Free First Degree Innocence by Ginger Simpson Page B

but I can’t think of anyone else.”
    “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t spread your allegations around. I’m not Jet’s biggest fan, but I really think people should have irrefutable evidence before they make accusations. If that was the case, I wouldn’t even be here in the middle of this mess.” Carrie’s words did little to calm the edginess tingling through her. Being Jet’s cellmate held no appeal, whatsoever.
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    Carrie woke to the cell door clanking shut. She rolled to the edge of her bunk and peeked over. As suspected, Susanna was gone. She’d left for breakfast duty.
    Remembering it was Friday, Carrie grimaced and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Ogden’s ugly face was due any time now, and she’d expect Carrie to be ready to go. She clambered down and tiptoed across the icy floor to the toilet, longing for something as simple as a throw rug. Sitting on stainless steel scattered goose bumps across her arms. She braced herself against the chill and waited for the never-ending urine stream to cease. Finally, she patted herself dry, perturbed at the tissue’s roughness. It didn’t even measure up to the cheap one-ply she used at home. The prison brand was just a step up from splinters. But it made sense. Why waste comfort and frills on inmates?
    She stood and flushed, watching the swirling water weave its way down the bowl. For a moment she envied all those dead goldfish she and her mother had launched into eternity via the sewer. Wherever those dead pets ended up had to be better than this dump.
    After brushing her teeth, Carrie pulled a change of clothing from her laundry bag. Like the rest of the gals, she’d taken to calling her wardrobe “orange peels” for obvious reasons. The color had never been her favorite crayon, and now it never would be. She glanced in the distorted mirror over the sink and frowned at how the fruity hue of the top drained any trace of color from her cheeks.
    Once fully dressed, she stood on the bottom rail, dissembled her bed, and wrapped all her belongings inside her sheet. She’d planned on taking a shower, but that could wait. There was no need to smell sweet and clean just to remake a bunk, and, of course, she’d rank the upper again. Being on the top one had lost its childhood appeal, but at least she’d learned to sleep without fear of rolling off.
    She perched on the bottom bunk, waiting for Ogden to escort her to Jet’s cell. Mimicking a bobble head doll she’d once seen in a novelty shop, she rehearsed the feigned smile and agreeable nod she planned to use for the guard’s benefit. Inside Carrie’s blood edged on boiling.
    Prison thrived on unfairness. Her mother’s words echoed in Carrie’s head—the phrase quoted right before disappointing news. “Sometimes you have to make the best of things.”
    Carrie chewed a nail, trying to see the logic in it. Lemons to lemonade, a silk purse out of a sow’s ear… the truth will set you free…. Who came up with this crap? Her musing stopped when the main corridor’s cell door squealed on its hinges, announcing someone’s approach. Carrie squared her shoulders, wishing Jet had picked anyone else to be her cellmate.
    Ogden stuck her nose between the bars. “Well, looks like we’re all ready to go.”
    The woman’s taunting voice could peel paper off a wall. Carrie almost laughed aloud at the image of having wall décor in such a dismal place. A little floral print and a matching border would certainly sparkle up the joint.
    “Where have you been? I’m excited to see my new cell.” She had no intention of letting Ogden see her fear. Feeling akin to a hobo, Carrie slung her belongings over her shoulder and slogged through the open cell door into the hallway.
Another guard waited along the cinder block wall. Her hand grasped her baton as if she prepared to draw down on Wyatt Earp.
Carrie rolled her eyes. “Relax, you’re not dealing with Charles Manson here. I’m no threat,