He looked at the burning building.
Then he looked at Mara.
And for one brief moment, she saw something in his expression.
Not relief.
Fear.
The next morning, Blackridge went into lockdown.
Officials called the fire an electrical malfunction.
Mara laughed when Reed told her.
“You think that’s funny?”
“Your sprinklers failed. Your emergency lighting failed. Your alarm loop failed. Your radio repeater failed. And every extinguisher near the records room was empty.”
Reed stared at her.
“You’re saying sabotage.”
“I’m saying electricity would have needed a very busy night.”
“What was in that records room?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Reed hesitated.
“Medical complaints.”
“From which unit?”
“Mostly Prison Industries.”
Mara looked at her sharply.
Blackridge operated a contracted recycling facility beyond the north fence. Selected inmates sorted electronic waste for private manufacturers.
Officially, the program offered job training.
Unofficially, everyone hated it.
Sloane knew why.
“Girls come back sick,” she said later.
She sat opposite Mara in the temporary dining room.
“Headaches. Burns. Trouble breathing.”
“Chemicals?”
“Probably.”
“Medical reports?”
Sloane gave a humorless laugh.
“You file a complaint, suddenly it disappears.”
Mara thought of the records room.
“What else?”
Sloane leaned forward.
“Two months ago, a woman named Beth Carver collapsed at the recycling plant.”
“What happened?”
“Ambulance took her away.”
“And?”
“She never came back.”
“Transfer?”
“That’s what they said.”
“You believe that?”
“No.”
Mara’s expression hardened.
“Neither do I.”
For the first time, Sloane told Mara why she controlled so much of Blackridge.
Information.
She wasn’t collecting commissary because she cared about instant coffee.
She used favors to hear things.
Which guards were frightened.
Which inmates disappeared.
Which officers carried envelopes between the prison and the recycling contractor.
She had suspected corruption for years but never had proof.
Mara understood now.
“You weren’t building a kingdom.”
Sloane shrugged.
“Maybe I was doing both.”
Mara almost smiled.
Together they began collecting details.
Quietly.
Dates.
Names.
Shift assignments.
Medical symptoms.
Transfers.
Mara discovered that every major accident at the recycling facility had been recorded as an inmate disciplinary incident.
Chemical burn became “self-inflicted injury.”
Smoke inhalation became “panic attack.”
A crushed hand became “recreational altercation.”
Then Reed found something worse.
She came to Mara during chapel four days after the fire.
Her face was pale.
“The state safety audit was supposed to arrive next Monday.”
Mara understood immediately.
“The records burned six days before inspection.”
Reed nodded.
“And Holt personally changed the archive schedule last month.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I saw the order.”
“Seeing isn’t proving.”
Reed reached into her uniform.
She did not hand Mara anything.
She only whispered.
“I made a copy.”
That was when Deputy Warden Holt entered the chapel.
He looked directly at them.
Reed walked away.
Holt approached Mara.
“You’ve caused quite a disturbance since arriving.”
“I thought the fire caused the disturbance.”
“You enjoy being clever?”
“Not especially.”
Holt smiled.
“You were a firefighter once.”
Mara said nothing.
“Then an industrial safety investigator.”
Still nothing.
“Then you signed a fraudulent inspection report and people died.”
Mara’s eyes became cold.
“That’s what the court decided.”
“The court decided correctly.”
“Were you there?”
“No.”
“Then one of us is pretending to know more than he does.”
His smile vanished.
“You should remember you’re an inmate, Quinn.”
“I remember every morning.”
“Good.”
Holt leaned closer.
“Because accidents happen in prison.”
Mara held his gaze.
“I’ve spent half my life investigating accidents.”
Holt walked away.
That evening, Reed disappeared from C Block.
Another officer claimed she had requested emergency leave.
Mara did not believe it.
Neither did Sloane.
At 11:40 p.m., Sloane whispered through the vent between their cells.
“Something’s happening.”
“How do you know?”
“Everybody who owes Holt favors suddenly got moved off the floor.”
Mara stood.
Footsteps approached.
Four officers appeared.
“Quinn. Mercer. Pack up.”
Sloane smiled without humor.
“Called it.”
“Where are we going?” Mara asked.
“Administrative transfer.”
“At midnight?”
“Move.”
Their wrists were cuffed.
Instead of the transfer wing, the officers took them through the same maintenance corridor Mara had used during the fire.
Sloane looked at her.
Mara looked back.
Neither spoke.
At the end of the passage waited Holt.