sight.”
We walked down the long corridor, past the central control bubble, and into the warden’s conference room. The air smelled of burnt percolator coffee and polished linoleum.
Sitting on the far side of the mahogany table was Curtis Voss, dressed in clean orange scrubs, flanked by two armed guards. He had his arms crossed, leaning back in his chair, trying to look bored.
Beside him sat Lieutenant Harlan, sweat glistening along his receding hairline, his fingers fidgeting with his leather key lanyard.
When I entered, Voss smirked, leaning forward. “Look who made it out of the dark. You ready to sign the confession on that phone, Mercer?”
I didn’t answer him. I took the chair Miller pointed to and sat down.
The chief investigator, a woman with sharp brown eyes named Alvarez, tossed a manila folder onto the center of the table.
”Thirty minutes ago, outside investigators executed a
Comments