Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) by Sarah Lovett Page A

later, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the three-person parole board, appointed by the state of New Mexico, reviewed sixteen penitentiary inmate cases for possible parole. Lucas Watson was not allowed to leave his padded cell. He could only imagine the wide echoing room furnished with folding metal chairs. The men who wore suits and severe expressions. The proximity to freedom.
    After a short conference—with references to the biting incident and certain relevant psychological material—Lucas Watson was denied parole.

CHAPTER SIX
    I T HAD BEEN snowing for half an hour, thin flakes that left a dull sheen on the ground. Lucas Watson moved away from the window. How long had he been segregated in Main's hospital? He knew Thanksgiving had come and gone, and it seemed like he'd been in this place a very long time.
    When he stood, his knees trembled from the effort. He turned right and touched battered knuckles to the wall. Its dirty sheen matched his skin. He returned to the wired window that offered the only view from the tiny padded cell. Moonscape. It was time to find his pouch, time to get out. He was in danger from them, caged, and everything that connected him to the world, and to his mother, was inside that tiny leather bag.
    Using two fingers he gently stroked the Madonna on his chest. He caressed her cheeks, her aquiline nose, her hands clasped in prayer.
    "Sylvia," he whispered.
    The confusion, the pain, the rage increased in steady increments. Why had she fucking betrayed him?
    He began his chant for protection—
Mater noster
—but it was no good without the pouch. Lucas groaned and his eyelids shot up abruptly.
    At 11:00 that morning, he was returned to his regular cell in CB-1. Two hacks accompanied him through the connecting corridors. C.O. Anderson watched while they removed the cuffs, checked the cell, and locked it down.
    When the other guards had gone, Lucas whispered to Anderson through the grill. "You took something that belongs to me." Watson's forehead was a mass of bruises and scabs, one eye was swollen shut, and he had a cold sore in the corner of his mouth.
    Anderson stared at a spot behind Watson's head.
    "I want it back," Watson spit. Anderson felt saliva strike his face. Finally, he let his gaze settle on the inmate.
    "I gave it to the head doctor," Anderson said. Lucas made him feel small and impotent, and it went all the way back to when they were kids. The memories were vivid. Anderson would be playing outside, waiting for his dad to finish work at the Watsons' house, and he would hear the noise coming from inside. It was Lucas having a tantrum, screaming at his mother until he was blue in the face. Then it always got real quiet for a while, and afterward, Luke always had a wicked look in his eye. More than once, he'd chased Anderson down and pelted him with a BB gun.
    Anderson said, "The shrink. I gave it to her, and she took it. Now she'll take care of you." His mouth twisted to a sneer as he turned and walked away.
    T HOUGH HE WAS only six years old, Jaspar Treisman wore the look of a world-weary traveler. His neatly cut fringe of sandy hair erupted in a cowlick over his forehead. His bright blue eyes seemed too large for the delicate features of his face. The faint moustache of milk above his upper lip added a Chaplinesque touch to his serious countenance.
    He sat in the front seat of the Volvo next to Sylvia and watched her while she drove. When she glanced his way he avoided eye contact; he pressed his nose to the passenger window and his breath left condensation on the glass. She turned off 1-25 at the Lamy exit and pulled into the Country Store for gas and refreshments. The parking lot was filled with cars, holiday weekend business. Jaspar declined the offer of ice cream or Coke. He was polite, but withdrawn.
    "We've still got about ten minutes to go," Sylvia said as she pulled out into traffic.
    "Okay," Jaspar nodded. His voice was small and noncommittal. Tucked behind the seat belt