As Anya paced a room at Sybil Brand Institute for Women, she pulled her hair over her temple then gouged the palms of her hands with her long nails. She was angry, but at least she was no longer frightened. She was sure no one had seen her with Scott the night he was murdered, but she would have to be careful. She wondered if Scott had told anyone he was meeting her.
Anya rubbed the thick scar behind her ear. The curved ridge of hard tissue, which was shaped like the edge of a gun butt, was a bonus from her last stay in a cell. But at least no one in this prison had put his filthy hands on her. And she had been offered food, which of course, she refused. She knew not to accept anything her jailers had to offer. If a prisoner accepted kindness from a guard, he would demand payback.
In spi
