The Inmate: A gripping psychological thriller Read online

  Chapter 6

  I am outraged.

  The patient I’m seeing right now is Mr. Carpenter. He is in his late twenties, and he was shot in the spine while doing… well, whatever got him sent to a maximum-security prison for life. It was bad, I’m sure. I don’t want to know.

  But none of that is my concern. What is my concern is that Mr. Carpenter is a paraplegic and uses a wheelchair. So he’s sitting on his bottom all day, and then he’s lying on a mattress at night that is paper-thin, and now he has a rather impressive sore on his coccyx that has not been addressed in God knows how long.

  “What do you think, Brooke?” Mr. Carpenter asks me. He’s lying on the examining table on his side with his pants pulled down, waiting for my assessment. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything good to say.

  “It’s a pressure wound,” I say. “We can put a dressing on it, but it’s never going to heal if you don’t keep pressure off of it.”

  “Yeah, well, how am I supposed to do that? The cushion on my chair is halfway decent, but the mattress in my bed is terrible. I’m basically lying directly on metal springs.”

  “So you need a better mattress.”

  Mr. Carpenter snorts. “How long have you worked here? Nobody’s getting me a new mattress.”

  “They have to get it for you if I prescribe it.”

  “Whatever you say…”

  Despite Mr. Carpenter’s skepticism, he’s going to get that mattress. It’s medical neglect not to give a paraplegic a decent mattress with pressure relief. It might involve a stack of paperwork, but I’m going to make it happen.

  As soon as I’m done with Mr. Carpenter, I confirm nobody is waiting to be seen and head down the hall to Dorothy’s office. Yes, she has an office and I have a desk in my examining room. But I recognize she has seniority, so I’m not going to say anything. Hopefully, I won’t be working here long enough to get a desk.

  I knock on the door to Dorothy’s office and wait to hear her say to come in. After what seems like five minutes, she calls for me to come inside. When I enter the office, she’s sitting at her desk, a pair of half-moon glasses balanced on the bridge of her bulbous nose.

  “I’m very busy, Brooke,” she says.

  “This won’t take long,” I say. “I just need to find out how I can get a pressure relief mattress for Malcolm Carpenter.”

  She peers at me over the rim of her glasses. “A pressure relief mattress?”

  She says it like I was speaking in an unfamiliar language. She knows very well what I’m talking about. “He’s a paraplegic, and he’s developed a pressure sore on his coccyx. He needs a decent mattress or it won’t heal.”

  “Brooke,” she says flatly, “this is not the Ritz Carlton. We can’t get dream mattresses for all the inmates.”

  A muscle twitches under my eye. “I’m not asking for a luxury item. This is medically indicated.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t.”

  “Of course it is!” I burst out. “He can’t move or feel the lower half of his body. The sore is just going to get worse if we don’t relieve pressure on it. Getting him a decent mattress is the least we can do.”

  “I’m afraid a new mattress just isn’t in the budget. You’ll have to come up with a more creative solution.” She shakes her head. “Don’t you have any problem-solving skills?”

  I stare at her, too stunned to respond. The problem is that the man has a pressure ulcer. The simple solution is a decent mattress. What is wrong with this woman? Doesn’t she care about these prisoners at all? They’re human beings, after all.

  The phone rings on Dorothy’s desk. She picks it up without saying another word to me. I stand there while she listens to the other person speaking. Finally, she says, “Yes, I’ll send her right over.”

  Damn. She probably means me.

  Sure enough, when Dorothy hangs up the phone, she raises her eyes to look at me over the rims of her glasses. “There was an incident out on the yard. Officer Hunt is bringing one of the inmates over to see you for an injury.”

  Great.

  My shoulders sag in defeat as I march back to my examining room/office. I haven’t given up though. I’m going to figure out a way to get Mr. Carpenter that mattress if it’s the last thing I do. But first, I have to treat this guy who got injured in the yard.

  I wonder how he got hurt. Was it a lock in a sock? Is that a real thing they do in prison?

  Just as I reach my office, I catch sight of Officer Hunt coming down the hallway with one of the prisoners. It must be the guy who got injured in the yard. The inmate is wearing the standard prison khaki jumpsuit, and unlike most of the prisoners, both his wrists and his ankles are shackled, so he’s shuffling along slowly next to Hunt.

  As he gets closer, I can see the bandage taped to his forehead, which is saturated with bright red blood. Whatever is under there, it’s almost certainly going to need stitches. Then my eyes drop to the prisoner’s face.

  Oh. Oh no. No, no, no…

  It’s Shane.

  Chapter 7

  ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER

  Somehow it’s not possible for Chelsea to pull up in front of my house without leaning all her weight on her car horn. I come racing out the front door, my backpack slung on my right shoulder, and sprint down the walkway, swearing under my breath. She doesn’t let up on the horn until I’ve wrenched open the passenger side door of the car and plopped myself down next to her.

  “Oh my God!” I smack Chelsea in the arm. “I heard you. You’re disturbing the whole neighborhood!”

  Chelsea rolls her eyes dramatically. She’s wearing so much mascara around her dark brown eyes, her eyelashes are at least three times as long as they would be otherwise. Chelsea wears an insane amount of makeup—my parents would never allow me to leave the house looking like that. If I even want a darker shade of lipstick than nude, I have to put it on in the bathroom at school.

  “Can I help it if you’re slow?” Chelsea says.

  I glance at the back seat for support. Chelsea texted me she was bringing along Kayla Olivera as a sixth for Tim. Kayla is another cheerleader—dark and petite and very pretty. When I crane my neck, I feel perturbed by the fact that she is texting on her phone, oblivious to the volume of Chelsea’s horn.

  “Hey, Kayla,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says without looking up.

  I clear my throat. “Thanks for coming.”

  Kayla finally rips her eyes away from the screen of her phone. “Chelsea said Tim Reese is going to be there, right?”

  I feel a jolt of surprise. I had figured that Chelsea had recruited some unsuspecting girl to our party to be foisted on Tim. But that isn’t the case at all. Kayla wants to be here. She’s interested in Tim. Apparently, when Tim sprouted up those six extra inches, he also became the kind of guy that girls take an interest in. I never noticed it before, but now I see it written all over Kayla’s face. Tim is hot now.

  The idea of it doesn’t quite sit well with me.

  I’m not sure why though. I’ve got Shane, after all.

  “So is Shane’s mom gone?” Chelsea asks me. “Can we go over there?”

  I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. Sure enough, there’s a text from Shane that came in about a minute ago: Just picked up Brandon and my mom is already on the road. Come on over!

  I text back: Be there soon! Lope you!

  His reply comes instantly: Lope you too.

  Chelsea drives the extra block over to Tim’s house. I can see her getting ready to lean on the horn, but she doesn’t have to. Tim is already sitting on the front steps of his house, and he leaps to his feet when he sees Chelsea’s Beetle. Kayla watches him through the window, a smile playing on her lips.

  Tim hops into the backseat of the car, next to Kayla. She scooches toward him as much as her seatbelt will allow. “Hey, Tim,” she says.

  “Hey…” He frowns, obviously struggling to come up with her name. I turn and mouth “Kayla” as emphatically as I can but he can’t understand me. Finally, he takes a stab at it: “Kara?”

  Kayla’s cheeks turn slightly pink. “Kayla.”

  “Right. Sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry. He doesn’t sound like he cares at all. Tim has never liked cheerleaders. I could see him holding his tongue when I told him I was trying out.

  “Where’s your bag?” Kayla asks him.

  He frowns. “Bag?”

  “We’re spending the night.” Kayla looks at Chelsea for confirmation. “Right?”

  “That’s right, Timothy,” Chelsea says. “This is an overnight party. Didn’t Brooke tell you?”

  “Yes…” He shrugs. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything.”

  Kayla looks scandalized. “What about a change of clothes?”

  Tim glances down at his jacket, which is hanging open to reveal a gray T-shirt and blue jeans. “I don’t know. I’ll just wear this tomorrow.”

  “Boys.” Chelsea shoots me a look. “Sometimes I wonder what we see in them.”

  I laugh along with Chelsea, but when I look back at Tim, there’s something in his expression that makes me a little uneasy. I told him we were spending the night. Back when we were much younger and such things were allowed, Tim used to come to my house for sleepovers, and he always brought along everything but the kitchen sink. Yes, a lot of time has passed since then, but it still seems strange that he would come to a sleepover at Shane’s house and not bring anything but himself. It doesn’t seem like Tim at all.

  Maybe I don’t know Tim at all anymore.

  Or maybe he doesn’t plan on staying.

  Chapter 8

  PRESENT DAY

  I had hoped it would be months before I ran into Shane Nelson—if ever. But here I am, only on my second week, and here he is. Live and in t
he flesh.

  The man who tried to kill me.

  For a moment, I feel a tightening in my neck. The necklace he tried to choke me with cutting off my windpipe. I can’t breathe. I grab onto the door frame, taking deep breaths. I can’t let this get to me. I have to be a professional.

  I’m okay. I’m okay. He can’t hurt me anymore.

  Shane notices me a split second after I recognize him. He looks about as shocked as I felt. Maybe more, because he had no idea I was working here. He had been shuffling in the shackles, but when he sees me, he stops short, his mouth falling open.

  “Come on.” Hunt gives him a shove to get him moving again. “We don’t have all day, Nelson. Move it.”

  They keep walking until they reach the examining room, where they come to an abrupt halt. Shane’s brown eyes are filled with pain when they meet mine.

  “Hi, I’m Brooke,” I say stiffly. I feel a little ridiculous introducing myself to the man I lost my virginity to, but here we are.

  Before Shane can open his mouth, Hunt barks out, “This is Shane Nelson. Injury on the yard to his forehead.”

  “Okay.” My voice sounds oddly calm considering my heart is doing jumping jacks. “Come on in, Mr. Nelson.”

  Shane again seems frozen in place. Hunt has to give him another shove to get him moving again.

  Climbing onto the examining table is tricky given he’s got his wrists and his ankles shackled. I’ve seen Hunt help other men in this position before, but he does nothing to help Shane. It takes him a few tries, but Shane manages to get up on the table.

  Once Shane is situated, Hunt leaves the exam room. I start to close the door behind him, but he puts up a hand to keep the door from closing.

  “You should keep the door open with this one,” Hunt says.

  I glance over at Shane, who is sitting on my examining table, his head hanging down, his wrists and his ankles bound together. I have felt twinges of fear around some of the inmates, but I don’t feel it right now. Despite what I know he’s capable of.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, hoping I don’t regret my words.

  Hunt keeps his hand on the door, still preventing me from closing it. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to push his way in. But then releases his hold on the door. “I’ll be right outside,” he tells me. “You have any problems, you give me a yell.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say again. But I don’t close the door completely. I keep it cracked just the slightest bit.

  Now Shane and I are alone in the examining room. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together since he… well, we don’t need to relive that night. He looks different from the way he did when he was seventeen. Different and the same. His hair is much shorter, clipped barely an inch from his skull, and there’s a hardness to his face that wasn’t there before.

  I hate that he’s still every bit as handsome as he was back then.

  I hate even more how much he looks like my son.

  For a moment, the two of us just stare at each other. Glaring, more like—his eyes are dripping with venom. I don’t know what he’s so upset about. I should be the angry one—if it were up to him, I would be dead. I suppose he’s mad that I told the truth in that courtroom.

  “Hello,” I say in the flattest, most emotionless voice I can muster.

  Shane doesn’t lift his eyes. “Hi.”

  I square my shoulders. This was what I had been dreading when I took this job in the first place. And now here I am, and I just have to deal with it. I’ll get his injury taken care of like a professional, and I’ll send him on his way.

  “How are you?” I say.

  At my question, he whips his head up and stares at me. “Well, Brooke, I’m spending my life in prison for something I didn’t do, so how the hell do you think I am? I’m not great.”

  I return his seething gaze. “I meant your head.”

  “Oh.” He lifts a shackled hand to touch the bandage on his forehead. “That’s not great either.”

  I slip my hands into a pair of blue latex gloves. I cross the small room to take a look at his forehead. This is the closest I’ve been to him in a long time—except in my nightmares. A decade ago, the thought of being this close to him would have made my skin crawl. But I can handle it now. I’m stronger than I used to be. This monster won’t get the better of me.

  The last time I was near Shane like this, he was wearing an aftershave that smelled like sandalwood. If I close my eyes, I can still almost imagine that deep, woody but floral aroma. I can’t stand the smell of it anymore. I once went on a date with a guy who was wearing a sandalwood cologne, and I wouldn’t go out with him ever again. I dodged his phone calls rather than explaining why.

  I peel back the tape from the wound on his forehead, not bothering to be as gentle as I normally would be. It looks pretty bad. Despite the bandage, it’s still bleeding significantly. It definitely needs stitches. He also has what looks like the start of a black eye forming on the same side.

  “How did this happen?” I ask.

  “I ran into the fence.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

  He stares at me, challenging me to question him further. “That’s right.”

  “Because it looks like somebody did this to you.”

  “If somebody had done this to me,” he says, “and I ratted them out to you, the next time, whatever they did to me would be worse. So, you know, good thing this just happened from walking into the fence.”

  I notice now that he has other scars on his face. He’s got a scar splitting his other eyebrow, and one running along the curve of his jaw, almost concealed by the stubble on his chin. There’s also a long white scar just on the base of his throat.

  For some reason, I think of Josh. About the other kids bullying him at school and giving him a black eye like Shane has right now. Shane, who also grew up without a father. And I feel the tiniest twinge of…

  Well, not sympathy. I would never feel sympathy for a monster like this. Somebody capable of doing what he did.

  “Shane,” I say, “if someone is beating up on you…”

  “Stop it, Brooke.” His voice is firm. “Whatever you think you’re trying to do, just stop. Just stitch me up and let me go back to my cell, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  He’s right. I can’t do anything to help him, even if I wanted to, and I don’t. My job is to get him stitched up and back to his cell, like he said. And that is all I’m going to do.

  I can handle it.

  I leave Shane alone in the room while I go to grab some suture material. Everything I need is in the supply room except for the lidocaine to numb him up. Since that’s a medication, I’ll need Dorothy to dispense it. So I return to her office, where she again takes her sweet time telling me to come in.

  “Done already?” she asks me.

  I press my lips together. “I need to stitch up a forehead laceration. I need some lidocaine.”

  “We’re all out.”

  I blink at her. “Excuse me?”

  She shrugs. “We carry a small amount of anesthetic, but at the moment, we’re out of stock.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Stitch him up without it.”

  My jaw tightens. What is wrong with this woman? These men are human beings. How could she be so cavalier about their health? I have more reason to hate Shane Nelson than anyone else here, and maybe I should be happy for a chance to torture him a bit after what he did to me, but even I think he deserves to be treated with dignity. “It’s inhumane.”

  Dorothy lifts her eyes skyward. “Don’t be so dramatic, Brooke. It’s a few needle sticks. I’m sure he won’t mind. Or you can glue it if you want.”

  This laceration is too messy for glue, but Dorothy doesn’t care about my protests. And if she tells me I need to problem solve again, I’m going to scream. Even though that’s apparently what I have to do.

  I return to the examining room, where Shane is still sitting on the table with his open head wound. He looks up when I come in, and a lot of the anger that I saw in his face when we first locked eyes has now dissipated. Maybe he isn’t as furious with me as I had thought, even though it was my testimony that put him in here. All these years, I imagined he was sitting in a prison cell, tattooing death threats against me on his body, but he doesn’t seem all that angry. Just… well, kind of sad. Beaten down.