“How?”
“By raising the stakes so I wouldn’t dare take that risk again, I guess.”
“Did it solve the problem?” he challenged, obviously not pleased.
No. The same raw magnetism that had drawn her to him before was still at work. But no way would she make the mess she’d created any worse. Not after last night. The few minutes she’d spent in Virgil’s motel room had shown her just how much power she was willing to give him. And that wasn’t in keeping with who she was, or at least who she wanted to be. It was frightening to lose control of any relationship, but especially one with someone like Virgil. “Yes.”
He came into the kitchen. “Look at me when you say that.”
She forced her eyes to meet his. “Yes,” she said again, but when she glanced away she knew her body language called her a liar.
Taking her by the shoulders, he gently turned her toward him and parted the opening of her blouse.
Preparing to slip out of his grasp if he tried to unfasten her buttons or touch her intimately, she tensed, but soon realized that wasn’t his intent. He was looking for his medallion. He wanted to know if she was still wearing it.
When he saw that she wasn’t, his gaze dropped to the floor and he stepped back. “Can you ever forgive me for last night?” he asked.
His remorse troubled her. She knew he’d been dealing with a lot and still was. “Don’t be sweet,” she whispered. She didn’t need anything to undermine her sagging resistance.
That wasn’t a yes, but it was the best she could do. Assuming she was rejecting his apology since she hadn’t really accepted it, he started to walk away, but she caught his arm. Removing his medallion had been a symbolic gesture meant to signify that she was also removing him from the areas of her life where he didn’t belong. But now she regretted doing it as much as she regretted telling Rick about them, and she couldn’t even say why.
“We’ll get through this somehow,” she promised.
“Sure, piece of cake,” he responded, but she could tell his mood was nowhere near as light as his tone. She also knew it was far easier for her to be optimistic; over the next weeks or months he’d be coping with much more than she would.
That was Rick Wallace!
Sitting in his truck, John put down his laptop and twisted around to get a better look at the associate director, who’d parked his blue Impala at the perimeter of the lot and walked to room fifteen.
“What do you know,” he muttered, slapping the steering wheel. Coming to the Redwood Inn was going to pay off, after all. When he’d decided to watch the place to see if he could figure out what was going on with the CDCR, he’d never dreamed he’d see action quite this early. He’d thought Peyton might return later and had wanted to see what she might do, or try to catch a glimpse of the person she’d come to visit last night.
But this was the next best thing. Especially since the wait hadn’t been that long, barely an hour, and he’d been surfing the internet for much of that time.
Hoping to strike up a conversation with Wallace—and get a look inside the room—he climbed out and hurried down the walk.
The blinds were drawn, as they’d been since John had become aware of this particular room, but he knew Wallace was in there. Pasting a friendly smile on his face, one he hoped conveyed enough awe and respect, he ignored the do not disturb sign dangling from the knob and knocked.
“Who is it?”
Wallace sounded nervous, suspicious, as if he was reluctant to open the door.
John found that strange, too, especially here in Crescent City. For all the hardened criminals housed seven miles away, this had to be one of the safest cities in America. There was probably more law enforcement per capita than anywhere else.
“It’s Sergeant John Hutchinson, sir.”
“Sergeant John who?”
Had Wallace heard about the Bentley Riggs incident? John didn’t see how he could, not so soon. It looked as if Wallace had just gotten into town. He certainly hadn’t been at the prison earlier when John had received the bad news.
But something was making Wallace act suspicious….
Clearing his throat, John spoke louder. “Hutchinson, sir. I’m a C.O. at the prison. We met once, almost a year ago?”
The delay was so long, John believed Wallace wasn’t going to respond. He stood there, feeling awkward and uncertain, and wondering if he dared knock again, when he noticed a curtain fluttering in his peripheral vision. The associate director had come to the window.
What was wrong with him? Was he afraid to answer?
Waving to reassure him, John waited another second—and then the door opened.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
Brisk and to the point—the associate director didn’t seem pleased to be interrupted. So John upped the wattage of his smile and changed the excuse he’d prepared. Instead of saying he’d stopped to let Wallace know what a difference his leadership was making, he decided to ask for his understanding and support over the Riggs debacle, because even if he hadn’t heard about it yet, John had no doubt he would eventually, in a report if nothing else. If he broached the subject himself, he’d at least have the chance to convince the associate director that he’d acted without malice.
“I was driving by when I saw you turn in.” He motioned to the street and the traffic streaming along it.
“And?” Grooves of impatience were etched in Wallace’s forehead. Obviously the man was in a hurry.
John swayed to the side, trying to see if there was another person in the room, but it appeared to be empty. An army-green duffel bag sat on the bed, stuffed to capacity and zipped shut. It didn’t look as if it belonged to someone who dressed in expensive, tailored suits like Wallace did, but John couldn’t imagine why Wallace would be packing up another person’s belongings.
A sack on the counter contained groceries, a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, judging by what he could see from the door. That explained how someone might be able to stay locked up in a motel room for several days. “I was hoping you’d have a minute to talk about an unfortunate incident that occurred a couple weeks ago,” he said.
“What incident is that?”
The gravity of John’s tone had piqued his interest, so John took great care to describe what had transpired in a more favorable light than Wallace would probably hear from anyone else. “I feel terrible about it,” he finished, “but I really don’t believe my actions were out of line, sir. I was just doing my job.”
“And there are witnesses to corroborate your story?”
There were witnesses who should’ve supported him and didn’t, which angered him. He would’ve lied for any one of them. “There should be. Two other C.O.s came over to help once the fight broke out, but everyone seems to have a different version of it.”
“Then I’m not sure what you think I can do.”
“I was hoping you could convince the chief deputy warden to revisit the issue. I don’t deserve to have this on my record, sir. I’m a damn good C.O. And I can’t afford the loss of two weeks’ pay. I’d never use more force than necessary. If I hadn’t kicked Bentley Riggs he wouldn’t have stopped fighting.”
“Punishing a man for doing his job doesn’t send the right message,” Wallace muttered.
“Exactly. Next time there’s a fight, I’ll be so afraid of getting into trouble I might end up on the floor with a cracked skull myself. Or worse.”