Quentin’s POV
The prison library wasn’t much—dusty shelves, broken chairs, a guard who barely stayed awake. But it had one thing I needed: quiet.
I sat at the back table, a stack of newspapers and glossy magazines spread before me. Every one of them had her face on the cover.
Thora Greenwood.
Sometimes she looked fierce, chin lifted. Sometimes she looked broken, eyes glassy. But always, always, she looked like mine.
She thought she was hurting me with those papers she filed. She thought she was striking a blow. But all she’d really done was hand me the spotlight. And I knew exactly how to use it.
My lawyer’s visits were short, but efficient. He came today with a manila folder so thick it barely fit under his arm.
He slid it across the table. “We’ve gathered testimonies. Former cowor
