“No,” Alex said immediately, but the fire in his voice said otherwise. “I’m angry. She trusted him with something I should’ve known. She says she’s protecting me—but what she’s really doing is shutting me out.”
He glanced out the window, voice hardening. “I love her, but she’s so scared. Like love is a risk she can’t afford. Sophie told me she’d rather push me away than let the shoe drop.”
“That’s realistic. She lost her husband and almost lost each of her daughters.” Brad nodded slowly. “You think she’s hiding more?”
Alex’s stare locked ahead. “Noah thinks so. I can feel it too. She’s holding something back. She looks at me like she’s already two steps ahead—like she’s already decided what she’s willing to lose.”
A beat of silence passed before he added, “Cullen reported the former cellmate said Ward kept muttering the name ‘Rook’ in his sleep.”
Killian flicked his eyes to the side at that.
Alex didn’t blink. “I want to know what that means. And I want to know what Charlotte already knows about it.”
Brad nodded. “Alright. How do you want to handle the questions?”
Alex cracked a small, grim smile. “Good cop, bad cop.”
Brad smirked. “I’ll be the bad cop.”
The highway stretched ahead. The truth was waiting.
The patrol car rolled through the gates of the penitentiary, gravel crunching under the tires. Towering fences loomed on either side, razor wire glinting in the afternoon sun. Alex and Brad stepped out, flashing their badges to the guard without a word.
Inside, the air shifted. Cold. Institutional. They were led to Warden Shepler’s office—wood paneling, neatly stacked folders, the illusion of order. But today, Shepler looked cornered.
Alex leaned against the doorframe with casual ease. Brad stood rigid, arms crossed, jaw set like concrete.
“We need to speak.” Brad’s voice was hard enough to crack stone.
Shepler blinked, composing herself. “I wasn’t told?—”
Brad cut her off, “We’re not asking.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She knew the difference between a visit and an order. Unlike Charlotte Everhart or Graham Cullen, these two carried weight. Real weight.
Alex stepped forward, smooth voice wrapped in courtesy. “We understand the facility’s been under strain. We're not here to make things harder, Warden. We just want answers about Ward’s time here.”
Shepler hesitated, eyes flicking between them.
“Let’s start with who had contact with him during the last two months,” Brad said. “Doctor. Cellmate. Assistant Warden.”
Shepler gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll order the files.”
“No,” Brad said. “Names. Now.”
She relented. The prison hallways echoed with the clack of boots and the low murmur of radios. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Alex and Brad were led back to the infirmary.
Dr. Rena Fields waited for them in a narrow office lined with metal filing cabinets. She stood when they entered, arms crossed, expression tight. Her white coat was spotless. Professional. Guarded.
Alex smiled gently, extending a hand. “Dr. Fields, thank you for your time.”
She shook it, barely. “I’m not sure what help I can be.”
Brad stood against the door, letting the silence stretch. His badge was visible on his belt. His stare was harder than most men’s voices.
“We need to ask you a few questions about Gideon Ward,” Alex said.
She straightened. “I’m sorry, but patient confidentiality is still in effect.”
