“Jesus fucking Christ.” I schooch on my bum across the grimy stone
floor of my cage to curl myself into a ball. My forehead presses to my
knees until my brain aches. I start to hum in the hope I’ll drown out the
sounds that are suddenly too loud around me. My melody grows louder, and
louder, until my chapped lips start to form the occasional word. No one here
can love or understand me… Blackbird, bye, bye … I hum and sing until the
words fade away, and the melody too.
“I renounce my wicked ways,” I say after the song disintegrates among
the dust motes and the hum of opalescent insect wings.
“That’s a shame. I bet I would like your wicked ways.”
I startle at the sound of a man’s deep, smooth voice, the cadence of a
faint Irish accent warming every note. My curses cut the humid air when
my head smashes against an iron cross-bar of my small cell as I scurry out
of reach of the man who saunters into the thin thread of light from the
narrow window, the glass opaque with fly shit.
“You seem to be in a predicament,” he says. A lopsided grin sneaks
across his face, the rest of his features sheathed in shadow. He takes a few
steps into the room to stare down at the corpse, bending to get a closer look.
“What’s your name?”
I’m on day three of no coffee. No food. My stomach has probably
imploded and sucked other organs into the void. A loud chorus of
desperately hungry internal monologue is trying to convince me that those
are, in fact, little orzo pastas marching toward me, and they might just be
edible.
I can’t deal with this shit.
“I don’t think he’s going to answer you,” I say.
The man chuckles. “No shit. I already know who he is anyway. Albert
Briscoe, the Beast of the Bayou.” The man’s gaze lingers on the corpse for
a long moment before he shifts his attention to me. “But who are you?”
I don’t answer, remaining still as the man takes careful, measured steps
around the corner of the cage to get a better look at me where I’m huddled
in the shadows. When he’s as close as the bars will allow, he crouches
down. I try to hide beneath my tangled hair and folded limbs, giving him
only my eyes.
And because my luck is the worst, he, of course, is stunning.
Short brown hair, artfully disheveled. Strong features, but not severe. A
sly smile with perfect teeth and a straight scar that cuts through his top lip,
