THE BLACKWOODS COUNTY JAIL offered the same basic amenities that the prison once had—before it had been destroyed during the riot. Former warden Jefferson James had a cot on which to sleep. He went to the cafeteria for meals and a recreational area for entertainment. But what he’d just seen on television hadn’t been entertainment, so he’d demanded to return to his cell.
The DEA agent continued to make Jefferson’s life difficult. If only Kleyn had killed him, like Jefferson had ordered the inmate …
But instead of killing him, he’d helped the DEA agent escape Blackwoods. Now the DEA agent wanted to return the favor and prove Kleyn innocent of the crimes of which he’d been convicted. He probably was innocent—that was why he’d disobeyed Jefferson’s order to kill. But his innocence made him even more dangerous to Jefferson. If proved unjustly convicted, his testimony would carry more significance. That was why he couldn’t testify …
A shadow, sliced by the bars, fell across the floor in front of Jefferson. “You wanted to see me?”
No. He could barely look at Sheriff Griffin York. The young lawman was everything Jefferson despised—self-righteous, honorable and law-abiding as well as law-enforcing. But he did want to talk to the man.
“Took you damn long enough to get here,” Jefferson griped.
“Kind of got my hands full cleaning up the mess from the riot,” York bitterly remarked.
“Did you round up all the escapees yet?”
York’s gaze hardened with resentment. “It’s only been a few days.”
“So you haven’t apprehended any of them?”
“Some of them,” the sheriff claimed and then goaded, “and some of your guards, as well. They’re already talking. They have a lot to say about you.”
Jefferson’s lawyer wasn’t worried about the testimony of coconspirators who had benefited from the crimes of which he was being convicted. It was Kleyn he worried about; he was the one who couldn’t talk.
“What about the cop killer?” he asked. “He still at large?”
The sheriff’s nostrils flared. “You don’t need to worry about him.”
Hope lifted Jefferson’s spirit. “He’s dead?”
“No. But his face is all over the news. He will be apprehended soon.”
Jefferson didn’t want him arrested. He wanted him dead. He had already put into motion the shoot-on-sight order; he just had to trust that someone else out there wanted Jedidiah Kleyn dead as badly as he did.
If the man had been framed, then the real killer would probably want to make sure Kleyn didn’t live long enough to discover his identity …
HE’S OUT. HOW DID THE son of a bitch break the hell out of prison?
How had he survived it? How had he survived the year he’d spent in a war zone? Jedidiah Kleyn was some kind of superhero. Or he had been, until his shining armor had been permanently tarnished.
He grinned, his chest swelling with satisfaction in accomplishing what he had barely considered possible. The perfect murder. Murders.
And the perfect revenge. Jedidiah Kleyn had lost everything.
But his life. Now it was time to take that, too.
Chapter Three
“I was wrong,” a deep voice murmured. Jed spoke from where he stood in the hall, as if reluctant to step any closer to the child he had helped her conceive.
Erica stared down at her daughter’s sleeping face. After a sip of water, the toddler had dropped immediately back into a deep slumber. The stranger hadn’t unsettled or scared her like he had Isobel’s mother. But that was because Erica knew him, although he wasn’t the friend she’d told her daughter he was. If he had actually been a friend, she would have known him better; she would have known better than to trust him, let alone fall for him.
And even though he had been sentenced to spend two lifetimes in prison, Erica had known that this day would eventually come. She had known she would see Jedidiah Kleyn again. She stepped out of Isobel’s room and closed the door.
He stared at it, though, as if he could see through the wood. As if he could see his child …
“You were wrong?” She prodded him for an explanation and a diversion. Hoping he would follow her, she led him away from her daughter, down the short hall and back into the living room.
She hadn’t wanted to let him near her daughter. But she hadn’t wanted to scare the little girl either by showing her own fear. Some instinct, as well, had assured Erica that no matter what else Jed might have done, he wouldn’t hurt a child.
“You’re not my alibi,” he agreed as he rejoined her in the front room.
Finally he admitted it, banishing the doubts that had plagued her for the past three years. What if his lawyer had been wrong? What if Jedidiah hadn’t committed those heinous crimes? But Marcus Leighton had known Jed far longer and better than she had. If his own friend had believed he was guilty …
“Isobel’s my alibi.”
She gasped in surprise at his bizarre claim.
“She’s irrefutable proof that I was with you that night.”
Anger surged through her, chasing away her fears. She stepped close to him and stabbed his massive chest with her fingertip. “She’s irrefutable proof that I was drugged and raped that night.”
His neck snapped back as if she’d slapped him. “You think I raped you?”
“You drugged me—”
“I did not drug you,” he insisted with a weary-sounding sigh. From the dark circles beneath his eyes, she doubted he’d had any sleep since his escape. He had probably spent every minute of that time tracking her down. “I don’t even believe you were drugged.”
“Your lawyer has the lab results,” she informed him. “When I told him that my memory of that night was cloudy, he had my blood drawn.”
She should have known better than to believe, even for a moment, that Jed might have actually cared about her. Her own parents hadn’t. She had been just a few years older than Isobel was now when they’d dropped her off at her great aunt’s with the promise that they would come back for her. Despite sending her cards and letters over the years that had reiterated that promise and renewed her hope, they had never come back.
“When was that?” he asked, his dark eyes intense.
She had to refocus on their conversation to realize what he was asking, but she still didn’t understand why. “Three years ago, of course.”
“No,” he impatiently replied. “How many hours or days after we were together?”
Erica shrugged, wondering why he thought it mattered so much how many
