CHAPTER SEVEN
Sixty-four.
That was the number of springs on the underside of the bedframe. Mia had spent much of that first night, running her finger over the imprint of the missing ring on her pinky, and listening to the woman above her, snoring as if she was getting the best night of sleep of her life.
In the morning, noises and light grew. Mia rolled over on her side, watching the guards on the landing below. From her vantage point, she could just see the tops of their heads.
Breakfast will be next. Angel Vasquez and her cohorts will see me, and I’ll be dead.
She winced at the sound of the alarm. That was her cue to get up and out of her cell. She rolled up to sitting, but to her surprise, when the door to her jail cell sprang open, a guard stepped inside.
“North. Up.”
She stood,
