“You shouldn’t be here.”
“What happened?”
“I fell.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
She looked away.
“Mack wanted the box.”
“Where is it?”
Evelyn touched her chest.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
She hesitated.
“Inside the wall.”
“What?”
She pointed toward the old ventilation panel.
I stared at it.
“You hid it there?”
“No.”
She smiled weakly.
“I gave it to you.”
I didn’t understand.
She reached beneath her mattress and pulled out a small key.
“Your father gave me this too.”
I took it.
It was old.
Brass.
Stamped with the number 17.
“Cell 17?”
She nodded.
“My cell?”
“Your cell.”
I suddenly remembered something.
When I had arrived at Westbridge eight months earlier, my assigned cell had been 17.
Nobody had explained why.
I had assumed it was random.
Evelyn watched my face.
“Your father knew you’d come here.”
I shook my head.
“That’s impossible.”
“He knew.”
“Why?”
“Because he knew what they would do to you.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she whispered:
“Look beneath the bed.”
That night, I waited.
After lights out, I returned to Cell 17.
I moved the bed.
There was nothing.
I ran my fingers along the floor.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a tiny crack in the concrete.
