I fucked my made Indian The spacious lounge would have been impressive if such things had impressed Amber. Estes?” Amber asked, finishing packing up as she stared at him. “I understand your need for caution. It was much different than the cold florescent lights of regular prisons, and the hallways of those didn’t have pleasant classical music piped through speakers in the walls. She glanced at the dying form on the floor, no more than a blurry shape while cleaning it with the care of someone who’d found a wayward fingerprint. “And I assume you have the key somewhere safe?”
He nodded and said, “Yes. “I… understand,” Amber said, relatively sure she wouldn’t get any more information from the man. She would leave looking precisely as she had arrived. Phillip leaned forward, his hands pressed together as he gestured at Amber. “Are you threatening my family?”
Amber retook her seat, trying to puzzle out how best to respond to the man. The door closed behind him, and the lock clicked in place. The door closed behind him, and the lock clicked in place. A few wet wipes later, Amber Bell looked like a completely professional woman who had not just committed either first or second-degree murder. It had squash courts, comfortable beds, indoor butterfly gardens, and Michelin-quality cuisine. Castor. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Amber said. It was an emotional decision. “The kid in the surveillance room’s probably going to lose his job,” the officer said, mesmerized by the lifeless body.
