Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

just turns her face away. Maybe she’s still scared of me, and rightly so. I’m the only guilty person in here.

I’ve been an idiot. Right after I fooled Cedric by adding a photograph of myself to a news article about Lux, I read profiles on all the prisoners, complete with photos and articles. I fell for my own trick.

I’ve misunderstood the Guards’ business model. They lock up innocent people and blame them for real crimes, finding their victims via relevant social media posts to make the illusion more convincing. A right-wing podcaster becomes a Klansman, an anti-war type is turned into an Isis fighter, a shitposter is turned into a Nazi.

Except …

The Guards really seem to think these people are guilty.

Donnie’s voice in my head, full of pride: We got a Naziback there. We got a paedophile. We got a rapist. We got a domestic abuser. We got a paid-up member of the KKK. We got a fucking Isis fighter. There’s nothing sleazy about giving these people what they deserve.

Kyle told me that Druznetski, the private investigator, does background checks on all the inmates. Making sure they’re guilty. It sounds like Druznetski is lying to the rest of the Guards. Why?

A loose thread tickles something in my brain, but I can’t quite catch it.

‘Now isn’t the time for this,’ Thistle says. ‘Amar—try to tighten the handcuff.’

‘Tighten it?’

‘Yeah. Just one notch.’

Snick. ‘Ow.’

‘Okay, it’s a single-lock. That’s good news.’

‘It doesn’t feel like good news,’ Amar grumbles.

‘It’s easier to pick. I’ve done it plenty of times. I’d do it right now if I had something sharp. Can you bend the nail?’

‘No.’

‘Try. Bang the cuffs against it.’

‘I’m likely to stab myself in the wrist.’

‘Do you want to get out of here or not?’ Thistle’s voice is hard. ‘There’s a spring-loaded bar inside the mechanism. You need a bent nail to push it back. Or you could always chew your own thumb off instead. Worked for this asshole.’

‘Don’t,’ I advise Amar. ‘Not now that you’ve tightened the cuff. You’ll still be stuck, and you’ll bleed out.’

Amar looks from me to Thistle and back, horrified. He’s no Isis fighter, that’s for sure.

‘What is wrong with you two?’ he demands.

I open my mouth to defend Thistle—there’s nothing wrong with her—but she’s already talking: ‘Just try, okay? There’s a flat plate on the opposite side of the cuff from the keyhole. Bang that part on the tip of the nail. Gently.’

Tap, tap.

‘It’s not bending.’

‘Harder,’ Thistle says.

Tap, tap, tap.

‘Stop,’ I say.

Because the lock outside is rattling. The big door creaks open.

Kyle enters. He’s wearing dirty trainers, faded jeans and a ripped sweater. Under his baseball cap, I can tell that his hair is a mess. I resist the urge to tell him to comb it.

He comes straight over to me, carrying a bottle of water and a steaming bowl of food. More of Samson’s stir-fry. A dead man’s leftovers now a week old.

Kyle puts the bowl and the bottle on the floor. ‘Eat up.’

I reach for the food with a hand that isn’t there, and then another one which turns out to be cuffed to the wall.

Kyle smirks. Somehow, this hurts more than the look of betrayal he wore before. He’s learned the same lesson I did at about his age—people can’t hurt you if you don’t care about them.

‘I’m not a cop,’ I say. Technically true.

‘He is,’ Hailey says unhelpfully.

‘Zip it, bitch.’ Kyle picks up a spoonful of defrosted rice and beans and holds it out for me. My stomach growls. I lean forwards to take a bite, but he eats it instead.

‘So,’ he mumbles through the food, ‘who killed Samson?’

I don’t know, and I won’t get far pretending I do. ‘Zara sent you, didn’t she?’

His nostril twitches.

‘She stopped Donnie from killing me because she wanted to know what I knew,’ I continue. ‘But she didn’t want to come in here and ask. You know why?’

Kyle scoops up another spoonful and holds it up. He’s made a mistake. The spoon is out of reach, but his foot isn’t. I could kick his ankle, snap it like a chicken bone. I can feel all the other prisoners waiting for me to do just that.

I don’t.

‘Tell me who did it,’ he says.

‘One of the Guards.’ I rest my head against the wall. ‘Whoever it is, they want me dead: to hide their secret. So anyone who talks to me is a target, too. Zara didn’t want that to be her. She sacrificed you, instead. She’s like a coal-miner and you’re like her canary.’

‘I’m what?’ I’ve lost him.

‘She’s not the only one trying to throw you under the bus. Ever wonder why Fred makes you do all the trips to the post office? You’re on the cameras there. The staff know you. Your fingerprints are on the packages. Fred’s even used your real name on some paperwork. If the Guards ever get caught, you’re going to look like the mastermind.’

Kyle refuses to be distracted. ‘Who killed Samson?’

‘Listen to me. You can’t trust the Guards. You should take one of the cars and get out of here. Go home to Ackerly before—’

‘You’re not ready to talk? Fine.’ Kyle turns to leave.

The prisoners wait for me to kick him in the back of the leg. Knock him down, get his keys somehow. I don’t.

‘Samson’s killer.’ I raise my voice. ‘I’ve narrowed it down. It’s not Donnie or Zara, because they didn’t let me die. It’s not Fred, because I was with him when Samson got shot.’ I force myself to ask: ‘Was it you?’

Kyle’s eyes widen. ‘Me?’

He sounds so shocked that I feel a pang of guilt for suspecting him.

‘You haven’t got a clue,’ he says. ‘You’ve been bluffing this whole