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From there another officer will let Pearson back onto the wing, and onto the visitors’ suite. I relock the security gate and return to the laundry room.
    North is still occupied with his task, though he does glance at me over his shoulder as I re-enter the huge room, then he switches his attention back to his work.
    “I want my property back.” His curt remark is delivered without even looking at me. He straightens, flexes his muscles, and drags another wheeled bin of dirty laundry in the direction of an empty washing machine.
    “You’re not supposed to have a camera in here. You know that.”
    “Neither are you, Miss MacBride.” Now he does turn to regard me fully, one hip propped on the edge of the bin, his expression inscrutable. “Care to explain?”
    I don’t. I don’t care to explain at all. I have nothing even vaguely resembling an explanation to offer, either to North or to myself.
    “Where did you get it?” I try to inject a note of authority into my question.
    He simply shakes his head.
    I try again, piling on the officiousness as best I can. “Someone brought it in for you. I want to know who that was.”
    More head-shaking.
    “I could put you on report, you do realise that?”
    Now he just chuckles. “But you won’t. You can’t.”
    “I—”
    He continues as though I hadn’t spoken. “Because if you do, you’ll have to also explain why you didn’t report it yesterday. Why you hid it, and I assume took it home with you. And why you brought it back. I hope you did bring my camera back, Miss MacBride.”
    “Why did you take pictures of me?” I blurt out the question, homing in on the one aspect of all this that makes me most uncomfortable. And most exhilarated.
    He smiles and meets my gaze, though he appears rather calmer than I am right now.
    “Because I like looking at you.”
    “What do you mean? That’s, that’s…”
    “You’re prettier than Mr. Drummond.”
    “That’s not saying much.” Our wing supervisor is certainly no oil painting, I’m not sure I appreciate the comparison.
    “Perhaps not. So, are you going to give it back to me?” He holds out his hand, one eyebrow raised in what could only be described as a direct challenge.
    I tilt up my chin; assertiveness is everything in these confrontational situations between officers and prisoners. “No, North, I’m not. It’s a contraband item and it’s been confiscated.”
    He appears quite unruffled. “I see. Very well, I’ll apply to the governor for it to be returned.”
    “No! No, you can’t.” I take a step toward him, then pause, uncertain how best to proceed.
    “Can I not? Oh, I understand, because then you’ll have to explain how it found its way into your pocket during the cell search. Yes, I can see that might be awkward. Still, that isn’t really my problem.” He starts to load the laundry into the machine. “Could you close the door as you leave, Miss MacBride?”
    I stand, glaring at his muscled back, intensely aware of the camera nestling in my pocket. He has me, it’s as simple as that. I have no choice.
    “Okay, you can have it back. But you have to delete the pictures of me.”
    He turns to face me again. “Are you still here, Miss MacBride?”
    I retrieve the camera from my pocket and hold it out to him. “Delete the photographs of me and, and you need to promise you won’t take any more.”
    “I don’t need to promise you anything. Why didn’t you delete the pictures if it matters so much to you? You had all night to do it.”
    Because they were yours. I scowl at him, reluctant to acknowledge the truth of the matter, even to myself. And perhaps because I was flattered by the attention, by the fact that this enigmatic, compelling man thought me interesting enough to want to take my picture. Even as I allow that ridiculous notion to crystallise, I quash it. He’s a criminal, a prisoner. He is not someone whose opinion matters to me.
    I press the on/off button on the top of the camera and