The halfway house sat on Devereaux Street in a part of New Carthage that the city had long ago decided was not worth saving. It was a three-story brick building with barred windows and a door that looked like it had been kicked in more times than it had been opened with a key. The sign out front read NEW BEGINNINGS TRANSITIONAL HOUSING in faded letters, but someone had spray-painted over "NEW" and written "NO" in its place. The joke had been there so long that even the graffiti was starting to peel.
Caleb and Ava arrived at dusk, parking the patrol car two blocks away and walking the rest of the distance on foot. The street was empty except for a few men huddled in doorways, their faces hidden beneath hoods and shadows. The air smelled of diesel exhaust and stagnant water, the river only a few blocks away, its presence felt more than seen.
"You're sure he's here?" Caleb asked.
"His parole officer listed this address. He's been out of Coldwater for three weeks, ever since he got fired for smuggling out Leonard Crane's letter." Ava paused at the corner, scanning the street. "He's scared. Elias said he wouldn't talk to him anymore, wouldn't even answer his phone. But maybe he'll talk to us."
"And if he won't?"
"Then we'll know the wall is higher than we thought."
They crossed the street and entered the building. The lobby was a cramped space that smelled of bleach and boiled cabbage, the floor covered in linoleum that had been mopped so many times the pattern was almost gone. A man sat behind a desk near the stairs, his face a roadmap of burst capillaries, his eyes watching them with the dull suspicion of someone who had seen too much and cared too little.
"We're here to see Jimmy Sweet," Ava said, holding up her badge. "Official police business."
The man studied the badge for a moment, then shrugged. "Room 204. But he ain't been out in two days. Won't answer his door. Won't come down for meals. I was about to call his PO."
Ava exchanged a glance with Caleb. They climbed the stairs two at a time, the wood groaning beneath their feet. The second floor hallway was long and narrow, lit by a single bulb that flickered at intervals, plunging the corridor into momentary darkness. Room 204 was at the end, its door closed, a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the knob.
Ava knocked. "Jimmy? It's Deputy Landry, St. Clare Parish. I need to talk to you."
Silence. Then the sound of movement inside, slow and hesitant, like a man who had forgotten how to trust his own feet. The door opened a crack, a chain still in place, and a single eye peered out at them.
"Deputy Landry? I don't know no Deputy Landry."
"You knew my brother. Thaddeus Landry. He was in Coldwater with you."
The eye widened, and the door closed. For a moment, Caleb thought they had lost him. Then the chain slid back and the door opened fully.
Jimmy Sweet was a small man, wiry and tense, with the kind of face that had aged twenty years in the span of ten. He wore a stained t-shirt and jeans that hung loose on his frame, and his eyes moved constantly, scanning the hallway behind them as if expecting someone to materialize from the shadows.
"Get in," he said. "Quick. Before anyone sees you."
They stepped inside, and Jimmy locked the door behind them, sliding the chain back into place. The room was barely larger than a prison cell, with a single bed, a sink, and a window that looked out onto a brick wall. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings, photographs, handwritten notes, a collage of paranoia that seemed to be closing in on itself.
"You're the reporter," Jimmy said, looking at Caleb. "The one Leonard wrote to. I told him not to do it. I told him they'd kill him if they found out. But he wouldn't listen. Said someone had to know the truth."
"What truth, Jimmy? What did Leonard want me to know?"
Jimmy sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling. "Everything. The drugs. The experiments. The way they used us like lab rats, pumping that stuff into our heads until we couldn't think straight. Leonard, he was different. The drug didn't work on him the way it worked on the others. He stayed awake. He remembered. And he saw things that he wasn't supposed to see."
"What kind of things?"
"There's a room. At the back of the ward. A room that even the technicians don't go into without permission from the doctor. Leonard saw them bring people in there. Not inmates. People from outside. Politicians. Businessmen. People with money and power. They'd go in, and an hour later they'd come out looking different. Scared. Like they'd seen something they couldn't unsee."
"Did he know who they were?"
"He wrote down names. Dates. Everything. He kept a journal, hidden in his cell, written in a code he made up so no one could read it." Jimmy reached under his mattress and pulled out a small, spiral-bound notebook, its pages worn and creased. "He gave it to me the night before he died. Said if anything happened to him, I should get it to someone who could use it. I've been hiding it ever since, too scared to even look at it."
Caleb took the notebook. It was filled with Leonard's careful block letters, the same handwriting as the letter, arranged in patterns that looked like gibberish at first glance. But beneath the code, he could see the structure: dates, times, names, descriptions. A record of everything Leonard had witnessed.
"Why didn't you go to the police?" Ava asked.
Jimmy laughed, a bitter sound. "The police? The police are part of it. The warden, the guards, the doctors—they're all on the same payroll. I tried to tell someone once. A counselor, when I first got out. The next day, two men came to my room. They didn't say who they were. They didn't need to. They told me that if I ever spoke to anyone about Coldwater again, I'd be back inside before the week was out. And this time, I wouldn't be a guard. I'd be in the ward."
He looked at Caleb, his eyes pleading. "You have to understand. I'm not a brave man. I never was. That's why I took the job at Coldwater in the first place. It paid well, and I thought it would be safe. I didn't know what they were doing down there. And by the time I found out, it was too late to leave."
"It's not too late now," Caleb said. "Tell me about the doctor. Moreau. What's his role in all of this?"
"Moreau is the brains. He came to Coldwater five years ago with a grant from some company I'd never heard of. Aeterna. They built the ward, hired the technicians, brought in the equipment. At first, it was just research. Studies on inmate behavior, sleep patterns, that sort of thing. But then it changed. They started bringing in the drugs. The injections. The people from outside."
"And the warden? Crowe?"
"Warden Crowe knows everything. He's been there since the beginning. He signs the transfer orders, approves the funding, covers up the deaths. He's the one who keeps the state off our backs. Him and the Attorney General's office, they work together. Everything gets buried. Every report gets redacted. Every death gets written off as natural causes."
Caleb thought about the autopsy report, pulled by Rachel Vance. "The Attorney General's office. They're involved directly?"
"They're the muscle. The legal muscle, anyway. Whenever there's a problem, whenever someone starts asking questions, they step in. They shut it down. They threaten people. They make things disappear." Jimmy's voice dropped to a whisper. "There's a man who works for them. I don't know his name. But he's the one they send when things get serious. The one who makes sure people stay quiet."
"Have you seen him?"
"Once. After Leonard died. He came to the prison and met with Moreau. I saw them talking in the parking lot. The way they stood, the way they looked at each other—it wasn't the first time they'd met. There's a connection between them, something deeper than just work."
Ava stepped forward. "Jimmy, we need to get back into Coldwater. We need to get into the ward and access Moreau's files. Can you help us?"
Jimmy stared at her as if she had asked him to fly. "Are you insane? You can't break into Coldwater. It's a maximum-security prison. There are guards, cameras, checkpoints. You'd never make it past the front gate."
"There has to be a way. A delivery entrance, a maintenance tunnel, something."
Jimmy was silent for a long moment. Then he stood and walked to the window, staring out at the brick wall. "There's a service entrance. On the east side of the building, near the loading docks. It's used for medical supply deliveries. The guards who work that post are lazy. They don't check IDs half the time, especially on the night shift. If you had uniforms, a delivery truck, the right paperwork... maybe. But you'd still need to get past the internal checkpoints. And you'd need someone on the inside to disable the cameras."
"Can you do that?"
"I've been gone for three weeks. My access codes are probably deactivated by now. And even if they weren't, I can't go back there. They'll know. They always know."
"Then who?"
Jimmy turned back to face them, his expression bleak. "There's a woman. Lila Rawls. She was a nurse in the infirmary for thirty years. She retired a few months ago, but she still has contacts. People who owe her favors. If anyone can help you, it's her."
"We already tried Lila," Caleb said. "She wouldn't talk."
"She wouldn't talk to you because she was scared. But she might talk to me." Jimmy reached for a jacket hanging on the back of a chair. "I know where she lives. I can take you there. But I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"If we do this, if we go down this road, there's no turning back. These people, they don't just threaten. They don't just intimidate. They kill. They've killed before, and they'll kill again. My life is already over. But yours—you still have a chance to walk away."
Caleb looked at Ava, then back at Jimmy. "We're not walking away. Not after what we've seen."
Jimmy nodded, a grim acceptance settling over his features. "Then let's go. Lila lives on the north side, about twenty minutes from here. We can take my car."
They left the halfway house through a back exit, Jimmy leading them through an alley that smelled of garbage and old rain. His car was a rusted sedan parked two blocks away, its back seat filled with empty fast-food wrappers and old newspapers. They climbed in, and Jimmy pulled away from the curb, his eyes constantly moving to the rearview mirror.
"Someone's following us," he said after a few blocks.
Caleb turned and looked through the back window. A dark SUV was two cars behind them, its headlights cutting through the evening gloom. It had been there since they left Devereaux Street, maintaining a careful distance.
"Are you sure?"
"I've been watching for three weeks. They're always there. Every time I leave the house, every time I go to the store. They're waiting. They want to make sure I don't talk."
"Can you lose them?"
Jimmy's jaw tightened. "Hold on."
He turned the wheel sharply, taking a hard right into a narrow side street. The sedan bounced over potholes and scraped against a dumpster, sparks flying. Behind them, the SUV made the same turn, its engine roaring. Jimmy accelerated, weaving through the maze of alleys and backstreets that crisscrossed the industrial district. He knew the neighborhood, every shortcut and dead end, and he used that knowledge now, taking turns at the last possible moment, cutting through abandoned lots and warehouse loading docks.
For a moment, it seemed to work. The SUV fell behind, its headlights disappearing around a corner. Jimmy slowed, breathing hard.
"I think we lost them."
And then the SUV appeared directly in front of them, blocking the street. Two men stepped out, their faces hidden, their hands reaching inside their jackets.
Jimmy slammed the car into reverse, but another vehicle had pulled up behind them, cutting off their escape. The men were walking toward them now, slowly, deliberately, the way predators approach prey that has nowhere to run.
"Get down," Ava said, drawing her service weapon. "Both of you, get down now."
Caleb pulled the .38 from his jacket. The weight of his father's gun felt insufficient against whatever the men were carrying. Beside him, Jimmy was trembling, his face pale as moonlight.
"I should have known," Jimmy whispered. "They were never going to let me go. Not after what I saw. Not after what I took."
"What did you take?" Caleb asked.
"Something I wasn't supposed to have. Something Moreau has been looking for since the day Leonard died. It's why they've been following me. It's why they'll never stop."
The men were at the car now, their fists pounding on the windows. Ava raised her weapon, her hands steady, but her eyes told a different story.
"Whatever happens," she said, "don't let them take you alive. You know what happens to people who go back to Coldwater."
Caleb cocked the revolver. The sound was loud in the confined space, a small act of defiance against the inevitable.
And then the driver's side window shattered, and the night erupted into chaos.
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