The buckle clicked. “One at a time,” he said. “I’ll go first. I’m careful.”
Olivia screamed, not from pain at first but from rage. Her voice broke. She fought, clawed, tried to bite.
Tank clamped a hand over her mouth. It smelled like sweat and tobacco. “Quiet now,” he whispered. “People are sleeping.”
They took turns with her. First Scalpel, quick and eager, with that sick little grin. Then Tank, heavy and wheezing, using his weight.
Greek was last. Slow. Looking her in the eye. “You came in here on your own,” he whispered. “You opened the door yourself.
Now keep quiet.” When it was over, she lay on the bunk. White coat and uniform torn, body bruised and bleeding.
They stood around her fastening their pants. Greek crouched beside her and took her chin in his hand. “We know where your sister works.
Accounting office outside Pittsburgh. Nine to five.” “The kids are at the daycare across the street.
If you talk, she gets a message tomorrow. You understand?” Olivia said nothing. She was breathing hard through her mouth.
“You’ll sign a report,” he said. “Assault, threat to life, self-defense.” “Everything clean.”
She did not answer. Greek stood. “Go on. Morning’s coming.”
Tank opened the door. The key turned. Olivia got to her feet slowly, legs shaking. She walked into the corridor.
The door shut behind her. The clock in the duty office read 4:18. She made it to the desk and sat down.
Her hands did not shake, but something inside her had cracked. Quietly, but for good. Olivia sat still for another seven minutes, staring at the folded report form.
Then she stood. Her legs worked, though a dull pulse throbbed in her thighs. She walked to the sink and turned on the water.
The cold stream hit her wrists. Olivia splashed her face, then took a small jar of concealer from the medical kit. Flesh tone, almost sheer.
She always kept it for morning shifts after sleepless nights, when her eyes were red and her skin looked gray. Today it had a different use. She put it on with her fingers, first under her left eye where a violet bruise was already forming.
Then on her neck, where Greek’s fingers had left dark marks. And on her collarbone, where Tank had held her too hard. She covered the marks on her wrists.
Her movements were precise, practiced, like she was dressing somebody else’s wound. The concealer went on smooth. In the mirror, her face looked almost normal again.
Only her lip was still bleeding where she had bitten through it. Olivia wiped her hands, pulled on a clean shirt from her spare uniform. She always kept one ready.
She buttoned every button and straightened the collar. Looked in the mirror again. Eyes dry.
Good. She sat at the desk and took a report form. Her handwriting stayed even, the letters straight.
“December 14, 1989, between 12:45 a.m. and 4:18 a.m., inmates Gregory I. Savel, Victor P. Ruden, and Owen W. Miro, housed in Segregation Cell Nine, carried out a group assault on Senior Corrections Officer Olivia S. Carter.” “The purpose of the assault was to seize a service weapon and cause serious bodily harm. Under immediate threat to life and health, service weapon was deployed.
Threat was contained.” “Inmates were forced back into the cell. Incident resolved.
No staff injuries.” She read it over. Clean. Not one extra word.
Her signature was broad and steady, same as always. Stamp. Done.
Olivia put the report in the outgoing file and locked the safe. Then she took a pack of cigarettes from the drawer and lit one. The smoke tasted bitter, but it steadied her.
She smoked slowly, looking at the wall. At 6:30 a.m., Luke came in to relieve her. Sleepy eyes, jacket half open.
“Morning, Officer Carter.” “How was the night?”
