Chapter 1: The Bait and the Trap

I always drive my battered Ford to the gates of the women’s correctional facility, waiting for women who have just been released. I always know which ones are worth waiting for—the ones who look back at the gates like they already regret being free.

It’s the same routine every time. I park a little ways down from the main entrance, blending in with the line of old Chevys, Hondas, and rusty pickups. The prison squats at the end of a gravel lot, surrounded by chain-link and razor wire, a faded American flag snapping in the wind. Sometimes the guards give me a sideways look, but nobody says a word. Here in nowhere, Ohio, I’m just another ghost with a steering wheel.

Those women—no family, no friends waiting, and still not bad-looking—are my prey.

I watch for the ones who scan the parking lot, hugging themselves against the cold, clutching a plastic bag with all their life inside. They stand just outside the gates, hoping for a miracle, but I know the look of someone who’s truly alone. They keep glancing up and down the empty highway, eyes wide, hoping someone might materialize out of nowhere. That’s when I move in. They walk into the world and, in that instant, realize nobody cares except for me.

All it takes is a little kindness. They cling to me like someone drowning, grabbing the first hand that reaches out.

There’s a desperate gratitude in the way they accept help—raw, unfiltered need, almost addictive. They look at me like I’m their savior, and I know exactly how to play the part—soft words, gentle gestures, the patience they haven’t seen in years. It’s almost too easy. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who really sees how alone they are.

A woman stood at the prison gate.

She caught my eye right away—fair skin, delicate features, the kind of beauty you’d expect in an old-school soap ad, not outside a correctional facility. Even under the gray sky, with her hair pulled back and nothing but the standard-issue jeans and faded tee, her graceful curves were impossible to hide. The way she shifted her weight, nervous and exposed, told me everything: she didn’t belong in this world.

I stared at her hungrily from behind the wheel, my eyes running up and down her body.

I licked my lips, feeling that electric jolt—the thrill of the hunt. My fingers tapped the cracked steering wheel, heart ticking up a notch. She looked even better up close than she had through the binoculars.

A cold wind swept by. The woman hunched her shoulders, shrinking like a scared rabbit.

She shivered, arms wrapped tight, breath fogging in the chill. Leaves scraped across the asphalt. I pictured myself wrapping my jacket around her, playing the hero she never asked for.

Heat surged through my gut. I didn’t wait—I started the car and rolled up beside her.

My palms were slick, adrenaline buzzing. I slowed, rolled the window down, and tried to ignore the hammer in my chest.

Rolling down the window, I flashed my practiced smile.

I made it the perfect mix of friendly and harmless—crooked, like I’d seen hard times myself.

"Hi, I’m a volunteer with Second Chance Outreach, helping former inmates get back on their feet."

I put on my best Sunday church voice—warm, easy, like a guy who brings Jell-O salad to the potluck.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

I handed her a business card—Derek Malone, Social Welfare Volunteer—my name printed in a red heart. The card was laser-printed, the number a disposable Google Voice line. The heart was my signature. People trust a little red heart.

She took the card. She clutched it so hard her knuckles turned white, eyes darting between me and the dashboard as if waiting for the catch. The wariness in her eyes faded a little.

After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door and got in.

There was a pause—a small, tired sigh that said, "What choice do I have?" She slid into the passenger seat, hands trembling as she pulled the door shut. Her duffel thudded against her knees.

A clean scent of laundry detergent and something softer, more human, filled the car, making me restless.

It was the faint, sterile soap from prison, mixed with something warm and real. It filled the little space between us, and I had to grip the wheel hard just to keep it together.

The fish had taken the bait.

My heart thudded with triumph. I could already see the next steps playing out, like I’d rehearsed it a hundred times.