Three weeks later, she received the green light on her transfer to the United States. It didn’t ease the agony of her loss, but it gave her some focus.
In six days, the U.S. Bureau of Prisons would begin her transfer to a federal correctional institution near her home. She was going to a satellite prison camp for female offenders in Phoenix, Arizona.
She knew the date and time of her departure.
She knew when Hector was going to die.The morning of Tula’s transfer, she waited in the stairwell across from Hector’s cell. Her heart hammered in her stomach, and her legs burned to run.
She’d managed to keep her scheduled departure a secret. In fact, the whole transfer process had been shockingly easy.
Too easy.
Something felt off, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
A late phone call to the consular last night confirmed everything was in order.
She could just go now. Run straight out of Area Three and head to the front of the prison. Her ride would be here in a few hours. She could find a place to hide and wait it out.
Maybe she could contact the Mexican military and tell them Hector was smuggling children into the prison. But part of her suspected they already knew.
They’d tortured her for information on the cartel, desperate to bring down the whole organization. Then they framed her.
She didn’t trust them.
But if she ran now, how many children would be raped and murdered while she served the rest of her time in the States?
This was the only way.
Right on time, Garra appeared at Hector’s door to walk his boss to the showers. She slipped out of view in the stairwell, listening to their voices and tracking the retreat of their footsteps.
Then she waited through a minute of nerve-wracking silence before she sneaked into his cell.
Over the past few weeks, she’d cataloged the placement of everything in his quarters. It took her five seconds to locate the knife under his pillow. Another five seconds to slide it into the narrow space behind the record player.
In under a minute, she was out of his room and strolling back to her cell with deliberately slow steps.
Then she waited for an hour—hands drenched in sweat, fingers trembling uncontrollably, and pulse pounding in her head.
Once she stepped out of this prison cell, she would never return. If she lived through the next part, she would head straight out of Area Three without looking back.
One more glance around the room filled her with unbearable sorrow. She had to leave it all behind. The signed novel of The Hellbound Heart. The candles that illuminated so many nights of pleasure. The box of men’s clothing that was scented by them. A distinctive fragrance that would forever haunt her.
It was okay. She could do this. It was just stuff, and this cell was just an empty space they’d left behind.
Time to go.
No amount of detachment or determination could overpower the terror that owned her body as she walked back to Hector’s cell. Maybe this would’ve been a good time to square things up with Jesus, but she didn’t think the Lord and Savior would be on board with what she was about to do.
By the time she reached Hector’s door, she’d built a sturdy wall around her emotions. But she wore her fear like an invisible cloak. Ice-cold and unshakable, it clung to her skin and drained all her warmth. She felt it with every breath, but she couldn’t see it.
If prison life had taught her anything, it was how to keep her weaknesses hidden beneath a veneer of tattoos and cool reserve.
Or maybe it was an inherited skill that had been passed down in her blood. Hector had mastered the art of concealing depravity beneath a soft cardigan and layers of affection.
He answered her knock on the door, wearing a pleased smile. “Petula.”
“Are you up for getting your feet stepped on?” By some miracle, she’d evaded all dancing and touching for the past month.
“I thought you’d never ask. Come in.”
As they exchanged their usual greetings, she chewed blistering gashes on the insides of her cheeks.
Drawing this out wasn’t an option. Her nerves unfurled with every miserable heartbeat. At any second, he would detect her distress.
“Can I select the song today?” she asked.
“Go ahead.”
She floated to the record player on numb legs and pulled an album from the stack. Her hands shook as she set up the record, her mind focused on the knife she’d hidden behind the turntable.
Was it still there? Would she be able to grab it before he stopped her? Would she chicken out at the last minute?
“Which song did you choose?” He approached her, staring too closely at her tingling face.
Fuck, she’d forgotten to look at the album.
Her tongue twisted through the saliva pooling in her mouth. “You’ll see.”
She adjusted the needle but didn’t place it on the vinyl. The next few seconds had to be timed flawlessly.