The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 81

Margot’s POV

The wheels of the bus hummed beneath us, a steady, rhythmic sound that did little to soothe the anxiety gathering like a storm cloud in my chest.

I didn’t like the unknown.

I also didn’t like the way I’d left things with Coban…

I sat stiffly beside Cara, arms crossed, knees bouncing involuntarily as I stared out the narrow window.

We hadn’t driven more than fifteen minutes from the prison compound, and yet it already felt like we were worlds away.

The rocky terrain outside blurred past in smears of gray and muted green, until…

“Oh my god,” I whispered, pressing closer to the glass.

The cliffside opened up into a jagged drop, revealing a surge of crashing waves below. Foamy and white, the sea glittered beneath a silver sky, the horizon a smudge of distant blue.

The air outside was overcast and coastal, the kind of wind–heavy, salt–laced atmosphere that made the ends of my hair curl against my neck.

The ocean.

“It’s weird,” I murmured, leaning so close to the window my breath fogged the glass. “I almost forgot we’d even been on an island.”

“I know, right?” Cara replied, her voice low and awestruck beside me. “I almost forgot there was a whole world outside that damn prison. This project is seriously tripping me out.”

We shared a quiet look, equal parts disbelief and wonder, as the convoy of buses curved along the narrow road carved into the cliffside,

Just up ahead, the buildings came into view.

At first, I thought it was another part of the prison. But no… this place looked different.

Too different.

The fences were gone. The watchtowers, missing. No barbed wire or concrete walls.

Instead, sleek white buildings with mirrored windows gleamed under the weak sunlight that was yet to break through the clouds…

There were flowers everywhere, making it seem more inviting, the structures modern and polished with little picnic benches out front.

A large, rectangular complex sat at the center, flanked by a few smaller buildings on the perimeter. Its walls were steel–paneled and futuristic, the clean lines and low–profile rooftops giving it the look of a research lab more than a government facility.

The buses slowed, gravel crunching beneath the tires as we pulled into a looped drop–off point.

The doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh.

And that’s when we saw them.

Different men.

In suits.

They stood waiting in pairs, all smiles and clean–shaven faces.

They looked like sales reps.

Or politicians.

Not a weapon or badge in sight, no barking orders, no shoves or scowls. Just practiced grins and hands clasped politely in front of their belts.

The difference was jarring. Almost too perfect. Too rehearsed.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered as I rose with the others.

“A trap probably,” Cara muttered back, only half joking.

Still, we followed the flow of bodies toward the front of the building. The suited men greeted us with clipped nods and “Good morning, ladies,” as if we hadn’t just crawled out of cages. As if we were on a school field trip.

I hated it. The sudden courtesy. The illusion of safety. Of freedom,

It made me more anxious than the guards ever did.

Inside, we were led through sliding glass doors into a vast, gleaming atrium with a waterfall display at its centre.

White floors. Silver walls. Sparkling lighting streaming in through a skylight above, filtering through panels like it was designed to impress.

And yet, something about it felt… false.

Like we were walking into an experiment.

And then, like clockwork, the man with the scar stepped into the center, hands behind his back, face cool and unreadable.

“Good morning ladies,” he said, voice amplified by the hidden speakers around the room. “Welcome to your first evaluation checkpoint. I want to commend you all for making it through the first week which no doubt would have been the toughest – you’ll be glad to know! Please remain in your seats until your names are called. You will be escorted one by one to speak privately with our psychologists and program officials to report on your first week with your assigned inmate.”

His eyes swept the room like a shark cruising just beneath the surface. Calculating. Cold.

“Let me remind you,” he added, tone sharpening, “that honesty is expected. But dishonesty will be recognised. Fabrication, manipulation, or withholding of key details will reflect negatively on your record. And your partner’s.”

My heart skipped.

Crap…

Beside me, Cara muttered, “This guy seriously needs a chill pill.”

I wasn’t listening anymore.

I was thinking about Coban.

And how one wrong sentence could undo everything we’d started building.

How easy it would be to write him a report based on sunshine and rainbows – getting caught out for lying…

He’d find out if I gave him a bad report too… I believed he would…

But he’d trusted me last night.

He’d held me through my nightmare.

He’d kissed me like it mattered.

And so I wasn’t about to throw him to the wolves.

Not today…