Rescued(67)

She cocked her head and looked concerned for a moment. “He’s not in segregation or anything is he?”

My throat felt dry and shut tight. I shook my head and dug through my reserve of willpower to try and be polite. I attempted a response but the words just wouldn’t come out. My knees shook, and I steadied myself against the wall. Something oily and slimy crawled in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to throw up. I thanked myself for not eating anything that morning.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “Oh gosh, you’re shaking. I’m sorry if I made things worse. Good luck with your visit.”

With a pat on my shoulder, she turned and went back to waiting in line.

Chills ran up my sternum and down my spine. I’d already been on a knife’s edge, but this was nearly enough to tip me over.

The line moved faster than I expected and suddenly I was up next. I dug through my pockets as the woman at the visitors desk waved me over.

She was heavy-set with short dark brown hair and wore brown wireframe glasses. To her credit, when she spoke it was obvious she was making an attempt to be cheerful.

“First time?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Okay, I’m going to need you to fill out this form and give it back to me with two forms of ID. You can just cut in line when you’re done. Pens are over there.”

I thanked her and took the form over to a nearby table. When I got there, I wiped the sweat away from my forehead and tried to focus on filling out the paperwork. The form mostly consisted of questions about my identity, the identity of the person I was going to visit, and whether I’d ever committed a crime or been to jail. Since I was clean on that front, it took very little time to complete.

After double-checking Marco’s prisoner number at the top against the note I’d brought with me, I went back to the visitor’s desk and handed my ID over with the form.

The attendant took it with a smile and entered the information from the form into the computer. I watched her work, keeping one eye nervously on the women who had gone to the next stage where they were patted down by a female prison officer before they were allowed into the visiting area.

Every second was bringing me closer to seeing the man who had destroyed my life. I knew he had the answers I needed. I just had to get through this and I would start to understand things again. I’d be able to start over anew with Hunter. We would be happy again.

“Ms. Burnham?”

The woman at the visitor’s desk was speaking to me. Shaking my head, I gave her my full attention.

She pursed her lips. The previous friendly demeanor looked somehow strained. “You’re here to see Mr. Peralta, correct?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

She pursed her lips and turned away. “Okay. One moment please.”

I shifted awkwardly as she got on the phone and began speaking into the receiver. What was all this about? Was Marco in segregation or something after all?

After a couple minutes, she nodded and hung up. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled for another guard’s attention. His head turned and he came over quickly. He was a heavily muscled, dark-haired man with beady eyes and a buzz cut.

“Daryl,” she said, “can you take this young lady to CR One please?”

Daryl nodded, apparently not needing any more clarification about his orders. “Follow me,” he said.

As I followed him, my scalp began to prickle down to the nape of my neck. Why were they taking me somewhere different than everyone else has gone?

Was Daryl going to pat me down? A female had patted all the other women down, which I would definitely prefer. I didn’t want to be felt up by some strange guy.

We got to the room. Daryl turned the knob and opened the door, stepping back to hold it for me. I held my breath and stepped in. Once I was in the room, he flipped the lights on for me, closed the door, and walked away. I could hear my pulse throbbing dimly in my ears.

What is going on?

I stood there, not knowing what to do as I listened to his retreating footsteps. The room had concrete walls that had been painted a creamy off-white and contained a single table with two chairs on one side and one chair on the other. The table was woodgrain laminate, the chairs black plastic. I took a seat on the side with two chairs, figuring the other side had to be the one for the inmates.

It wasn’t until I was seated that I realized how small the room was. The table was maybe eight feet in length and four feet wide. It took up the majority of the room. There wasn’t much more space than was needed to scoot back your chair and get around the table. Marco and I would be in close quarters. I thought about where the prison guard would stand while Marco and I were talking. The palms of my hands felt moist with sweat. I wiped them against my jeans.