Michael Scofield Novels & Stories

My voice was louder than I meant it to be: “You sick bastard!” He immediately turned to face me. Mr. Scarpa. Mr. Scarpa was calm and composed yet again, even in this situation. He was still in all black. His eyes fell on me like a slow-falling guillotine. “Montana,” he said with a smooth, unreadable voice. “How do you do?” How… how dare this man?! He didn’t let me speak as he raised an eyebrow and pointed to the big screen. “Oh, this?” he calmly said, like a nouveau riche. “You were aware your husband recorded you every time you both had sex without your consent, right?”

I recognized her voice immediately even though I hadn't heard it in over a decade. "This is Michael," I said calmly. "Michael Stephan. I need you to give Scarlet a message."

From somewhere back in the kitchen, a radio played, the music muffled and distorted by the heavy swing door. "Sierra! Over here." I looked toward the back corner. Michael was tucked into a booth, his tan trench coat folded neatly beside him. He looked out of place in his crisp white shirt, surrounded by the grime of the diner. He waved, gesturing for me to join him. I walked over, my legs suddenly feeling heavy. I sat down opposite him, feeling the springs in the booth groaning under my weight. "You made it," Michael said, offering a small, tight smile. "I wasn't sure if you’d show after... well, after the news broke."