The man sitting on my bed was familiar to me. He was black and thin, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with the sleeves rolled up and the ankles of his pants curled up as well. I would have assumed he was an ordinary prisoner from Golden City Penitentiary if I hadn’t noticed his right hand, which was very conspicuously missing his ring and index finger. And the open book in his lap—a slightly tattered copy of the Holy Bible—was another giveaway to his true identity.
Before I could say anything, the man looked up at me. His gaze was harsh but fair. He was frowning, however, as if I had walked in on him during an important meeting or something like that, even though this was my room.
“Hello, Alex,” said the man in a pleasant, professional tone. “Or should I call you Beams? I think I will
