Twenty Three
“People are not always what they seem at first glance.” — Francesca BoyleBailey Troy stood waiting patiently. She could go no further until the guard behind the security window had satisfied himself that her ID was legitimate, that she was who she said she was, and that she should be admitted beyond the “sterile” area where she now stood. A dissonant jumble of indistinct but harsh sounds drifted in from the distance — of hard footsteps on hard floors, of iron doors slamming open and closed, of walkie-talkie squelch tones, of angry voices.
Prisons, Bailey thought to herself, needed more soft furnishings.
The guard slid her ID back through the slot at the bottom of the bullet-proof security window — a slot, Bailey noted in passing, that was easily large enough to accommodate
