It smelled of wet wool, sour breath, and the slow rot of hope. Kit had been inside before-not as prisoner, but as "Mrs. Vale," wife of a minor customs official, touring the prison's "reformed" women's wing with a basket of hymnals and a face full of pity. Lies, all of it. She'd been mapping escape routes, noting guard rotations, memorizing which turnkeys took bribes in gin and which in silence.
Bitte wählen Sie Ihr Anliegen aus.
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