Trust
Title:Trust
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Michael, Linc, LJ, Sara, Mahone,Jane
Rating:G
Summary:Lincoln and Michael are still on the run and having to make decisions as to who they do and don't trust. Post S213, but will veer off pretty quickly.
Spoilers:None after S213
Chapter 16 Smile Please!
Michael woke early the next day, the growing noise of the commuter traffic had penetrated his sleep and he sat up groggily, rubbing his face in his hands before standing and stretching slowly. He ached from spending the night curled up on the sofa and he was starving, remembering with a frown that he hadn’t eaten since his last meal in Statesville the day before.
He freshened up at the sink, avoiding the small shower room until he could buy some cleaning stuff and lose the grime that covered all the surfaces. He’d surprised himself at his squeamishness, there had been weeks on the run when he had used facilities ten times worse. He laughed softly to himself when he remembered Fox River; some of the areas had over a hundred years of dirt ground into its surfaces. There were meadows of mould in the communal shower yet he had showered without too much discomfort after the first couple of days. Either he was going soft or he was craving the life he had before the robbery, the life of high stitch cotton sheets and luxurious white towels.
He sighed, he needed to get moving, there were things he had to buy before reporting to work that morning. Socurto had allowed him some extra time, agreeing he wouldn’t have to report for his first day at work until 11am but finding a place where he could buy some basics and accept his coupons would be a bit of a challenge. A list, he needed to make a list, and without a pen, that was going to be difficult.
He padded across the room in his socks and opened the small draw built into the kitchen unit. It was empty apart from an humane mousetrap. Michael pushed it gingerly with his finger but was relieved to find it was empty. The second drawer has several old newspapers stuffed into it but after scrabbling around he broke into a wide smile when he found a pencil at the back of the drawer.
He returned to the sofa and using the envelope which had contained the tagging information as paper he started his list.
Clothes suitable for outside work, underwear, toiletries including some razors, pens and paper, some sheets or a sleeping bag, whichever was cheaper, cleaning materials, bleach…
He stopped for a second, Socurto had referred to them as food and clothing coupons, perhaps he would be restricted in what he could buy. He tapped the pencil gently against his knee for several seconds then shrugging his shoulders he continued to write.
Coffee, milk, muesli, pizza, he smiled as he added that to the list, then he went back and added x2 and smiled even deeper. Lots of cookies, orange juice, fruit and a cheap radio.
He knew this would seem like such a small thing to most people, the freedom to chose what to buy and what to eat but for Michael it was groundbreaking. It was perhaps the first real proof that he was out of prison and not on the run. He could enter normal shops, chat with the sales people, and not be worrying that they would recognise him, that any minute he would hear the whine of the siren or the voice shouting at him to ‘hit the floor, Scofield’.
He checked his watch and realised that despite what he thought had been an early start it was already 8.30am and he needed to be at the shops when they opened if he was to get everything on his list and make it to the cemetery for 11am.
He folded the list and stuffed it into his back pocket. Then reaching for his cap he pulled it down onto his head, turned and left the apartment, checking more than once that he had locked the door properly.
As he left the block he squinted up at the sun that was already climbing above the skyline. He stood for a second on the sidewalk and looked both ways, trying to remember the quickest way back to the stores. As he stood he became aware of a man watching him from across the street. He raised his hands to stop the glare from the sun to stare at the man and frowned when the man raised a camera with a large telephoto lens and began taking pictures of him.
Michael had a choice; he could ignore him and carry on to the stores or confront the guy. He strode across the street, aware as he walked of the constant click of the man’s camera. He stopped a few feet shy of him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, his voice low and accusatory.
The man lowered the camera. “Just taking pictures, Michael. You are Michael Scofield right?”
Michael flinched when he heard the man use his first name, this guy was a stranger. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with you, whoever you are.” Then he added, “Why are you here?”
“Just doing my job, everyone wants pictures of the famous fugitive and that was pretty damn impossible with you in Statesville.”
Michael sighed, his hands resting on his hips. “Well since you seem to know a lot about me, you will also know I’m not allowed to talk with the press, so I suggest you leave before I call the police and complain that you’re harassing me!”
The man just smiled, his camera now hanging down by his side, he was obviously enjoying this conversation rather more than Michael.
“Yeah call the cops, that will make a great picture, and I don’t want an interview, just get some pics ok?”
“No it’s not OK, just leave me alone!” Michael was almost shouting now, he turned and walked quickly down to the corner looking back just once before he turned to see the man aiming his camera and hearing the unmistakeable click as he took another photo.
Michael kept his head down as he walked along towards the stores, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He hadn’t expected paparazzi, he didn’t think of himself as a celebrity but the guy had seemed to think he was a worthy target and that worried him. He knew his release had been low key. His hearing had been closed to the public, the authorities having no desire to wash too much of their dirty linen in public but Michael knew the story was out there, or elements of it. He was still brooding about this when he returned an hour later burdened down with several large shopping bags.
As he turned back into the street he was relieved to see no sign of the photographer, although he checked over his shoulder several times as he neared the entrance to the block. Once inside his apartment he smiled with satisfaction at his purchases. He’d even managed to pick up a throw at a thrift store with his last few coupons and that now covered the rather suspect sofa.
He changed into the clean underwear and quickly dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt he had bought. Then, picking up the paper with the foreman’s name and details of where to report, he turned to leave. He almost reached the door when he remembered something. Walking back to the table he picked out the small card which explained his tagging and slipped it into his wallet. Then he left for his first day of his new job.
He had decided to walk the long way around to the maintenance area of the cemetery because he wanted to check on his mother’s grave. He had been paying for ‘extra’ maintenance for over ten years now to make sure it never became scruffy. He hadn’t visited as often in the last few years. However, knowing it would look cared for helped assuage his guilt slightly. He had only made it back on what would have been her birthday in the last two years. He couldn’t remember the last time Lincoln had mentioned visiting, but it had been a long time ago, Typical Lincoln really… As his mind wandered he realised that the annual payment would be due soon, he had to sort out his bank account, he wasn’t even sure if it had been unfrozen yet after his recapture.
He slowed as he approached her row and smiled slightly when he could see it was still neat and a fresh vase of flowers was sitting on the marble. Suddenly an image of his father’s grave appeared and he frowned at the contrast. The cairn was strong and would protect him but it lacked a headstone, and without that it was not finished. His eyes darkened and he lowered his head slightly as other memories of that day now came back with painful clarity. Lincoln appearing over the rise, the cops, Mahone, the slow growing anger as he realised what Linc had done. He shook his head and with his hands in his pockets he walked on across the grass towards the administration centre and the maintenance block behind it.
The foreman was called Ken Wilson, he was in his late fifties and his body language made it clear that Michael was not the first tagged convict he had had to manage. In fact Michael got the distinct impression that Ken was not a particular fan of the tagging system at all. He handed over the paperwork Socurto had given him and Ken barely looked at it. Instead he motioned over to a room where Michael would find overalls and a jacket. As he turned he caught Ken rolling his eyes in mute annoyance at Michael’s presence to the other members of the team.
The day passed in the same tone, several of the team wasting no opportunity to pass comment on his tag, and the uselessness of cons. Michael took it all silently, never failing to be polite even when faced with rather obvious abuse. He noticed Ken staring at him several times during the day, a questioning look on his face. As they finished for the night Ken called him over and with feigned annoyance advised him that he would have a late start the next day as well since DOC needed him to wait for the phone to be installed. The unspoken part of the message was undoubtedly what a waste of time and money it was tagging convicts and expecting them to actually contribute out in the real world.
Michael thanked him, hung his overalls up neatly on the hook and walked out of the maintenance area with his hands in his pockets smiling.
The day had been ok, bearable, he’d enjoyed working outside in the sun, not something he had got a lot of in the months inside and the work was mindless enough for him to daydream the day away with thoughts of how he could fix up the apartment and how to access his own things from storage.
He walked slowly back across the cemetery and was just about to leave through one of the side exits when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw the photographer again, standing half hidden in a small copse of young trees. He stopped then turned quickly and left, pulling his cap low down over his forehead and not stopping until he was on the inside of his apartment.
By the end of the week Michael’s life was beginning to improve. Several of the team had slowly come to realise who Michael was, and questions about the tattoo and the breakout began to pepper their lunchtime breaks. Michael always smiled but refused to be drawn. He was determined to leave that part of his life behind him and they eventually stopped asking.
A phone had been installed and he’d been really quite excited about it until he realised how few, how very few people there were he could or would call. He’d taken the assistance forms down to the local welfare and had received an emergency payment to buy necessities until his first pay check arrived. That night he’d walked back to the stores and purchased a radio and a take out coffee from a Starbucks pretender. He’d savoured the drink for a long time.
He had been trying to work out how to get some of the things delivered to him but every plan needed a go between. He couldn’t afford for everything to be delivered and he didn’t have enough room in this small apartment anyway. He needed someone to go along and pick up the important things, search through the crates and bring them over. But the plan failed at this point every time, he had no one who would do that for him. He couldn’t ask LJ as he didn’t drive yet and Lincoln would get involved and he didn’t want that. He thought about some of the people from his previous work, although now it felt more like a previous life, but he had never been that close. They had always remained colleagues not friends and it was a step too far to ask them. There were other family members, an aunt, much older than his mother and now frail and living in New York. He also thought there were cousins but he had never met them. He’d had suspicions as he grew up that he and Lincoln were not considered good enough to mix with cousins who had parents alive and well rather than dead and drunk.
He’d called Socurto and asked if he would be allowed to travel across to the storage warehouse and was told quite clearly that he would not, that he was still serving a sentence and that meant he did not have the freedom of the city!
There was one other person, one he kept rejecting every time her name popped up in his mind. Sara. He wasn’t sure if he felt brave enough to ask her, he wasn’t sure if she would agree, after all their last meeting had been spectacularly disastrous. He wasn’t sure he even wanted her to agree because that suggested he could afford to hope, that there may be in the distance a future friendship and he needed to protect those thoughts as they were so precious to him. He wasn’t going to allowing himself that kind of hope at the moment and asking her to run an errand for him might precipitate a stark refusal.
But he didn’t have anyone else; he picked up the phone and asked for the enquiries number.
Lincoln was sober. He was quite surprised at this turn of events but there was no doubt about it. It was morning, he wasn’t drunk and the light through the window was inhumanly bright. He groaned and stumbled across his bedroom to the bathroom, reaching for the light and grimacing when even more rays of light pierced through the fogginess of sleep. He stepped into the shower and stood there for what seemed like hours until it began to run cold and he quickly washed himself, the growing chill of the water finally breaking his stupor. He stepped out and quickly wrapped his lower half in a towel padding back to his room. He sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands.
He felt like shit, being sober felt like shit and he knew he was only sober because there was no more beer to drink. It had taken him several days to work through the supply in the fridge and the crate he had stored out on the balcony. LJ had started off by teasing him then pleading with him to stop and had finally left in disgust the day before saying he was going to stay with friends for a few days. The unspoken part he didn’t add was ‘and until you sober up’. But Lincoln knew what he meant.
The truth was that towards the end of the binge the drink had failed to stop him thinking, in fact it seemed to concentrate his mind purely on Michael and how he could fix things. It unwrapped memories of being together as children, of times on the run, desperate conversations in desperate places as they tried to find ways of keeping safe, of times in Fox River when he could do nothing but look helplessly on as his brother risked life and limb to ensure he never faced the Chair. So in the end, running out of the beer was a relief as what followed was a day of sleep and now he was stone cold sober.
He got up from the bed and rummaged around in his drawers for some boxers. There were none, well actually there were lots, but they were scattered all over his bedroom floor and none looked clean. He picked a pair up, sniffing them then dropping them quickly. No washing done for over two weeks therefore no underwear, a simple equation really. He sighed then padded across the hall into LJ’s room. He was larger than his son but LJ preferred the jersey cotton boxers and they would stretch to fit him for one day. He opened the drawer and pushing aside some socks reached for a pair. He noticed an envelope tucked down the side of the drawer, which he had slightly dislodged when he moved the socks. He was about to ignore it when he realised with a gasp that the blue was very familiar, prison stationery. He’d used the stuff for three years, he would recognise it anywhere.
He hesitated realising how wrong in so many ways this was but then reached in and removed the envelope. He sat down on LJ’s bed and pulled out the two sheets of lined paper, the crest of the Statesville Penitentiary stamped clearly at the top.
Several minutes later he got up and left LJ’s room, carefully tucking the envelope and its contents back into position. His eyes were dark but the pain was recognisable, and it started to intensify into anger as he closed LJ’s door behind him softly.
tbc
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Michael, Linc, LJ, Sara, Mahone,Jane
Rating:G
Summary:Lincoln and Michael are still on the run and having to make decisions as to who they do and don't trust. Post S213, but will veer off pretty quickly.
Spoilers:None after S213
Chapter 16 Smile Please!
Michael woke early the next day, the growing noise of the commuter traffic had penetrated his sleep and he sat up groggily, rubbing his face in his hands before standing and stretching slowly. He ached from spending the night curled up on the sofa and he was starving, remembering with a frown that he hadn’t eaten since his last meal in Statesville the day before.
He freshened up at the sink, avoiding the small shower room until he could buy some cleaning stuff and lose the grime that covered all the surfaces. He’d surprised himself at his squeamishness, there had been weeks on the run when he had used facilities ten times worse. He laughed softly to himself when he remembered Fox River; some of the areas had over a hundred years of dirt ground into its surfaces. There were meadows of mould in the communal shower yet he had showered without too much discomfort after the first couple of days. Either he was going soft or he was craving the life he had before the robbery, the life of high stitch cotton sheets and luxurious white towels.
He sighed, he needed to get moving, there were things he had to buy before reporting to work that morning. Socurto had allowed him some extra time, agreeing he wouldn’t have to report for his first day at work until 11am but finding a place where he could buy some basics and accept his coupons would be a bit of a challenge. A list, he needed to make a list, and without a pen, that was going to be difficult.
He padded across the room in his socks and opened the small draw built into the kitchen unit. It was empty apart from an humane mousetrap. Michael pushed it gingerly with his finger but was relieved to find it was empty. The second drawer has several old newspapers stuffed into it but after scrabbling around he broke into a wide smile when he found a pencil at the back of the drawer.
He returned to the sofa and using the envelope which had contained the tagging information as paper he started his list.
Clothes suitable for outside work, underwear, toiletries including some razors, pens and paper, some sheets or a sleeping bag, whichever was cheaper, cleaning materials, bleach…
He stopped for a second, Socurto had referred to them as food and clothing coupons, perhaps he would be restricted in what he could buy. He tapped the pencil gently against his knee for several seconds then shrugging his shoulders he continued to write.
Coffee, milk, muesli, pizza, he smiled as he added that to the list, then he went back and added x2 and smiled even deeper. Lots of cookies, orange juice, fruit and a cheap radio.
He knew this would seem like such a small thing to most people, the freedom to chose what to buy and what to eat but for Michael it was groundbreaking. It was perhaps the first real proof that he was out of prison and not on the run. He could enter normal shops, chat with the sales people, and not be worrying that they would recognise him, that any minute he would hear the whine of the siren or the voice shouting at him to ‘hit the floor, Scofield’.
He checked his watch and realised that despite what he thought had been an early start it was already 8.30am and he needed to be at the shops when they opened if he was to get everything on his list and make it to the cemetery for 11am.
He folded the list and stuffed it into his back pocket. Then reaching for his cap he pulled it down onto his head, turned and left the apartment, checking more than once that he had locked the door properly.
As he left the block he squinted up at the sun that was already climbing above the skyline. He stood for a second on the sidewalk and looked both ways, trying to remember the quickest way back to the stores. As he stood he became aware of a man watching him from across the street. He raised his hands to stop the glare from the sun to stare at the man and frowned when the man raised a camera with a large telephoto lens and began taking pictures of him.
Michael had a choice; he could ignore him and carry on to the stores or confront the guy. He strode across the street, aware as he walked of the constant click of the man’s camera. He stopped a few feet shy of him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, his voice low and accusatory.
The man lowered the camera. “Just taking pictures, Michael. You are Michael Scofield right?”
Michael flinched when he heard the man use his first name, this guy was a stranger. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with you, whoever you are.” Then he added, “Why are you here?”
“Just doing my job, everyone wants pictures of the famous fugitive and that was pretty damn impossible with you in Statesville.”
Michael sighed, his hands resting on his hips. “Well since you seem to know a lot about me, you will also know I’m not allowed to talk with the press, so I suggest you leave before I call the police and complain that you’re harassing me!”
The man just smiled, his camera now hanging down by his side, he was obviously enjoying this conversation rather more than Michael.
“Yeah call the cops, that will make a great picture, and I don’t want an interview, just get some pics ok?”
“No it’s not OK, just leave me alone!” Michael was almost shouting now, he turned and walked quickly down to the corner looking back just once before he turned to see the man aiming his camera and hearing the unmistakeable click as he took another photo.
Michael kept his head down as he walked along towards the stores, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He hadn’t expected paparazzi, he didn’t think of himself as a celebrity but the guy had seemed to think he was a worthy target and that worried him. He knew his release had been low key. His hearing had been closed to the public, the authorities having no desire to wash too much of their dirty linen in public but Michael knew the story was out there, or elements of it. He was still brooding about this when he returned an hour later burdened down with several large shopping bags.
As he turned back into the street he was relieved to see no sign of the photographer, although he checked over his shoulder several times as he neared the entrance to the block. Once inside his apartment he smiled with satisfaction at his purchases. He’d even managed to pick up a throw at a thrift store with his last few coupons and that now covered the rather suspect sofa.
He changed into the clean underwear and quickly dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt he had bought. Then, picking up the paper with the foreman’s name and details of where to report, he turned to leave. He almost reached the door when he remembered something. Walking back to the table he picked out the small card which explained his tagging and slipped it into his wallet. Then he left for his first day of his new job.
He had decided to walk the long way around to the maintenance area of the cemetery because he wanted to check on his mother’s grave. He had been paying for ‘extra’ maintenance for over ten years now to make sure it never became scruffy. He hadn’t visited as often in the last few years. However, knowing it would look cared for helped assuage his guilt slightly. He had only made it back on what would have been her birthday in the last two years. He couldn’t remember the last time Lincoln had mentioned visiting, but it had been a long time ago, Typical Lincoln really… As his mind wandered he realised that the annual payment would be due soon, he had to sort out his bank account, he wasn’t even sure if it had been unfrozen yet after his recapture.
He slowed as he approached her row and smiled slightly when he could see it was still neat and a fresh vase of flowers was sitting on the marble. Suddenly an image of his father’s grave appeared and he frowned at the contrast. The cairn was strong and would protect him but it lacked a headstone, and without that it was not finished. His eyes darkened and he lowered his head slightly as other memories of that day now came back with painful clarity. Lincoln appearing over the rise, the cops, Mahone, the slow growing anger as he realised what Linc had done. He shook his head and with his hands in his pockets he walked on across the grass towards the administration centre and the maintenance block behind it.
The foreman was called Ken Wilson, he was in his late fifties and his body language made it clear that Michael was not the first tagged convict he had had to manage. In fact Michael got the distinct impression that Ken was not a particular fan of the tagging system at all. He handed over the paperwork Socurto had given him and Ken barely looked at it. Instead he motioned over to a room where Michael would find overalls and a jacket. As he turned he caught Ken rolling his eyes in mute annoyance at Michael’s presence to the other members of the team.
The day passed in the same tone, several of the team wasting no opportunity to pass comment on his tag, and the uselessness of cons. Michael took it all silently, never failing to be polite even when faced with rather obvious abuse. He noticed Ken staring at him several times during the day, a questioning look on his face. As they finished for the night Ken called him over and with feigned annoyance advised him that he would have a late start the next day as well since DOC needed him to wait for the phone to be installed. The unspoken part of the message was undoubtedly what a waste of time and money it was tagging convicts and expecting them to actually contribute out in the real world.
Michael thanked him, hung his overalls up neatly on the hook and walked out of the maintenance area with his hands in his pockets smiling.
The day had been ok, bearable, he’d enjoyed working outside in the sun, not something he had got a lot of in the months inside and the work was mindless enough for him to daydream the day away with thoughts of how he could fix up the apartment and how to access his own things from storage.
He walked slowly back across the cemetery and was just about to leave through one of the side exits when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw the photographer again, standing half hidden in a small copse of young trees. He stopped then turned quickly and left, pulling his cap low down over his forehead and not stopping until he was on the inside of his apartment.
By the end of the week Michael’s life was beginning to improve. Several of the team had slowly come to realise who Michael was, and questions about the tattoo and the breakout began to pepper their lunchtime breaks. Michael always smiled but refused to be drawn. He was determined to leave that part of his life behind him and they eventually stopped asking.
A phone had been installed and he’d been really quite excited about it until he realised how few, how very few people there were he could or would call. He’d taken the assistance forms down to the local welfare and had received an emergency payment to buy necessities until his first pay check arrived. That night he’d walked back to the stores and purchased a radio and a take out coffee from a Starbucks pretender. He’d savoured the drink for a long time.
He had been trying to work out how to get some of the things delivered to him but every plan needed a go between. He couldn’t afford for everything to be delivered and he didn’t have enough room in this small apartment anyway. He needed someone to go along and pick up the important things, search through the crates and bring them over. But the plan failed at this point every time, he had no one who would do that for him. He couldn’t ask LJ as he didn’t drive yet and Lincoln would get involved and he didn’t want that. He thought about some of the people from his previous work, although now it felt more like a previous life, but he had never been that close. They had always remained colleagues not friends and it was a step too far to ask them. There were other family members, an aunt, much older than his mother and now frail and living in New York. He also thought there were cousins but he had never met them. He’d had suspicions as he grew up that he and Lincoln were not considered good enough to mix with cousins who had parents alive and well rather than dead and drunk.
He’d called Socurto and asked if he would be allowed to travel across to the storage warehouse and was told quite clearly that he would not, that he was still serving a sentence and that meant he did not have the freedom of the city!
There was one other person, one he kept rejecting every time her name popped up in his mind. Sara. He wasn’t sure if he felt brave enough to ask her, he wasn’t sure if she would agree, after all their last meeting had been spectacularly disastrous. He wasn’t sure he even wanted her to agree because that suggested he could afford to hope, that there may be in the distance a future friendship and he needed to protect those thoughts as they were so precious to him. He wasn’t going to allowing himself that kind of hope at the moment and asking her to run an errand for him might precipitate a stark refusal.
But he didn’t have anyone else; he picked up the phone and asked for the enquiries number.
Lincoln was sober. He was quite surprised at this turn of events but there was no doubt about it. It was morning, he wasn’t drunk and the light through the window was inhumanly bright. He groaned and stumbled across his bedroom to the bathroom, reaching for the light and grimacing when even more rays of light pierced through the fogginess of sleep. He stepped into the shower and stood there for what seemed like hours until it began to run cold and he quickly washed himself, the growing chill of the water finally breaking his stupor. He stepped out and quickly wrapped his lower half in a towel padding back to his room. He sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands.
He felt like shit, being sober felt like shit and he knew he was only sober because there was no more beer to drink. It had taken him several days to work through the supply in the fridge and the crate he had stored out on the balcony. LJ had started off by teasing him then pleading with him to stop and had finally left in disgust the day before saying he was going to stay with friends for a few days. The unspoken part he didn’t add was ‘and until you sober up’. But Lincoln knew what he meant.
The truth was that towards the end of the binge the drink had failed to stop him thinking, in fact it seemed to concentrate his mind purely on Michael and how he could fix things. It unwrapped memories of being together as children, of times on the run, desperate conversations in desperate places as they tried to find ways of keeping safe, of times in Fox River when he could do nothing but look helplessly on as his brother risked life and limb to ensure he never faced the Chair. So in the end, running out of the beer was a relief as what followed was a day of sleep and now he was stone cold sober.
He got up from the bed and rummaged around in his drawers for some boxers. There were none, well actually there were lots, but they were scattered all over his bedroom floor and none looked clean. He picked a pair up, sniffing them then dropping them quickly. No washing done for over two weeks therefore no underwear, a simple equation really. He sighed then padded across the hall into LJ’s room. He was larger than his son but LJ preferred the jersey cotton boxers and they would stretch to fit him for one day. He opened the drawer and pushing aside some socks reached for a pair. He noticed an envelope tucked down the side of the drawer, which he had slightly dislodged when he moved the socks. He was about to ignore it when he realised with a gasp that the blue was very familiar, prison stationery. He’d used the stuff for three years, he would recognise it anywhere.
He hesitated realising how wrong in so many ways this was but then reached in and removed the envelope. He sat down on LJ’s bed and pulled out the two sheets of lined paper, the crest of the Statesville Penitentiary stamped clearly at the top.
Several minutes later he got up and left LJ’s room, carefully tucking the envelope and its contents back into position. His eyes were dark but the pain was recognisable, and it started to intensify into anger as he closed LJ’s door behind him softly.
tbc