Half Past Dead Read Online Free

came through the prison with the captain of the guards, looked around, and spoke in hushed tones with the captain, then left.
    At the bottom of the stairs, the guard punched a code into the security panel at the steel door leading to the administrative wing. After a clicking sound the pneumatic door swung open, then closed behind them with a whoosh. They had to wait for the door to shut behind them and automatically relock before the second security door finally opened.
    On the other side, the concrete gave way to industrial beige carpeting. The walls had fresh paint and travel posters mounted on them. It wasn’t plush but compared to the other side of the door, it rated four stars.
    Oh, my God, Kat thought, air suspended in her lungs. Maybe the warden did want to see her.
    Why?
    She followed the guard, unable to think of a reason. Her first parole hearing wasn’t coming up for another year. She hadn’t been in trouble for months. Even if she had done something wrong, the captain of the guards handled punishment, not the warden.
    The guard walked into the reception area outside the warden’s office. A secretary with hair like steel wool hovered over a computer terminal. She glanced up, saying, “Kaitlin Wells?”
    â€œYes,” Kat replied, her voice tight.
    â€œI’ll let the warden know you’re here.” The secretary picked up the telephone and announced Kat’s arrival.
    A paralyzing numbness spread through her body, then subsided a bit, replaced by spasms in her gut. What now? Hadn’t she been tortured enough for a crime she didn’t commit?
    Warden Bronson opened the door to the inner office. His gray hair was cut ruthlessly short, which made his forehead seem higher than normal. Probing brown eyes stared at her while he spoke to the guard.
    â€œWait here for Ms. Wells.” To the secretary, he said, “Hold all my calls.”
    He stepped aside and motioned for her to come into his office. Uneasy, Kat stepped in and froze. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, making it difficult to think. Harlan Westcott, the federal prosecutor responsible for her robbery conviction, sat in a chair in front of the warden’s desk.
    A charged silence like the air before a summer storm filled the room. Lightning was about to strike, she decided, and it was going to electrocute her. The warden closed the door with a clank that seemed more ominous than the way guards slammed shut the steel cell doors.
    â€œHello, Kat,” Harlan said casually as if they were old friends.
    Kat nodded at him but didn’t trust herself to speak. At the trial, the prosecutor had been hateful—no match for her public defender. The memory triggered a raw, bitter ache underscored with anger.
    Warden Bronson told her to sit down as he sat behind his desk. The only chair was next to Harlan Westcott. She walked over and lowered herself into the seat without looking at the prosecutor. Her hands were still red from beet juice, but she didn’t care what Harlan or the warden thought.
    â€œI have a proposition for you,” Harlan said.
    Those who hadn’t seen him in the courtroom might have mistaken the curl of his lips for a smile. Kat didn’t respond. What was going on? What kind of proposition could Harlan Westcott have for her?
    â€œDo you want to go home?” asked the warden.
    Her heart lurched at the word home. Why were they jerking her chain?
    â€œYou can walk out of here tomorrow,” Harlan told her. “If…”
    If. The big if. The catch was coming. She could see it in Harlan’s ice-blue eyes—the same eyes that had relentlessly accused her of taking money from the bank’s vault.
    â€œIf you help us catch the people who really took the money from Mercury National Bank, you may go home.”
    Her world slammed to an abrupt stop, and her breath stalled in her lungs. Sound in the room ceased. She was conscious of Harlan’s lips moving, but