privacy, sweetheart,” he said, making sure to emphasize the term. “That is, in terms of other inmates.”
Ah, yes. She’d be sure to mention that perk on the comment card. This guy was 100% certified asshole. “I told you to stop that,” she said.
He shoved the door open. “You think you have the right to make demands now?”
Fuck him. If she let them push her around in the beginning, they’d never let up. “You don’t get to call me sweetheart.”
Fischer pushed her forward into a cold, dark room that Caroline could see was plainly marked with the number 27. He shoved her up against the wall by her throat, and she gasped for breath.
“Let’s get one thing straight, lady,” he said. “I can call you whatever the fuck I want. You read me?”
She nodded the best she could, coughing for air. Fischer quickly yanked her further into the cell by her handcuffs. The sudden movement jarred her, and she cried out.
Her response made him grin. “Seems to me that you’re not fully aware of the position you’re in right now. Maybe you need to be a little more scared.” He punched her in the face, propelling her backwards onto the bed.
Caroline covered her head in case he was going to hit her again. His gaze fell to the small scar on her left arm. The one she’d forgotten about, since it was several years old. Barely noticeable anymore. He fingered the scar and she tried to draw back. She winced in pain, the blood dripping down her face. Fischer pulled his hand away, staring at the scar again. His lips turned up in another cruel smile. This guard thrived on the pain and humiliation of others. Another troubling notation for her mental file.
Maybe she needed to stop keeping track of her unsettling observations.
“That’s a little badge of honor for you, right?” Fischer didn’t wait for her to answer. “You’re gonna have plenty more of those by the time we’re finished with you.” He pulled out a baton and cracked her across the temple. She could swear she heard him laughing as the room faded to black.
Chapter Four
The Past
The floor was freezing. Caroline never thought about it before but she very rarely got over to the Capitol Visitor’s Center. And never considered whether it would be wise to park her ass on the marble while wearing a skirt suit.
She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back against the wall. Random voices told her things, random hands poked her arm. She knew the voices she heard were people from the first aid office down the hall from the metal detectors, with maybe a police officer thrown in somewhere. She struggled to concentrate.
“Get back, come on, let me through!”
Caroline heard a familiar, severe female voice nearby, and the personnel scuttled away. She felt the rush of someone practically diving toward her on the floor and caught the scent of expensive perfume.
“Chrissy?” she mumbled.
“I’m right here.” Caroline could hear the concern in Christine’s voice. “Oh, Punky.” She started unbuttoning Caroline’s navy blue suit jacket, pulling it back to try to remove it from her injured arm. She then began pressing on her shoulder and upper arm instead.
Caroline thought she heard her curse and opened her eyes. “That’s not very ladylike, Representative Sullivan.”
Christine hardly ever used profanity. She left that to Caroline and Tom, and to a lesser extent, Jess. Caroline knew Christine was trying to be gentle but it really, really hurt.
“Like I give a shit right now.” Christine was muttering again. “Mother of God.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I have a medical degree, remember?” Christine’s tone was self-righteous. “I was at the entrance to the House gallery and some random Capitol police officer ran over to get me, yelling something about a shooting at the Visitor’s Center.” She inhaled sharply, continuing to prod at the wound in Caroline’s arm. “He didn’t tell me it was you.”
Caroline weakly attempted to swat Christine’s hand away. “Stop that,” she said.
“You’re bleeding. A lot. I’m fairly certain your brachial artery was hit. I’m trying to slow it down a little.” Christine turned to the policeman standing near them, keeping a steady hand on Caroline’s shoulder. “Have someone go get Representative McIntyre. John McIntyre, from Pennsylvania. He’s on the House floor.” The cop just stood there. “Now,” she said firmly.
Christine’s voice was steady, controlled, businesslike. The switch had been flipped. Caroline had never seen her in doctor mode before. It was similar to her congressional mode, but more formidable. Colder.