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The man picked up a tablet and skimmed through it. “Ah,” Amber said. A few wet wipes later, Amber Bell looked like a completely professional woman who had not just committed either first or second-degree murder. The man immediately grabbed for his throat, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he pushed away from the table. She didn’t understand why this was going to be the hill he chose to die on. “I paid to keep it.” He provided the address. It was much different than the cold florescent lights of regular prisons, and the hallways of those didn’t have pleasant classical music piped through speakers in the walls. After emptying her pockets, she waited for someone to tell her to step through the metal detector.