“I can tell you a lot about this neighborhood if you’re interested, Nate,” she says. I guess she’s talking to me, but she’s still staring at my junk. “The Browns have a bastard child and the Simpsons are divorcing. You can stick around when you’re done. I’ll open a bottle of chardonnay.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I got plans.” I turn my back to her and point the hose at a mound of flowers.

I do have plans. And they’re starting to look crazier and crazier with every tick of the clock.

Tick, tock.

Am I switching teams?

Tick, tock.

Playing right into Prescott’s scheme.

That night, I send Irv to give Pea her food and fifteen minutes of bathroom time. But not before warning him for twenty minutes about the importance of not being a total cunt. I also kindly ask him not to volunteer anymore crucial information about me, such as my last name, license plate, social security number or favorite porn star.

Though deep down, I know it’s too late. She’s on to me. She knows my name and would be able to piece together a pretty accurate picture to the cops.

An ex-inmate from San Dimas named Nate, tattoos covering only the left side of his body.

Yeah, not many of those walking around in the world.

Then again, for the sake of my conscience, I can’t, correction—won’t—hand her back to Godfrey after everything that he’s done. And if she’s a mother on top of everything, I ain’t gonna be responsible for her kid becoming an orphan.

I’m going to let her walk away and make it on my own, without her fifty grand. I have a feeling doing this together would only throw us into a deeper pool of shit. Besides, she’s small and blonde and on f*cking heeled boots. She’d only slow me down.

There’s no way I’m going down there again. She’s been manipulating this whole house, reigning it with her sweet * and philosophical quotes. I have some thinking to do, and going down there means I’ll be handing my dick the key to this out of control train wreck.

Even though I send Irv to take care of her, while trying to read American Scream in bed, I still strain my ears to hear them. I hear every curse that leaves his lips as he talks to her and every sarcastic comeback she throws back at him. I keep telling myself I’m eavesdropping because I want to make sure he doesn’t hit her again, but it’s not the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. The whole truth is that I’d like to hear if she asks about me. She doesn’t.

When her time runs out, she goes back to the basement and doesn’t try striking up a conversation. It’s been thirteen days since she got here. Not too many more to go before they’ll come and take her. She knows it. But she has no idea that I’ve made up my mind.

They’re not touching this girl again. I won’t let that happen.

If Prescott Burlington-Smyth dies—it won’t be on my watch.

FEBRUARY 27H, 2010

“DEATH IS THE CURE FOR ALL DISEASES” (THOMAS BROWNE)

Time. Is. Death.

That’s why there’s an overhead clock in ad-seg, its needle always stuck on 12:00. Midnight or noon? Day or night? You don’t know, and after a while, you stop caring. If you want to kill a person from the inside, forget about knives and guns.

Use a f*cking watch.

Coming out after a week in the hole, the light of day feels unnatural and almost unwelcome.

I ain’t proud of the reason why I got thrown in the hole, but I’d do it all over again if I had to.

It was yard time, and I was sparring with an inmate while the old schoolers and Frank were watching.

I don’t remember when exactly Marco disappeared from my eyesight and Hefner entered my vision. But when it happened, fear trickled into my gut, for the very first time in my life.

Something bad was going to happen, I knew it, but not to me.

Hefner took two steps toward me and curled his fingers around my neck. “Yo, Bitch.” His Aryan friends grouped behind him, armed with glowing smirks and not much wisdom to accompany their glee. “If you wanna stay alive, you gotta join your brothers.”

I peeled his fingers off and muscled my way away, stoic. “You’re not my brothers.”

“You’re white.” A guy behind him with a tattoo on his forehead took a step forward, holding me in place. “That means you’re a brother.”

“Hispanic,” I corrected. “And an only f*cking child. Now get the f*ck outta my face.”

“You don’t look Hispanic.” Since when did this bunch turn into a movement of genetic experts?

“Leave the boy,” Frank said, shuffling to my side. He was half my height and delicate in build. He was old and weak, and they were immoral and cruel.

“Says who? You?” Hefner shoved the old man. Frank collapsed on the dirty ground. Hefner’s friends picked him up, clutching his arms tight. I yanked Hefner by the collar and threw him against the fence. “Touch him again and you’re dead.”

“You let the old man ride you, handsome f*ck?” Laughter bubbled out of him. “It’s not him I’m after, idiot. It’s you.”

This made me feel better. I can deal with the Aryan Brotherhood myself. But I didn’t want to drag Frank into this mess. I threw a punch straight to Hefner’s smug face, knowing that I was about to get beaten up by at least fifteen men, but what happened next surprised me.