Nick didn’t know whether to admit it or not. He was so far out of his element, he could have been on Mars or some other hostile planet. All he could think about was trying to make his hands stop shaking. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that showing weakness in jail would be like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

“You don’t have to answer. I know you’re a fish.” The Man snickered. “Quiet can be a smart play, but don’t let them think you’re afraid to talk. Ignore the pod boss and you’ll get your ass kicked too. Same goes for not standing up for yourself.”

Nick nodded as if he understood, not that he did. He only had one thing figured out. He was so far over his head, there was no way he could reach the surface before he drowned.

The Man stretched his massive legs out in front of him. “This is my third time in here. I’m going to give you some advice. Inside, we stick together. Whites hang with other whites. We’re outnumbered, and there ain’t no such thing as fucking political correctness in here. It’s all about survival. You stick to your own kind.”

Nick listened without speaking.

“You keep your head down, and your mouth shut. You don’t ask questions. You don’t repeat anything anyone tells you. Snitches end up with stitches.” The Man turned his arm over. A series of blue tattoos covered the white underside of his forearm. “You see these?”

“Yeah.” Nick wasn’t sure about the meanings of the twin lightning bolts or the number 88, but it was impossible to misconstrue a swastika.

The Man was a white supremacist.

“A young fish like you needs protection in here or you’ll end up as somebody’s boy.” He tapped the swastika. “This is how you get it.”

Shit.

Nick hadn’t thought about gangs. His lack of knowledge of jail life was one more element to his fear. Joining a gang felt like a commitment, a decision that couldn’t be changed once it was made.

A serious undertaking that could have permanent consequences.

“Some of the other cons have a thing against rapists. Me? Doesn’t bother me one bit.”

Nick’s spine snapped straight, a wave of coldness sweeping over him. “You know who I am?”

“Everyone will know who you are. Ain’t nothing to do in jail but talk. Word spreads fast.” The Man shrugged. “Like I was saying, I ain’t got nothing against you. Women need to learn their place, and some seem to need harder lessons than others. But some dudes might want to kill you just because of what you done. Then again, some dudes might want to kill you for the sheer entertainment factor. Always remember, once they’re convicted, some of these guys ain’t never getting out, and they know it. They’ve got nothing to lose.”

The words slipped out of Nick’s mouth. “I didn’t do it.”

“Sure. Everybody in here is innocent. We all got a bum rap.” The Man chuckled. “You got one chance to survive.” He tapped the swastika.

“What are you in here for?” Nick asked. If the fact that he was being charged with rape and murder didn’t faze The Man, he must be up on serious charges too.

“Manslaughter, but it goes without saying that I’m innocent too.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “If I were you, I’d play the bum-rap card for all it’s worth. Every man can empathize with being railroaded by the pigs. And if that don’t work . . .” The Man pointed to his tattoos. “Because the guards don’t give a fuck.”

The door opened and two more naked men entered. The black guy was about twenty-five and big and beefy. His entire back was covered in tattoos. The white kid was maybe nineteen, tall but skinny as a toothpick. Nick could count his vertebrae from across the room. The Man snorted as the kid put on pants three sizes too big. He looked scared enough to piss himself.

Nick wondered if he had the same scared-rabbit gleam in his eyes. He’d better not. He was silently grateful that he was too lazy to shave daily—his thick four-day stubble aged him—and for the physical labor that had muscled his body since he’d graduated high school. The skinny kid looked like a walking target.

Like prey.

The Man went silent. Eventually, the other door opened. The guards barked some orders, and the four inmates were escorted down the hall. They were each handed a thin, folded plastic mattress and a threadbare blanket to carry into the pod.

Nick followed The Man’s example and hoisted it up on one shoulder. If nothing else, it provided him with what felt like a partial screen. Only half of the pod residents could see his face. The skinny kid clutched the mattress to his chest like a shield, and as they entered the pod, he went whiter than bleached bones, his eyes shining with terror.

Nick schooled his face into what he hoped was no expression.

He had been expecting a row of locked cells, like the prisons he’d seen on TV. But D-pod in the county jail was one big concrete room. Men walked around the pod freely. Open doorways lined one side of the room. The cells? Nick glanced in as he walked by. Each tiny cell contained two metal bunk beds separated by three feet of concrete, clearly designed to hold four men. Inmates stood in the openings, assessing the newcomers. Nick could feel their predatory scrutiny.

The cells must have all been full because more metal bunks lined one wall of the main room. Every one of those already held a bedding kit, and more mattresses were lined up on the floor. The center of the space held metal tables with attached benches.

Some quick math told Nick that the space was designed to house forty men, but he counted at least sixty inmates. Other inmates in the SFPD holding cell had complained about overcrowding at the county jail, but Nick hadn’t considered the ramifications. So did that mean no one was locked in at night?

Instead of the possibility that three cellmates would try to kill him, Nick had to worry about the whole pod? He’d expected order, discipline, even claustrophobia, but locking sixty criminals in a room together with nothing to do was an experiment in pure chaos.

He tried not to flinch at the comments emanating from the doorways as he passed by.

“Look at that tight white ass.”

“I’m gonna get me a piece of that.”

“Mm. Mm. Mm. Fresh meat.”

Were they referring to him or the skinny kid? Selfishly, Nick hoped it wasn’t him.

Another hairy white guy bumped fists with The Man, and he was welcomed into a sea of beards and scary-looking tattoos, like a Viking warrior’s homecoming after a successful pillage.

Someone scurried to move his mattress and blanket, and The Man was given a top bunk. Nick didn’t know much about jail protocol, but The Man garnered respect—and fear.

Nick watched the black inmate get absorbed into a group of African Americans. He seemed to know his way around.

The kid was trembling like a scared kitten.

Instinctively, Nick put some space between them. The kid was fodder, and there wasn’t anything Nick could do about it. He had no room for guilt. Assessing the danger and his chances of survival was eating up every bit of his attention, and he was hardly in a position to protect anyone else. This group of men had gone all Lord of the Flies times a hundred. Being an accused sex offender, Nick already had one strike against him.

He eyed the floor. Unlike the holding cells, the concrete appeared relatively clean. Not knowing what else to do, Nick set his mattress on the floor at the end of a row. No one gave him any shit about it, so he figured he was good.