“Katrina Lindstrom, you have a visitor.”
Really, I don’t think my full name is necessary. The holding cell is hardly teeming with violent offenders. Belinda stirs and shifts. I hope whoever called my name hasn’t woken her. Sleep without alcohol or ghosts would do her good.
“Katy?”
This voice is different—low, masculine, familiar. But not Malcolm. I can’t place it, not until its owner comes into view. Jack Carlotta bursts through the door. By the time he reaches the cell, I’m gripping the bars with both hands and peering out at him.
“Jack? How—?”
“My grandfather called me. He said you were in jail and that I needed to rescue you. His words, not mine. So I called down, and yes, you are in jail. So here I am.” He holds out his arms. “Here to rescue you.”
“But ... how did he know?”
Jack
