But how?

How does a man locked behind bars have his hands in every part of her life?

Brooke grips her phone, her fingers tightening around it.

She has to stop him.

Seventh Part: Final Sentence

Brooke has no choice.

She has to face him.

The prison is silent when she walks in. It’s late, but she knows the guards’ routines. Knows how to move unseen.

Her steps lead her straight to Wesley Carter’s cell.

He sits on his cot, head tilted down, as if he knew she’d come. When he looks up, a slow smile spreads across his face.

—Hello, nurse.

Brooke grips the bars, her fingers ice-cold.

—How did you do it?

Carter tilts his head.

—Do what?

—You know what. —Her voice is barely a whisper—. The note. My key. My ID in your cell.

He lets out a soft, amused laugh.

—I think you’re giving me too much credit.

Brooke feels her anger rise.