Page 1
Chapter One
TORIN
“Torin McCarthy.”
I’m staring at the wall of my cell when McNaught opens the door. He stands wordlessly in front of me. I push to my feet, and his hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching.
Smart man.
He doesn’t tell me why he’s taking me out. I don’t trust it. I don’t let myself think about it, not yet.
Observe first. React second.
It’s not a mealtime, not a yard hour, nothing.
“This way,” McNaught says. The man’s half a head shorter than I am and built of sinew and bone. He says over his shoulder, “It’s your lucky day, McCarthy.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re being released.”
What?
I run the numbers. I know them better than my own heartbeat. I’m not due out yet for fucking ages.
“There some mistake?”
“No mistake.”
We’re walking down the hall, our shoes noiseless on the gray concrete, the sounds of the inmates behind us fading. The few friends I’ve made are cheering—some call out well wishes, and others curse in jealousy.
I ignore all of them.
“Here,” McNaught says, handing me a worn brown envelope and a clear plastic bag. The envelope is marked with the date of my arrest and is stacked with bills. The cash I had on me. The bag holds the clothes I wore, my keys, and a mobile that’s dated and dead. It feels oddly like looking at another person’s life.
I strip down right there. Nobody tells me to hurry.
The shirt goes on one arm before the shoulder seam gives. I pull it over my head anyway, out of pure fucking spite, and the back splits clean down the middle, fabric hanging off me in two halves.
The trousers don't button. Don't even come close.
I’ve put on muscle since I’ve been in here. Honed my body into a fucking weapon… on purpose.
Nobody laughs. Three men with batons, and not one of them so much as smiles. I stand to my full height, and two of them take an involuntary step back.
“I’ve got a change of clothes,” one of the guards at the door says, too quickly. “One of your brothers brought them.”
Aye. Of course they fucking did.
My brothers knew, then. They knew and didn’t tell me.
The new clothes fit. They’re worn, not new—Ashland’s, maybe? My cousin’s the only one who might be as big as I am now.
I leave the old ones on the floor where they fell. The man who wore them isn't coming back for them.
There’s no dramatic exit. Just a door, the main yard, and then the road. I spot Declan’s black car idling at the curb. People who look suspiciously like reporters and paparazzi hover nearby.
They’ll pay for that too.
