The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 189

Margot’s POV

The car door opened beside me and a rush of cool air brushed my face.

Cara slipped out first, turning slightly to make sure I could follow without hurting myself. I forced my body to cooperate, carefully swinging my legs out of the vehicle.

I clenched my jaw.

Don’t show the pain…

One of the guards shut the car door behind us, and we were immediately ushered toward the entrance as though we were a couple of kids running late to school.

The glass doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum.

And the first person waiting for us inside made my stomach tighten.

The man with the scar…

The thick, jagged line stretching across his skin. I had seen him multiple times now since arriving at the project – always watching, always assessing everyone and everything…

Always looking like he knew more than he let on.

His sharp eyes flicked briefly over my bruised and bandaged state.

But he said nothing about it.

“Ladies, follow me.” No pleasantries came, just a quick order.

Just business.

He turned immediately, already expecting us to obey.

Cara and I exchanged a small glance before trailing after him down the quiet hallway. The relaxation centre felt eerily calm compared to the prison blocks we’d come from the coloured walls, the faint smell of lavender, the muted sounds of water trickling somewhere deeper in the building…

It was supposed to feel peaceful.

But today it only made me feel tense.

We stopped outside a line of numbered doors.

The man with the scar turned to face us again.

“This week’s report must be spoken and recorded,” he said evenly. “A short interview.”

My stomach sank.

The weekly check in…

The report…

Shit!

I had completely forgotten about it.

Somehow, through all the chaos and pain of the last few days, I had convinced myself that maybe they would skip it this week, given my circumstances.

Given that I looked like I had just crawled out of a warzone.

But of course they wouldn’t.

If I was here to collect their precious money at the end of this whole nightmare, they were going to make sure I earned every sin

“Miss Belle,” the man continued, gesturing down the hallway, “room six.”

Then he turned toward Cara.

“Miss Owens. Room ten.”

He motioned toward the two doors.

The lump forming in my throat grew heavier.

Cara shifted beside me, clearly just as reluctant as I was.

“It won’t take long,” the scarred man added, noticing our hesitation.

His lips pulled into a tight, forced smile.

“Then you may roam the centre for the remainder of your day.”

Roam…

Right.

I swallowed hard and forced my feet to move.

Room six…

The door opened quietly when I pushed it.

And my shoulders sank slightly in disappointment.

Not the woman from last week.

She had been kind.

Gentle.

She had made the entire process feel less like an interrogation.

Instead, sitting at the table in the centre of the room was a man in a dark suit.

His posture was stiff. Professional.

His expression unreadable.

Perfect.

“Miss Belle,” he said as I stepped inside.

“We appreciate you making it here today given the circumstances.” His eyes briefly flicked over my bandaged torso. “Please sit.”

I nodded stiffly and lowered myself into the chair across from him.

The moment my back touched the seat, pain crackled sharply through the muscles along my ribs. I fought the urge to wince.

Don’t show any weakness…

The man reached forward and adjusted a small recording device sitting on the table between us.

“This is pretty easy,” he said, his tone already drifting into bored professionalism.

“I press record, ask you some questions, then you leave.” He paused briefly, making sure I understood, as I nodded. “Ready?”

Suddenly the room felt too warm.

My hands rested awkwardly in my lap as nerves twisted through my stomach.

I hadn’t prepared for this.

Hadn’t even thought about what I would say.

The last few days with Coban had been… shit.

Threats.

Arguments.

Distance.

And then this morning…

None of them had been fully… intentional.

Not really?

“This may sound hard to believe,” I said slowly. “Given how I look to you right now…”

I gestured weakly toward my bandaged state.

“But Coban hasn’t played any part in the abuse I have suffered here this week…” Another lie.

He had hurt me, more so emotionally.

So why was I sitting here protecting him now?

The man didn’t react.

He simply glanced down at his clipboard again.

“Have you witnessed Coban partake in any poor prison behaviour?” He read the next question without emotion. “Such as dealing with illegal substances, forming plans to commit serious assaults, theft, or anything else you would deem as unacceptable behaviour in the real world?” I shook my head.

“No.” A Lie.

He’d done it all!

Another question.

Another lie.

Then another.

And another.

The entire interview became a blur of carefully constructed half-truths and outright fabrications.

I painted Coban as controlled.

Improving.

Trying.

Not perfect but progressing.

Exactly the kind of inmate the Prisoner Project wanted him to be.

But why?!

I didn’t even know anymore.

Maybe I was still protecting him?

Maybe I was protecting myself…

Maybe I just wanted this interview to end so I could get back to Cara!

Because right now?

All I wanted to do was sit somewhere quiet and tell her everything.

About Coban.

About the threats.

About the nurse.

About how completely and utterly awful my week had been…

And so I lied.