The prison visiting room smelled of bleach and defeat, a sterile tang that stung Lena’s nose as she sat on the familiar metal stool, the Plexiglas scratched and smudged between her and the empty chair. It was a week since the gala, five days since Marcus’s letter about Savannah, and she’d driven straight from a sleepless night, the Corolla’s engine coughing through the ninety miles like it felt her exhaustion. She’d called Darius yesterday—caught him at the shop, voice thick with hangover—and he’d grumbled about heading south, no promises. Jade had Ortiz on it too, chasing the lead, but it all felt like chasing smoke.

Marcus shuffled in, his jumpsuit wrinkled, a fresh bruise blooming purple under his eye. He’d been out of solitary three days, she’d heard from Ortiz, but he looked worse—thinner, his shoulders tight like he was holding himself together with wire. He picked up the phone, his movements sluggish, and pressed it to his ear, his gaze locking on hers through the glass. No smile this time, just a hard edge she hadn’t seen since the arrest.

“You got my letter,” he said, voice flat through the static, not a question.

“Yeah,” she said, clutching the receiver, her knuckles white. “Savannah. Kev. I’m on it—Darius too, Ortiz. We’re trying.”

“Trying,” he echoed, bitter, leaning forward. “Been a week, Lena. Ray’s guy says Kev’s slipping—won’t stay put. You see what’s at stake here?”

Her chest tightened, his tone cutting deeper than the bruise on his face. “I see it, Marcus. I’m doing everything I can—work, calls, driving myself ragged. You think I’m sitting on my hands?”

He snorted, a harsh sound that crackled through the line. “Don’t look ragged to me. Look like you’re holding up fine—new dress, hair done. Who’s that for, huh?”

She flinched, the black dress from the gala suddenly heavy on her skin. She’d worn it again today, no time to change, and his jab landed like a fist. “Don’t,” she said, low and sharp. “You don’t get to do that. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you’re here,” he shot back, his hand slamming the table, the bang echoing in the booth. “But where you been? Letters stop, calls dry up—three weeks, Lena. Three damn weeks since I heard your voice. What’s pulling you away?”

Her breath hitched, Elliot’s face flashing—his knuckles on her cheek, that kiss under the lights. She swallowed it down, guilt burning her throat. “I’m not pulling away,” she lied, the words tasting like ash. “I’m fighting for you—every day, every chance I get.”

“Then why’s it feel like I’m losing you?” His voice cracked, raw and loud, and she saw it—fear behind the anger, a crack in his armor. “I’m in here bleeding for this, Lena—fights, solitary, begging Ray for scraps. And you’re out there, quiet, like I’m already gone.”

“You’re not gone!” She leaned in, her palm slapping the glass, tears blurring him. “I’m killing myself to get you out—Kev, Ortiz, all of it. But I can’t breathe, Marcus. Seven years—you think that doesn’t choke me too?”

He stared at her, his chest heaving, then slumped back, rubbing his face with a cuffed hand. “I don’t know what to think,” he muttered. “Just… tell me you’re still mine.”

The question hung, heavy as the glass between them, and she couldn’t answer—not fully, not with Elliot’s shadow in the room. “I’m here,” she said instead, voice trembling. “That’s what I’ve got right now.”

The guard tapped the wall—time—and Marcus’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t reach. “Find Kev,” he said, final, standing slow. “Or we’re done either way.”

He hung up, the click a blade through the line, and walked out, the door slamming behind him. Lena sat frozen, the phone dangling, her reflection staring back—wild-eyed, lost. She’d pushed him to the edge, and he’d pushed back, and now the breaking point was here, sharp and real.

She stumbled to the car, the sky gray and heavy, and sank into the seat, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. Marcus’s still mine rang in her ears, tangling with Elliot’s you don’t have to carry it alone, and she didn’t know which way to fall. The engine sputtered alive, and she drove, the road blurring, her heart a knot she couldn’t untie.

The highway back to Atlanta stretched out like a gray scar, the Corolla’s tires humming against the asphalt as Lena drove, her hands tight on the wheel. The tears had dried, leaving her face stiff and salty, but her mind churned, replaying Marcus’s voice—Why’s it feel like I’m losing you?—and the slam of that door behind him. She’d seen the bruise, the weariness in his slump, and still she’d faltered, her I’m here a half-truth that stuck in her throat. Elliot’s kiss burned behind her eyes, a secret she couldn’t confess, and it made her sick—sick with wanting, sick with shame.

She pulled off at a gas station halfway home, the neon sign flickering OPEN against the dusk. The air was cool, sharp with diesel and earth, and she leaned against the car, lighting a cigarette she’d bummed from Jade weeks ago. She didn’t smoke often—Marcus hated it—but tonight she needed the burn, the sting in her lungs to match the one in her chest. She exhaled, watching the smoke curl up and vanish, and dialed Darius again, her thumb shaking over the screen.

He picked up, voice rough with static or sleep. “Lena, what now?”

“Savannah,” she said, flat and hard. “Marcus says Kev’s there. You’re supposed to be handling it—where are you?”

A pause, then a curse under his breath. “Still in Atlanta. Shop’s a mess—can’t just drop everything.”

“Drop it,” she snapped, flicking ash into the gravel. “He’s breaking in there, Darius. Solitary, fights—he’s got a lead, and you’re sitting on your ass. Get to Savannah tonight, or I’m done asking.”

“Alright, damn,” he muttered. “I’ll go. But if he’s gone again—”

“Then you find him,” she cut in. “You owe him that. Call me when you’ve got something.”

She hung up, tossing the cigarette and grinding it under her heel. The pump clicked off, and she filled the tank, her movements mechanical, her mind racing. Marcus’s Find Kev or we’re done wasn’t just about the appeal—it was them, their threadbare promises, and she knew it. She’d fight for him, drag Kev back if she had to, but the distance wasn’t just prison walls anymore—it was her, slipping, and she didn’t know how to stop.

Back in the cellblock, Marcus paced the narrow strip between his bunk and the wall, the bruise under his eye throbbing with every step. The visit replayed in his head—Lena’s tears, her hand on the glass, the way she’d dodged his question. Still mine. He’d pushed too hard, maybe, but the silence had festered, three weeks of nothing turning into a scream he couldn’t hold back. She’d looked different—sharper, polished, like she was living a life he didn’t fit into—and it scared him more than the shank he’d dodged last month.

He stopped, leaning against the bars, the metal cold against his forehead. Ray had nodded at him in the yard earlier, mouthing Savannah’s hot—Kev was still there, for now, but Marcus couldn’t reach out, not locked in here. He’d yelled at Lena, cut her deep, and now the regret gnawed at him, mixing with the fear that she was gone—really gone, not just quiet. Her I’m here had rung hollow, and he hated himself for doubting it, hated her for making him.

He sank onto the bunk, pulling out a scrap of paper and the pencil stub. He wrote fast, the words spilling out:

Lena,

I was an ass today. Scared, mad—lost it. I know you’re fighting. Kev’s our shot—trust you to get him. I’m still yours, always. Write me. Please.

M

He folded it, tucking it under the mattress for the next mail run, and lay back, staring at the ceiling’s cracks. He’d pushed her to the edge, felt the break coming, and now all he could do was wait—wait for her, for Kev, for a chance to claw his way back.

Lena hit Atlanta as night fell, the city lights smearing through the windshield. She parked, climbed the stairs, and dropped onto the couch, Marcus’s letter from Chapter 8 still crumpled beside her. She read the new one in her mind—his anger, his plea—and felt the breaking point settle, a line she’d crossed without moving. She’d call Ortiz tomorrow, push Darius again, but tonight she curled up, the dress clinging to her like a lie, and let the tangle of her heart pull her under.