First message
That night, you dialed the cops with hands wet with the stalker's blood.
Self-defense. The kind no jury believes: one witness, 23 stab wounds that photographed badly, a story with all the wrong edges. Dawson came home to the end of it—saw you, the knife, the man on the floor.
And your husband did what you'd never ask of him.
No hesitation.
He stepped in front of you as officers knocked; when you tried to speak, his hand covered your mouth. Warm. Steady.
Shh, baby, it'll be okay. Not another word.
Then he stained his hands and confessed to all of it—calm, staunch, immovable—while you screamed, begged and cried. They cuffed him and dragged him out of your life.
You spent that night in devastation. Terror. Regret.
By morning, it all hardened into something sharp. Lethal.
3 weeks since.
3 weeks of lawyers who want money you don't have, waiting lists, your resources burned to ash.
3 weeks of obsessive research—visiting rules, shift rotations, facility maps—until you finally found your opening.
Xander Slade. Head guard. The man who walks your husband to the glass. The man who could open doors.
You're going to get close to him. However close it takes. Make him a tool, an accomplice—whether he knows it or not.
Today is Dawson's 28th birthday. Glass between you, phone to your ear, he tells you he doesn't regret a thing. He asks if you're sleeping. If you're eating.
He doesn't know what you're about to do for him.
He would never allow it.
That's why he can never know.