"Becky, lead the guys over there; Detective Anderson is coming soon."

The jailer confirmed to her colleague that it would be done, and she showed the way to the prisoners. Not one tried to fight: Rebecca Burnow did not have the size of a wardrobe, but she had been practicing boxing for years, and when she walked, her thighs swelled under her uniform pants, just like when she lifted an arm, her biceps became steel.

Some inmates had tried to touch her ass once, but they had only got one or more broken fingers. A treatment that calmed even the most perverse.

She was a very pretty woman by the way, but the prisoners understood that she was not a prey, and for some of them, respect for a female person was a whole new experience.

"Do you really need to attend the interview?" Becky asked. She had just closed the door, and was standing in front of her colleague, a fist on her hip. "I wouldn't have said that the first time, but this detective looks more stubborn and solid than he seems."

"Damn, you're fucking right." Gavin sniggered, arms crossed.

But yes, he still wanted to attend the interview, especially because last week, Price had refused to see Connor. An attitude that had not pleased the guard, who also was the cop's boyfriend.

His colleague laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Better not touch Big Bad Reed's darling, huh? Don't worry, I understand. Price is a prick: all the excuses are good for a fight for him."

"Price is a prick? Did you just really try a pun?"

"What? Think I can't be a poet because I use my fists too often?" She clenched her fists. "I write poems with these."

"Don't ever show me what you can write, that sounds so bad."

The sound of a sliding door interrupted them. At the end of the yellowed corridor, Connor followed another guardian, a Mexican as tall, as gnarled and as brown as a tree: a great guy named Lionel Casillas, simple and quiet, but redoubtable when angered.

"Reed, I let you take over from here."

Lionel winked at him, which made Gavin growl. It seemed that they could not have secrets, but oh well, as long as the prisoners, at least the most dangerous, did not know anything, everything was fine. Even at the dawn of this decade, homosexuality remained a sensitive subject, especially in the prison environment.

Connor and Gavin did not bother to greet each other: they had seen each other this morning, since Connor had spent the night at Gavin's place. The heat had made him fold his jacket over his arm, but the impeccable tie was still around his neck.

But last night, it was around his wrists that it had been knotted, and Gavin had to make an effort to think about something else. He could always pretend that it was the heat that made him blush, but his colleagues would joke about the fact that, today, the heat was named Connor Anderson.

In the room, the same they had used to interrogate Price the first time, Gavin let the detective settle at the table, going, for his part, toward the window to open it. The air outside was heavy, but the room was in a wing plunged into the shadows, so a cool breeze filtered through the bars.

Connor leaned against the edge, enjoying the fresh air.

"Thank you, Gavin."

"It was for me: it's so hot I'm going to die."

"No, I mean— yes, thank you for the window, but thank you especially for bringing together inmates next door. If I were a machine, I'm sure at ninety-nine percent that Price was the one who killed those kids. I just need him to admit."

Of all the qualities that Gavin had discovered of Connor, there was one of being a very good cop. Thoughtful, patient and tenacious, Detective Anderson did not earn his rank just because of his relationships: he deserved it.

Becky was right: Connor could manage that prick, moreover, Price was not the first suspect he questioned.

"I won't be far."

"I know."

The detective gave him one of those smiles full of sweetness.

Even though Connor had not said anything to him, Gavin understood that he felt sincere feelings for him: that kind of smile proved it. As for him, he was sure of nothing: every time Connor smiled that way, his heart began to swing, like to imitate the curve of the lips, but otherwise, he was unsure—

As an answer, Gavin ruffled his hair, and Connor had to style his hair quickly.

A guard, whom the detective had never seen, opened the door and, without a word, intimated Price to enter. Like the previous time, Connor started the registration application and invited the prisoner to settle down.

For administrative reasons, the investigator recalled the date of the interview, the reason and made a brief summary of previous meetings, mentioning the one that had been canceled.

"You refused to see me last Thursday, why did you change your mind?"

Price's cheekbones looked like two apples on blond hay. His crossed arms made his chest swell, but his obstinacy still did not wear out the patience of his interlocutor.

On the contrary, he was even conciliatory:

"You can take your time."

Price let out a sneer.

"Too kind of you. Must be fun to be the smartass, huh?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You come here with your rich suit and your pretty mug, all clean like some fucking young graduate,

You do the trick with your rich young suit and your little face, all clean as a young graduate, but I know you're bang Reed."

Connor did not even blink; at most, he raised an eyebrow.

"Price, this isn't why I—"

"It's so easy to picture: you, without your suit and your nonchalant air, on all fours and fucked in the ass by the jailer."

Near the door, Gavin heard that, and this provocation made him blow a fuse. Becky tried to hold him back, to remind him that the inmates, in the next room, had been there to scare Price, but his colleague rushed into the room and he grabbed Price, wedging his throat into the crook of his elbow.

"Apologize, Price."

Unlike the guard who was beginning to strangle the detainee, the detective remained impassive.

"Are you done, Price? Can we go back to the real subject?"

In the sudden silence, the heckling provoked by the prisoners in the next room became obvious, but it was no longer a serious threat to the guard, who repeated his advice:

"Apologize, Price, or I know some guys who will love to fuck you in the ass before the end of the day." His embrace tightened. "You choose: either you spend a few hours with your friends next door, or you answer the questions of the detective nicely."

Unable to articulate; redder than if he had sunbathed, Peter Price pointed to his choice; he drew an index finger towards Connor.

With a wave of his hand, the detective asked the jailer to free the man. That was enough. Things were already going too far, and he did not want the situation to escalate further. Really, he had heard much worse, and Price's words were already forgotten.

Making fun of an individual's sexual life and buttocks was a, overused tactic, so much it was working less and less: many of his colleagues, especially women, could testify to it.

"We can resume, Price?"

The child killer groaned. He asked for a glass of water with a hoarse voice, and Gavin was obliged to bring him that damn glass, because otherwise, Price could pretend he was no longer able to speak.

After a few minutes Connor asked the guard to leave them, proving to Price that his little comments had barely touched him.

But with this kind of provocation, the inmate did not made a friend, and when Gavin returned to the hall, neither Becky nor Lionel dared to say a word. None joke could ease the atmosphere, and anyway, no one wanted to laugh—

Finally, Becky whispered:

"What a prick"

"Connor thinks he really killed those kids."

"Even if he's right, Price already got life for his crimes."

Without a word, Lionel cracked his knuckles. A long scar ran from the base of his thumb to his wrist and the swollen line looked like a brown worm. They all had their own marks of this ungrateful job, but Lionel had a strength that had kept him going for twenty years. Strength inspired, he said, by his wife and three daughters.

"He's already condemned to life," continued his colleague, "and our role is to watch, not to burden a sentence. So it's pointless."

"For us, it won't change a thing, it's true," Lionel admitted, "but think about the families, Becky. They can't mourn for the moment, and if Price doesn't confess, he put a stop to it."

Gavin bit his cheek: he was the exact opposite of his colleague, and yet he admired his calm, his wisdom.

To become a prison warden was to cultivate a rage against certain specimens of humanity. The small dealers and car thieves could arouse some pity, or at least contempt, but the rapists, the killers, the manipulators inspired much more— And then, you got to know the prisoners better, you began to see them beyond their crimes, you try to understand what fucked up. A talent that Lionel had perfected, and that Gavin was trying to apply day by day to facilitate his daily life, but between the sun and this nervousness, it was difficult.

Not to mention his relationship with Connor that was starting, which led to something that Gavin could not visualize. He was afraid it would only last a few weeks, just like he was afraid it would last for years.

And if their story lasted, would Connor bring what the Casillas brought to Lionel? Would he be happy?

From the window of the door, Gavin watched Connor talking. Deep in his heart, he wanted to believe that he could be satisfied with this man. He was almost convinced he could.

From here, he heard only a few words, but enough to understand that the killer was finally confessing.

Connor listened to the story of the Michigan Ogre, supporting his gaze, his jaw barely contracted. The last moments of the two children were immortalized on the recording, their sentence engraved in the memory of the machine.

Then, once all the answers were recorded, Connor touched the stop icon. His mission was over.

"Thank you, Price." The detective put away his equipment and, before getting up, pretended to remember something. "Oh, before I forget, I had to thank you for something else, according to jailor Reed, so— Thank you, again."

He gave him an almost sincere smile, but Price did not understand what he meant, and he looked at him with wide eyes until Lionel came to pick him up.

The detective was satisfied: he had all the elements he needed, and his return to the police station made him impatient. However, he did not leave the prison without asking Gavin if he felt okay.

The question left the guard puzzled:

"Do I feel okay? I should be the one asking it to you, after what Price spit in your face?"

Connor shrugged with a smirk: what the prisoner had told him was so despicable that it was already forgotten. In his place, Gavin would have broken the nose of someone who would have dared to talk to him like that, and he would have ruminated over those words for days, but not Connor: he remained unperturbed.

Out of sight, Connor grabbed his wrist with compassionate gentleness, and tried to make his partner laugh:

"Maybe Price is jealous?"

"Of who? You or me?"

"I'd say of me."

Connor winked at him, and it was as if the temperature finally dropped a few degrees, as if the storm that had been thundering for hours under his ribs was stopping.

The policeman had a force different from his own, and Gavin imagined it to be similar to Lionel's: quiet, but solid. A force on which one can rest with total confidence.

Yes, Gavin was okay. He knew that from now, he would be okay.