A monotonous female voice came through the receiver. "Hello, San Francisco Prison."
Jackson's voice was low, deliberate. "Find me a prisoner named Jennelyn."
"No!" Helena's pupils shrank. Panic surged through her as she lunged toward him, trying to snatch the phone away.
But he caught her easily—his grip iron-strong as he flung her hand aside.
"I'll drink!" Helena's voice cracked as she screamed the words, desperation spilling out of her like shattered glass.
Under the man's cold, watchful gaze, Helena lifted cup after cup and forced the fiery liquid down her throat.
Each swallow felt like swallowing flames. The alcohol burned through her throat, seared her stomach, and tore through her insides like a thousand steel needles. Pain twisted her body until she could no longer stand—she crumpled, clutching her abdomen, trembling.
"Tsk." Laica looked down at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. She bent slightly, lowering her voice so only Helena could hear.
"Helena, I heard someone's been investigating my research paper from three years ago. That was you, right?" Her voice was soft and poisonous.
"Consider tonight a little punishment. After all, we still need you alive to do research for me. Don't forget—Jackson is on my side."
Helena's head jerked toward the corner where Jackson stood. For a fleeting second, their eyes met—then he turned away, expression blank.
A fresh wave of pain tore through her chest. Both her body and heart felt pierced beyond repair.
Laica straightened, then raised her glass high with a dazzling smile. "Everyone! Let's toast to our dear Helena's return!"
The crowd erupted with laughter. One after another, glasses were emptied—wine, whiskey—cold liquid splashed down on her hair, her face, her shoulders. The stinging smell of alcohol filled her lungs, soaking through her thin white dress.
By the end of the "welcome" party, Helena couldn't tell if her face was wet from tears or liquor. Her body felt like it was falling apart. She lay motionless on the cold marble floor, her stomach twisting so violently she thought she might die there.
With the last of her strength, she reached out and clutched Jackson's trouser leg.
"Jackson... take me... to a hospital," she gasped. "It hurts... so much..."
Suddenly Laica screamed. "Ah! My hand!"
People looked. A shard from a broken glass had nicked the back of her hand; a few beads of blood appeared.