"He's all yours. Keep him on a leash," the officer said, half amused, half annoyed, as he turned the key in the cell door and swung it open.
The sound of metal scraping metal echoed off the stained concrete walls.
Jackson, still sitting calmly in his suit, didn't look the least bit bothered as he rose and walked out.
I stepped forward, filled with furious calm. My high heels clicked with precision, each step deliberate and loud on purpose.
I just smiled politely at the officers, the way I'd practiced since I was a teenager when I was mad: tight-lipped, chin lifted, like the world owed me nothing.
I took a swift, calculating look at Jack. Aside from the faint scratches on his cheek, the tiny bloodstain on his shirt collar, and the dried blood caking his knuckles, he looked
