On…?”

“You.”

“Did you get it?”

“I think so.”

“And now you know all my darkest secrets.”

“I know the basics.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because I initially said I’d keep it to myself. But I felt it was only fair to inform you that I’d changed my mind.”

Footsteps sounded outside on the walkway—the footsteps of more than one person, moving fast. “We’ll have to talk later,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” She’d heard the tension in his voice, but he didn’t explain. There was no time. Dropping the phone, he grabbed the knife he’d stolen from the restaurant. A steak knife wouldn’t offer much protection, not from two men toting guns, but he could only use what he had.

Spine to the wall, he waited to see if whoever was coming would kick in the door.

W
hat could’ve happened?

Peyton tried calling Skinner again—twice—only to get a busy signal. She wanted to keep calling until she could be reassured that all was well, but she was afraid Lena Stout, who was running the front desk, would recognize her voice and begin to wonder if something was wrong. In case she was worried for nothing, she didn’t want to alert Lena or anyone else.

So…what should she do? She’d been concerned that Virgil might get hurt at Pelican Bay. She’d never seriously entertained the possibility that The Crew would find him
before
he could be incarcerated.
He’d
obviously been concerned about it, though. And he should know what they were capable of doing. He’d been one of them.

Is she in real danger?
she’d asked Wallace about Virgil’s sister.

As real as it gets. Because Skinner could help the authorities get convictions against most of The Crew….

After putting on her tennis shoes, Peyton limped to her car on her injured ankle, which was improved but not perfect, and drove as fast as she could without causing
an accident. She arrived at the motel in ten minutes instead of fifteen, but she knew it could already be too late.

Relying on the fog to cloak her identity from anyone looking out—fortunately, Lena was much less familiar with her than Michelle—she parked in the lot. Then she hurried to room fifteen.

The door was slightly ajar.

“Hello?” she breathed as she poked her head inside. The lights were on. So was the TV. A glance at the phone told her it was off the hook. It looked as if he’d aimed for the base but hadn’t been watching to make sure the handset connected. Why? Clearly, he’d been distracted….

“Virgil?” Afraid she might find him crumpled on the floor between the beds, she crept forward. There was no body, no evidence of a scuffle. But she didn’t think he’d planned on leaving, either. He’d gone through his bag—his clothes weren’t as neatly folded as before—and tossed his sweatshirt over the chair.

It was cold and rainy out. Why hadn’t he worn his sweatshirt? Also, some of the groceries from the sack Wallace had bought were spread out on the desk—peanut butter, jelly, a loaf of bread and some cookies. The files she’d given him lay on the bed.

Heart in her throat, she inched farther into the room. The bathroom door stood open. Would she find him murdered in the shower? That fear had her shaking by the time she reached it. Considering the company he’d kept in prison, nothing would be too gruesome to expect….

But the bathroom turned out to be empty. Did that mean he was safe? Or would his body be discovered in the forest or floating in the sea?

Hoping to catch Wallace before his plane could take off, she dug her phone out of her purse and was dashing from the room when someone came around the corner carrying an ice bucket and nearly knocked her to the floor.

When she realized it was Virgil and that he was fine, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his chest instead of stepping away, as she probably should have. “You’re okay.”

He didn’t seem to know how to react, didn’t put down the ice bucket and hold her, although she wanted him to. She could use the reassurance.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she muttered into his clean-smelling T-shirt.

“Sorry.” His lips grazed her temple as he spoke. She got the impression that was very much on purpose, although he wouldn’t allow himself to actually put his arms around her.

Feeling awkward when he didn’t make any other move, she let go. “Why’d you hang up on me?”

“I heard people approaching outside.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “Two teenage boys and their mother hurrying through the rain so they could get to their room. That’s all.”

“You thought it was…someone else?”

“A guy called right before that, asking for Hal. It made me wonder.”

Frowning, she took stock of his few belongings. She couldn’t leave him here. No way would she be able to sleep. She didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, either, not if he feared every footstep outside his door could be that of a man sent to shoot him. If she took him to her place, The Crew wouldn’t have a prayer of finding him. Not
unless her car was followed. But the drive to her house was a lonely one. She’d definitely notice any vehicle behind her.

“Get your stuff.”

He’d just put down the ice bucket and was opening a Coke. “Am I going somewhere?”

“You’re not staying here.”

“Peyton, I appreciate this…mothering instinct of yours, but I don’t need you to babysit me.” He scowled as if she was being ridiculous, but she knew he was scared. If not for himself, then for his sister. “I’m not
babysittting
you. I’m giving you a safe place to stay.” What she felt was very different from what a mother would feel. As much as she knew she shouldn’t let herself care about him, she couldn’t help it. Probably because she was the only person who
did
seem to care.

He deserved more than that….

“It’s not wise for me to go home with you.”

“I don’t give a damn. Nothing is more important than your life. And I happen to feel you should get to enjoy the next two days without having to look over your shoulder all the time. We’re talking about a short stint at my place. No big deal.”

He poured the soda into a plastic cup with ice. “Wallace would never agree with this.”

“You don’t care what Wallace thinks, and neither do I.”

“What if he decides it’s irresponsible? What if he decides it’s a good reason to go after your job?”

“He won’t.”

He offered her the Coke. When she refused, he took a drink himself. “He could.”

“So we won’t tell him,” she said with a shrug.

“Peyton, no.” Setting his soda aside, he retrieved the television remote.

Why wouldn’t he let her do this for him? Couldn’t he accept a good turn? Had it been so long since he’d received one? “Why not?” she demanded and took the remote away so he’d have to focus on her.

She’d expected him to enumerate the many practical reasons or at least grab for the remote, but he didn’t. “I don’t want to care about you,” he murmured.

His honesty caused a flutter in her stomach the likes of which she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. They weren’t touching, but the moment felt so intimate—because he’d just given her a glimpse of his soul.

Drawing a deep breath, she cleared her throat. Maybe they had no business sleeping in the same house, but she couldn’t leave him here,
wouldn’t
leave him here. And there wasn’t another place she could take him, not where they’d go unnoticed. It was nearly midnight. “If caring about me is the worst thing that happens while you’re here, I’ll feel you got off easy,” she said. “Are you going to get your duffel? Or shall I?”

He didn’t move. “You’ll be sorry. We’ll
both
be sorry.”

“No, we won’t. I refuse to believe that.”

A truck pulled up outside, one with a big diesel engine. When he glanced over his shoulder as if he wanted to check the window, she knew she had him. “See what I mean? You’ll be able to sleep at my house. There will be good food, a beautiful view, serenity.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. I won’t be on pins and needles wondering if it was a mistake to leave you here. I won’t have to feel responsible if something happens because I didn’t
try hard enough to stop it. And, like I said, it’s only for two days.”

He blew out a sigh. “Your plan is to bring me back here before Wallace comes for me? To keep this little arrangement to ourselves?”

Doing so would risk her job, but she’d rather risk her job than a person’s life. If working in a prison had taught her anything, it was the necessity of feeling valued by someone. She wanted to give Virgil that. “I’ll drop you off at a safe distance on my way to work bright and early Tuesday morning. Transfers don’t generally arrive until later in the day. We’re a bit of a drive from anywhere else, in case you haven’t noticed.” She laughed to create the illusion that what she was doing was fine, that it wasn’t a major breach of protocol. “You’ll be on your own while you’re waiting for him, but it’ll be daytime and you’ll only have to be on guard for hours instead of days.”

She could see the exhaustion in his face.
Let go,
she silently urged.
Let me help you.

“Fine. Go get in the car. We can’t be seen leaving together.”

“No, we should grab everything and go. It’s so late and foggy, no one will see us. Michelle’s not even working tonight.”

“But someone else is. Do as I say. I’ll meet you around the block.”

Their eyes connected in a silent contest of wills, but she didn’t keep arguing. He wouldn’t relent on this. “I’ll be waiting,” she said, and ducked out into the rain.

“There’s no way.” Pretty Boy paced the length of the threadbare carpet in the dirtbag motel they’d rented not far from Laurel’s house.

Neither Pointblank nor Ink, both of whom were with
him, appreciated his dissenting voice. Their expressions reflected that, as did Pointblank’s tone. “What did you say?”

This wasn’t a position Pretty Boy had ever wanted to find himself in. If it’d been anyone else, anyone besides Skin, he would’ve kept his damn mouth shut. He didn’t like the politics of The Crew, just the drinking, the joyriding, the easy money and even easier women, the camaraderie. But they were talking about Virgil Skinner—
Skin.
There wasn’t another man alive Pretty Boy respected more than his old cellie. If not for Skin, he would’ve been dead ages ago. The man could fight better than anyone and had never hesitated when it came to getting his back.

“I said there’s no way.” Now that he’d started this, he had to speak his mind, so he stopped in front of Ink with enough attitude to make it clear that he was ready to take this to blows, if necessary. He had no problem with a good brawl. Life in The Crew was filled with busted lips, black eyes, even knife wounds. Sometimes it felt like one glorious round of ultimate fighting. But he preferred to be facing a rival when he let loose, not a brother. “Skin would
never
flip.”

At this, Pointblank propped the pillows behind his head with one hand while holding a beer in the other, and crossed his ankles. Obviously he didn’t give a rat’s ass that he had his boots on the bed. Pretty Boy didn’t, either, but he noticed. And sometimes he noticed a few other things that made him feel just a little different from the men he’d joined.

“That’s what you keep telling me, man,” Pointblank said. “And I want to believe it. Skin’s a tough dude. He’s not someone I’d like to mess with. But if he’s going to
disrespect me, I don’t have a choice. I’m responsible for keeping him in line. I got people to answer to.”

“Skin wouldn’t disrespect you.” But if he disagreed with Pointblank’s leadership, he might dispute it or simply walk away.
That
Pretty Boy wouldn’t put past Skin because Skin lived life by his own rules and
he
didn’t answer to anyone. His independence had created difficulties for him with The Crew before.

“So you’ve heard from him?” Pointblank taunted. “You can tell us where he is?”

Wearing his leather coat like a badge of honor, Pretty Boy shrugged to hide the discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Skin had already been gone a week, long enough to indicate that he didn’t plan on coming back. But Pretty Boy couldn’t give up hope. Not when it came to Virgil. “No. But…”

“What?” Pointblank demanded. “I’m supposed to cut this asshole extra slack just because he used to be your cellie and you know his mind and shit like that? Come on, the man got a lifeboat. That gives him a clean slate. And a clean slate can change the way you think about certain…affiliations.” He tapped his skull before taking a pull of beer. “Skin knows too much. We can’t let him forget who his friends are.”

Pretty Boy ignored the sense of impending doom that’d crept over him the minute he’d been sent to Colorado to round up his old buddy. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t rat us out. Maybe he’d disappear for good, but he wouldn’t debrief.”

“
Something’s
going on,” Ink piped up. “And we’d better get a handle on it. Watching his sister’s place is a waste of time. He must think we’re all pussies, that we won’t really hurt her, because he hasn’t even called the bitch. Hasn’t even driven by to make sure she’s okay.
What kind of asshole doesn’t care about his own family, for chrissake?”

“He doesn’t think
we’re
pussies,” Pretty Boy said. “He only thinks
you’re
a pussy.”

Pointblank nearly spewed beer across the bed, but Ink didn’t take the joke quite so well. His face grew mottled, and he jammed a finger in Pretty Boy’s direction. “I’ll show him what a pussy I am when I gut his sister
and
her kids.”

Pretty Boy had never hated Ink more. “You think that’ll solve the problem? Killing the people he cares about?”

“It’s better than sitting in front of her house for days on end, jacking off. That ain’t gettin’ us nowhere.”

Ink was a bloodthirsty bastard who enjoyed abusing everyone and everything he touched. Pretty Boy had heard he maimed a couple of prostitutes before they left L.A. for Colorado. That was part of the reason upper management had given him this assignment. They wanted Ink out of the way until the flurry of interest surrounding that incident died down. His legendary cruelty gave him a degree of power in a group that prided itself on violence. But Ink had no loyalty, no honor, no
soul.
“You kill Skin’s sister or harm those kids and you’ll find him, all right. He’ll come to you in the middle of the night and string you up by your balls. Then he’ll pick off the rest of us.” Pretty Boy stepped closer so he could make a point of staring down at the shorter man. “Starting World War III is hardly gonna improve our situation.”

A flicker of fear danced in Ink’s eyes, but he quickly masked it. Taking his gun from where he’d jammed it down his pants, he made a show of unloading and re
loading the cartridge. “Just because you’re scared of him don’t mean I am.”