The heavy bronze candlestick was inches from the old woman's head when the front door opened. Her sweet, fake smile couldn't hide the weapon in her hand. But her husband's fury wasn't the scariest part. It was the sirens outside. / Chapter 13 / 65

Chapter 13 - Cell Block B’s Unofficial Queen

The bunk in Cell 114 was a slab of bolted steel covered by a mattress less than two inches thick.

Eleanor sat on the edge, staring at the gray paint peeling from the wall opposite her.

Her cellmate, a quiet woman serving twenty years for drug trafficking, hadn't spoken more than three words all morning.

At noon, the cell doors buzzed open for recreation.

Eleanor walked into the dayroom cautiously, keeping her eyes fixed on the concrete floor.

She knew how predators worked. She had been one in the outside world, hunting through social circles with charm instead of shanks.

"Hey, Crestview."

A voice called out from the recreation cage near the payphones.

Eleanor stopped. She didn't turn around immediately, carefully calculating her response.

"I know you hear me, blondie," the voice rumbled.

It was the woman from the intake pod—Trish, the undisputed shot-caller of B-Block.

She was flanked by two burly women who wore their sleeves rolled up, revealing matching prison tattoos.

Eleanor turned slowly, her face composed, the polite society mask slipping back over her features.

"Can I help you?" Eleanor asked, keeping her tone cool, smooth, and deliberately calm.

Trish stepped closer, closing the distance until Eleanor could smell stale tobacco on her breath.

"You think you're pretty, don't you?" Trish sneered, tapping Eleanor’s collarbone with a blunt, scarred finger. "Down here, that pretty face just means you pay double."

"Pay for what?"

"Protection," Trish whispered, leaning in. "Or by lights out tonight, someone takes a razor to that Fairfield skin."

The two enforcers chuckled behind her, shifting their weight.

Eleanor didn't flinch. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her eyes remained steady, icy, and completely unreadable.

"You don't want to cut my face, Trish," Eleanor said softly.

Trish raised an eyebrow, surprised by the lack of tears. "Oh really? And why is that?"

"Because you're waiting for your clemency hearing next month," Eleanor murmured, taking a half-step closer so only Trish could hear. "And your public defender is drowning in two hundred open files."

Trish’s smirk vanished instantly. Her eyes narrowed into hard slits. "How the hell do you know about my hearing?"

Eleanor allowed the faintest trace of her old, condescending smile to touch her lips.

"I spent six months in the legal holding block with access to court dockets," Eleanor said, her voice like silk over broken glass. "I know your real name. I know your previous judge. And more importantly, I know the personal home phone number of the chairman of the State Pardon Board."

Trish didn't move. The corridor around them suddenly felt very still.

"He attended my annual Christmas charity gala for eight years straight," Eleanor continued, her whisper razor-sharp. "He owes me favors, Trish. Big ones."

The two enforcers looked at each other, confused by the sudden change in their leader's demeanor.

Trish stared deeply into Eleanor’s eyes, looking for any trace of bluff.

She found nothing but cold, ruthless calculation.

"You're lying to save your skin," Trish hissed, but her voice lacked its earlier certainty.

"Cut me, and you'll die in this concrete cage," Eleanor replied, her voice dropping lower. "Keep me alive and safe, and your file moves to the top of the governor’s desk next Tuesday."

Trish swallowed hard, her jaw tightening.

Slowly, the older inmate took a step back, her hands dropping to her sides.

"Nobody touches her," Trish announced to the room, turning her back on Eleanor. "She's with me."

Eleanor watched her walk away, exhaling a silent, shuddering breath.

Her hands were still shaking, but she had secured her first pawn.