Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
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Chapter Four "Apparently Crafts are Therapeutic"
Scarlett's POV:
I sleep for longer this time, waking with a leg out of the blanket and an arm numb under my head. I'm not tired as I open my eyes. The only other time this has happened was when I drove to and from Albany and slept for fifteen hours afterwards.
I take the time to wash my face before going back to my room. I sit, tapping my fingers on my knees and staring at the empty bookcase. It gets boring quickly and I groan, throwing my head back.
I'm the type of person to get restless extremely easily. I can sleep in every which way to Sunday, but put me in front of a TV for more than forty-five minutes and I'll start running on the spot.
It doesn't bode well for my time at Citadel. From what I've seen, prison isn't exactly the posterchild for interesting things to do in one's spare time. Especially in this prison, where it's considered normal for the staff to try and get an inmate to kill another.
I decide to look for Alexander before I go stir-crazy.
I find the stranger in the office from yesterday. He's sunken into one side of the black couch, a glass in hand with a small amount of brown liquid sloshing at the bottom. He tilts his head back, downing the rest of what I assume to be scotch in one gulp.
The heck? What time is it? My body clock says sometime in the morning, but perhaps I'm wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, and definitely won't be the last.
I cock my head to the side, eyes narrowing a little. Alexander's movements are graceful, purposeful, confident. He's sophisticated enough to have picked up on my desire to run when we first met, and he's lived enough life to look as if his survival depends on that glass of scotch. But his speech hasn't developed enough for him to form sentences.
Who is this man?
"Has this become our common assembly area?" I raise a brow, striding to the table once again filled with desserts. I'm sure I'll get sick of it eventually, but a couple cookies and an éclair for breakfast doesn't sound bad to me when prison bound.
"Between rooms," Alexander grunts, giving me a once over before returning his gaze to the burning fireplace. I blink, does he mean the room between our two sleeping quarters? As in, his 'bedroom' is the dark, cold cul-de-sac?
Unless he sleeps in the bathroom, I guess that's exactly what he means.
"Okay then," I take the opposite corner of the couch, flinching at the squishy sound it makes when I settle in. Alexander doesn't spare me a glance, but it feels as if he's judging me anyway. Not my fault the couch is fucking loud.
