It’s the thought of Cass’s belly hidden under prison grays that kills me the most. That image is night and day from the first time I ever laid eyes on her, when she strutted into Khaza in those ridiculous Prada heels, trying to project confidence in a room full of killers. She held her chin high, even with the daubs of concealer on her cheekbone showing anyone who cared to look that she was trapped in an abusive nightmare.
Anyone with eyes could see she was prey. And still she’d marched in there, proud, defiant.
I know, I f*****g know, that she’ll carry that same proud defiance into her cell. They’ll try to break her, because that’s what penitentiaries and court systems do best. And she’ll fight them to the bitter f*****g end.
But she shouldn’t have to. That’s the whole damn point. She
