CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Howard Randall appeared to have aged since the last time Avery had seen him. There was a slump in his shoulders, and the grayish coloring and lines of his face made him seem much older than his fifty-some-odd-years. They sat in a bland, gray conference room on B-Level, reserved for the most dangerous prisoners that were confined to solitary. He wore an orange jumpsuit and his hands were cuffed to the table before him.
“I knew you’d come back,” he whispered with his head low. “I’m so glad to see you, Avery. What happened to your face?”
“Gang fight,” she said.
“Gang fight?” he asked, worried. “With whom?”
“Juan Desoto. A killer-for-hire with his own crew.”
“He did that to your face?” Howard asked.
“Yup.”
“Hmmm.”
“Why are you still on B-Block?” Avery said.
Howard met
