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As if on cue, the door swung open. A guard didn’t stand on the threshold. The warden did, appearing flustered. “You weren’t supposed to attack the inmate!”

Hunter’s hands slid away from her. “Ah, warden. I’m sure you were watching the feed the whole time. You know he attacked first.” He stepped around Shelby and stalked toward the warden. “Gonna need one final favor before we leave.”

“Seriously? You’re asking for a favor now? Not happening⁠—”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

The warden’s angry words stopped, and he raised one eyebrow. “Tell me more.”

He fucking wanted Shelby out of the prison. Away from the assholes who catcalled her. Away from the shouts. The whistles. He wanted her away from Nate Shiloh. He never, ever wanted her anywhere near the jerk again.

Had he walked into the prison, intending to push Nate into attacking him?

Of course.

Had he done it so that he could have open access to Nate’s cell and search for anything that might help in the investigation?

Of course.

Had he done it because he wanted to freaking punish and destroy the bastard because of what Nate had done to Shelby?

Of course. No one hurts her. Not ever again. No one.

A guard walked in front of Hunter and Shelby. One guard walked behind them. The warden led their little group, and he’d just stopped at the open cell to the right.

“Two minutes,” the warden said as he waved toward the cell. “You get two minutes and then you get out, understand?”

Two minutes for ten grand. That had been the deal. Shelby had balked, but Hunter had agreed instantly. He had plenty of cash, and he’d damn well use it to help her.

They were in the section of the prison reserved for the death row inmates. Not as many catcalls in this area. In fact, there was no noise at all now. He could see a prisoner in the cell beside Nate’s, but the man was on his bed. Sprawled out. Hands behind his head.

Hunter kept his fingers locked with Shelby’s as they walked into the open cell. Not like there was much to see in there.

A narrow bed. A toilet. A⁠—

“That’s me.” Shelby’s shaky voice.

A wall with sketches. Pieces of paper taped up. Looked like chalk drawings on the pages. And that is my Shelby. “Warden!”

The warden rushed inside.

Hunter motioned to the sketches. “What in the hell are these?”

“They…they are therapy.” A gulp. “The inmates get access to therapy. Art therapy is some new practice from one of the shrinks here.” He straightened to his full height. “No sharp objects. Just chalk and paper. Harmless, really.”

Shelby leaned closer to one of the sketches. “It’s basically a copy of the photo Tiffany had of me. I’m in New Orleans. Near Jackson Square.” She looked over at Hunter. “He knew where I was.”

Yes.

There was a sketch of Tiffany on the wall, too. Tiffany, in front of a fountain. Smiling in front of the dedication fountain.

Fuck.

Hunter pointed to the fountain. “Warden, I know you were going to give me the visitor logs.” For another five grand because the warden was a businessman. “But how about we speed things along? That woman right there…was she one of Nate’s visitors?”

The warden squinted. “He’s a very good artist.”

Screw that. “Warden⁠—”