When I’m six feet away from my car, a large hand closes around my arm. I instantly go on high alert, whipping myself around to confront whoever grabbed me. But when I turn, I come face-to-face with Officer Marcus Hunt. Outside of the prison walls, he looks even more imposing. He towers over me, his lips curled into a perpetual sneer, and his biceps are about the same circumference as my thighs. He doesn’t have any weapons on him at the moment, but he doesn’t need them. He could crush me with one hand. And we’re the only two people in the parking lot. “Brooke,” he says. “I need to talk to you.”
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