down toward her window. He was young, sober and all business. A private. Serious about his duties.
“I’m here to visit a … prisoner.”
“Are you expected?” He didn’t blink an eye. Didn’t ‘get it’ that just saying the word ‘prisoner’ in association with her husband sent shock waves coursing through her body.
Somehow she managed to nod. “My name should be on the approved visitor’s list.”
Managing to get her name on that list had been no small feat. When Mac had finally called, he’d only been allowed to share the basics. He was in the brig. He was accused of a murder. They were shipping him home next week. He’d given her the names of a few officers who might be able to help.
‘Next week’ had passed in a blur of frustration and fear and more tears as she’d made one unproductive phone call after another. All the contacts, all the friends she and Mac had made on the base over the years – none of them could help her find out more information. They’d tapped their superior officers. Gotten nothing. Loose lips sink ships. How well she knew that mentality.
She’d bullied and begged and badgered and finally gotten through to the company commander who’d reluctantly granted permission for her to get in to see him.
“I’ll need two forms of ID, please.”
The guard’s voice shocked her back to the moment. She’d already pulled the IDs out of her purse and handed them over, hoping he didn’t notice how badly her hand was shaking.
He scanned them both, gave her a quick glance to compare photos, then handed them back to her while warm air from the heater leaked out her open window.
“Thank you, ma’am. The parking lot’s up and to your right,” he said, again, so polite and so professional she wanted to scream at his composure. She’d lost hers the day she’d received the phone call that had changed their lives.
Chapter Two
Except for two military vehicles, the black asphalt parking lot was empty. Rachael parked across from the prison building, braced herself, then got out of the SUV. When she turned, it was to face the menacing sight of the brown brick and gray stone structure that was the U.S. military’s only maximum security prison. The building was all sharp edges and various levels. It was also cold and harsh and unwelcoming, as, no doubt, it was intended to be.
Despite the warmth of the sun, she wrapped her coat tightly around her to stall the winter chill then walked on unsteady legs across the lot to the sidewalk. She hesitated a moment at the door then walked into the building. It smelled industrial and harsh and if despair had a scent, this would be it.
She couldn’t have hidden her tension if she’d tried as she moved awkwardly through the hoops of the visitation admission process. Thirty nerve-wracking minutes later, she placed her purse, phone, and coat into a metal basket that she was told would be locked away for security purposes.
“Everything will be returned to you when you leave.” The middle-aged woman behind a glassed-in counter was also in uniform. The faintest whiff of a sweet, soft perfume said more about her than her expression as she handled the exchange with a detached professionalism that said she’d done it a million times and was bored by it. “Sergeant Eagan will escort you.”
Sergeant Eagan appeared out of nowhere and was waiting patiently behind her.
“This way, ma’am.”
Eagan was tall and slender with a baby face and fair complexion. He didn’t look old enough to be a sergeant. That she even noticed surprised her. She was focused on one thing. Seeing Mac.
As Eagan led her down a well lit hallway painted institutional gray, she had to check herself to keep from flinching each time one of the heavy doors locked behind them with a hard, weighty thud. Every step rang hollow. Each breath hurt.
“No touching,” Sergeant Eagan warned as he stopped at a door, unlocked it, and stood aside for her to enter.
It felt surreal. Mac was finally home. Eight months in Afghanistan. Eight months of missing him – and now she couldn’t even touch him.
Once again she braced herself. Was only vaguely aware that Sergeant Eagan had also entered the small room then closed and locked the door and positioned himself in front of it like a room monitor. Only this was much more intense than school. It didn’t smell of ink and dry eraser boards or the aroma of food drifting down the