Chapter Text
A small, dark shape filled the backlit doorway.
“Hello, Joan.”
Joan Ferguson, hunched over a small writing desk, turned her head and looked up from under dark lashes at the unimposing figure of Vera Bennett.
“I wondered when you’d come.” Joan put down her pencil and quickly closed the notepad she had been filling with lines of small, neat handwriting. She turned in her chair to fully face the newcomer. “You’ve come to gloat.”
It had been six weeks since the fire at Wentworth. Joan no longer required physical restraints.
“No. Not gloat.” Vera crossed her arms and leaned a little against the doorway. “I hear you’re doing better. That you’re out of the cell.” The strained positivity of the voice fell short.
“Yes.” Joan shifted in the chair. “Better.”
“I suppose the solitude suits you. Gives you some space and time to contemplate… everything.” The sharp chin came up. Vera’s blue eyes were cold, the expressive lips pursed. She looked directly at Joan. “I suppose you don’t get many visitors.”
“Just you, Vera.” The tone was flat.
“I wasn’t going to come,” Vera’s voice was over-loud. “Not after what you did.” She met Joan’s eyes momentarily, looked away quickly.
“That’s a little ironic, isn’t it?” Joan leaned forward in her chair. “You went to visit Mr. Fletcher, too.” She folded her hands, rested her elbows on her knees. “You were willing to throw in with him against me, even after what he did.”
Vera stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘after what he did’?”
“You didn’t know.” Joan cocked her head to the side. “He was working with Channing on that brothel… project.” Her mouth twisted on the word. “How do you think he became so chummy with Mr. Channing? Was it merely a coincidence that Channing recommended him over you for the Governorship after Erica Davidson left?”
The younger woman stood unnaturally still. “Fletch would never do that,” She shook her head. “You’re manipulating me.” She gave a dry bark of a laugh. “You can’t even help it. It’s your nature.”
Joan continued. “And he raped a prisoner.” Dark eyes peered up from behind a curtain of silver-shot hair. “Jess Warner, the day of Smith's escape."
Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Fucking liar,” she hissed.
She turned on her heel and left.
***
She played it back again.
For the sixth time, she watched the grainy CCTV image of Fletch and Warner talking in the hallway. Their body language was unmistakable. She watched as Warner disappeared into the showers. Half a minute later, Fletch followed.
Five minutes later, they emerged.
Vera clicked pause.
“Oh my God.” Vera slumped forward onto the desk and held her head in her hands.
Light from a small desk lamp cast shadows about the stark, grey room, reflecting off the Wentworth crest that dominated the focus wall. Vera’s assistant was long gone.
Joan was right. She was right about Warner, about Fletch being oddly chummy with Channing. And now that she thought about it, she recalled that Fletch had got the prison database administrator’s password from Channing. That was how they’d found out the identity of Jianna.
Vera picked up her iPhone. She hesitated. After a moment, she scrolled through her contacts and selected one.
Matt Fletcher.
It rang twice. “Vera!” The voice on the other end was bright.
Vera’s was leaden. “You had sex with Jess Warner the day Smith escaped."
There was a long silence. Vera heard slow breathing. In the background, music played and glasses clinked.
“Fletch!” Vera dropped her voice. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t fuck a prisoner.”
More slow breathing. “It’s true.” Another long pause. “I’m sorry, Vera, I…”
She hung up.
***