“So it’s a common idea? I mean, that’s something a lot of people say?” My chest was growing tight, and I coughed again, then hit the center of my chest with my fist.

  He looked at me as if I were crazy. “What’s something that people say?”

  “The thing about the mask falling off,” I said impatiently.

  “It’s not something that normally gets brought up in dinner conversations.” He grinned and I didn’t return the gesture. Instead, my mind was flipping through where I had heard that line before.

  A letter. Had to be from a letter. Not a book I read, not a conversation, not from him in the past. I remembered it because it had stuck in my craw for the next week or two.

  Coincidence? Probably not.

  “You haven’t answered the question.” He put down the photos and sat back in his chair. “Were you always this ‘monster’?” He put the word in air quotes, but we both knew he meant it. Despite whatever form of friendship we had between us. Maybe he didn’t see it as friendship. Shit, I wasn’t sure I did either. But for someone used to no one, he had become a someone to me in the last three months.

  Maybe a someone who was hiding something.

  Sometimes it’s not the people that change. It’s the mask that falls off.

  Maybe he had his own mask on. Maybe that line . . . this conversation . . . it was a slip of it.

  He was staring at me, brows raised, and I struggled to return to the discussion before he started to wonder what I was thinking on. “I’ve always been a monster,” I said. “You see a good father . . .” I nodded toward the picture of me and Jenny. “I wasn’t one.”

  “So you—”

  I didn’t let him finish. Standing, I caught Redd’s eye and lifted my chin, beckoning him. “I got to go. Bathroom’s calling.”

  Tim didn’t move, his eyes narrowing. Maybe I should have played this off better, but I needed to get to my room and figure out where I’d read that line before.

  Redd came in and I looked at Tim. “That picture of Jenny and me. Put it through the slot?”

  “You want it?” He picked it up slowly. This asshole was lucky the glass was between us.

  “Yeah.” I gestured to the thin slot in the glass, the one just wide enough for legal documents and papers to pass through.

  He waited for a second, like he was considering it, then leaned forward and inserted it through the opening.

  I didn’t say thanks. I grabbed it and then showed Redd the photo and my shackles, letting him check both.

  On the other side of the glass, Tim stood and silently got his backpack and headed for the door. “See you next week?” I called out.

  He stopped, his hand on the door handle. “Probably.”

  I didn’t like that response. I watched the door shut behind him and had the feeling that I had fucked up somewhere in this relationship.

  Sometimes it’s not the people who change. It’s the mask that falls off.

  I repeated the line as I hurried along the wide hall, past the commissary and the library, to my block and then to my cell. Entering the narrow space, I retrieved my files of letters and carefully combed through the stacks.

  For my regulars, I kept them grouped by sender, and I thumbed through the women until I got to the men. It was likely the brother, Mr. Anonymous. I pulled out his stack and started there, kneeling on the hard concrete floor and spreading out the pages.

  The collection was thick, over fifty or sixty pages, and I forced myself to be careful not to rip anything.

  How long ago had I heard that? At least a year, maybe a few.

  I’d worn a mask for decades. One that only a couple of people had ever seen behind. Hell, I had adopted a new one once I got here, for survival more than anything.

  I don’t understand how a man like you can look at himself in the mirror.

  I flipped to the next letter, scanned it quickly, then the next. A dozen more letters passed.

  She was the only pure thing in my life. What did she do to deserve this? How did you justify this in your mind?

  Maybe it wasn’t from him. Maybe it had been from—my finger stopped mid-scroll on a paragraph of handwritten text.

  I’ve been reading about narcissistic behavior and the differences between a narcissist and a sociopath. Both work very diligently to appear normal but hide their true nature behind a mask—their public persona. When they act outside of that public persona . . . say, killing a group of innocent children . . . it’s not a psychological break, it’s just an interruption of the play-acting . . . i.e., their mask slipping off. To say that another way . . .

  Sometimes it’s not the people who change. It’s the mask that falls off.

  That is so disturbing to me . . . the idea that the people in my life could be like you, and just . . .

  I stopped, then reread it. Narcissistic behavior . . . That’s what Tim had said, right? It’s something they say about narcissists. It can also be applied to violent individuals.

  Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe this was the scratch that had been digging its way deeper and deeper into my brain with each visit from Dr. Valden.

  I pinched my eyes closed, trying to piece together what I had told the pen pal versus what I had told the visitor. I’d always been careful to keep the different pieces of the truth in compartments, but I might have . . . maybe . . . shared too much between the two of them?

  I hadn’t been the only one with a mask on. The brother had a wife and a kid. Tim had presented himself as single. Who was telling the truth? The brother had been in a long-term relationship . . . surely he hadn’t lied in his letters for two decades, but what if he had? What if he wasn’t even the brother of one of the girls? What if he had always just used that as a fake connection, a way to catch my attention? It was easier to deceive someone with letters. Plenty of time to line up the lies, think through the wording.

  No. It was more likely that Dr. Valden was the one who was lying. Being face-to-face with someone was risky. One off phrase, one slip of the mask, and he would have shown his cards. Like he had tonight.

  Maybe it had been an intentional clue. Maybe he’d given me a half dozen, and I’d missed them. I can confidently say that I know just about everything there is to know about you, Mr. Folcrum. A big softball right there, and I was too busy jawing through a sandwich to catch it.

  I had always believed that my pen pal was the blonde’s brother, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe that was a lie. I’d seen the brother in court, glaring at me like he was ready to throw fists. All testosterone and hatred, right there in the front row at the trial, gripping that railing like he’d been ready to come over it at me. It had been easy to believe that he’d start to write me letters, but it wasn’t like I had any lack of enemies.

  Tim . . . I shook my head, trying to put him and that seventeen-year-old kid next to each other.

  Could they be the same person? Maybe. Big difference between an acne-covered, shaggy-headed kid and a clean-cut grown man.

  Truth be told, other than the hate in his eyes, the rest of the kid was a bit fuzzy. I’d spent more time searching the audience for her.

  Searching, and being let down in what I saw.

  From: tfk@hotmail.com

  To: info@murderunplugged.com

  Date: July 10 at 10:19 AM

  Subject: proof

  There’s a detail I haven’t seen anyone cover so I’m assuming law enforcement is withholding it intentionally. When I carved up little Kitty Green I cut an S into her stomach.

  I won’t jump through any more hoops for you. Take me seriously or I’ll go to someone else.

  CHAPTER 45

  PERLA

  Paige told me a few weeks into working there that she had a serious crush on the dad. She said he was like a nerdy Bradley Cooper. I remember once, he texted her at night when we were out, and she let out a shriek, she was so excited.

  —Jeralynn Gutierrez, college student

  It was just a moment. A moment when I came in with the groceries and Grant was standing in the kitchen, pen in hand, the newspaper on the counter, open to the daily crossword. Paige was beside him, her finger pointing to a clue, their heads right beside each other. Innocent, maybe. I walked in without hesitation and put my bags on the counter, and she stepped away and he looked up, and then the moment was over.

  Even though it ended, it had still happened. And I noted it, added it to the column of Things Grant Had Done Wrong, and he inched forward in the race of whom I would set up for the crime. I held that chip in my hand and loved the feel of power it gave me.

  That night, when her car wouldn’t start and I gave her a ride home, I planted another seed, this one with Leewood Folcrum’s name on it.

  The Mercedes hummed along the road, hugging the curves, its automatic wipers taking care of the rain that peppered the windshield. Paige pulled a little on her belt and looked out her window. “I’m so sorry about my car. I don’t know what it could be.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I flicked my brights at an oncoming car, and he lowered his in response, a streetlight illuminating the car as it swept toward us. An orange Ferrari. Paige craned her neck, watching as it passed. I bet she’d never been in a Ferrari. Never would.

  “Tell me about your mom.” I slowed at an intersection, glancing both ways to make sure it was clear. “What’s she do?”

  “Um, she’s in retail?” Her voice rose at the end as if it were a question. “She works at a shoe store in Dayton.”

  How miserably bleak but also expected. My mother had worked in retail as well. I toyed with what, if anything, to tell her.

  “Take a right at the next light. Um, please.” She played with the ends of her ponytail, separating the limp strands.

  “And you said your father works at the prison. You said it was called Lynncaster?” I pronounced the name wrong and waited to see if she would correct me.

  “Yep. He’s been there like a decade.”

  “Is that a men’s or women’s prison?” I put on my blinker, then took a right turn at the intersection.

  “Men’s.”

  A conversationalist, she was not.

  I faked a shudder. “I can’t imagine being around criminals like that, all day, every day.”

  She let out a small laugh. “I guess? I don’t know. He doesn’t really talk about it. I think he just sees them like normal people. Normal people who made some mistakes.”

  Normal people who just made some mistakes. I’d have to save that and whip it out when it was time for her to be locked away as a murderer. “I forgive you, Paige . . . you’re just a normal person who made some mistakes.”

  I hunched forward, peering out through the increasing rain. “So what’s the most dangerous criminal he’s ever dealt with?”

  She looked out her window. “I don’t really know.” It was so offhand, the way she said it. As if she didn’t really know—but the slight pitch in her voice gave her away.

  “You should ask your dad. Especially if you’re wanting to go into criminology. I bet he could get you in to visit someone big. Ask them some questions, like a mini interview.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked down at her knees, then brushed her bangs away from her face. “This is my road here. Cedar Trail.”

  I turned down the gravel road, my car bumping over the uneven surface, and wondered how far I should push it. “You’re probably right. Sitting down with a killer . . .” I turned where she pointed and then parked in front of a double-wide trailer and a blue Kia Sorento SUV.

  “It’d probably be too much for someone like you.” I paused, then quickly added, “I just mean, because you’re so young and quiet. But if you are wanting to do something in that field . . . I don’t know, Paige. It would be a fantastic résumé builder. Trust me on that.” I placed my hand on her forearm, underlining the point.

  She reached for her bag, then for the car’s handle.

  “Need help getting your things inside?”

  “No, I have it. Thank you.” She gave me a nervous smile.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll have Grant pick you up,” I offered. “Then you can drive this car home. Use it for the next few days while we sort out what’s wrong with yours.” What was wrong with hers was the sugar in the gas tank, a problem I’d created and would blame on Sophie, but only to Paige.

  She protested, both about Grant and about the use of the Mercedes, but I didn’t let her out of the car until she agreed. She would love the ride and alone time with my husband, and driving the $100,000 Mercedes would give her a glimpse of the life that she didn’t have. That, and it would be a highly visible sign to everyone that Paige Smith was aggressively moving into our life.

  I’d pay for the repairs to Paige’s car and tell her that I’d handle Sophie’s discipline myself, that she didn’t need to worry about that. Paige would most certainly mention it to someone, and this would be the first of a few manufactured aggressions that Sophie would display—all building on the wall between them that would act as a potential motive for Paige’s desire to remove Sophie from the Grant + Paige equation.

  Again, I didn’t need it to be real. I only needed documented red flags that would raise doubts in a jury’s mind. And it would be easier since Sophie wouldn’t be around to contradict the history.

  I backed slowly out of the spot and pulled a tight U-turn. As I headed out, a smile bloomed on my face.

  It was almost too easy.

  CHAPTER 46

  JOURNAL OF SOPHIE WULTZ

  I’ve decided that I never want to be an adult. They all suck. Even Paige, who I thought was cool, but she’s not. Today she asked if I messed with her car. I didn’t know what she was talking about, and I told her that, but she didn’t believe me. I could tell by the way her face got all hard, and then she said that my mom was taking care of it, whatever that means.

  I thought that Mom would talk to me about it, but she didn’t.

  They’re loading her car on a tow truck right now. I don’t know why she’s glaring at me over it. First of all, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Second, she’s getting to drive the Mercedes until it’s fixed so . . . like, what’s the problem?

  I asked if we could run some drills in the backyard but she said no, that she needed to deal with car stuff first.

  Is she allowed to say no? I mean, aren’t we paying her to do stuff with me?

  The whole situation is weird, but at least she’s not permanent. I told Mom that she was being mean, and Mom told me that she’ll fire her after my birthday party, so that’s cool.

  In the meantime, I’ll try my best with her, but . . . whatever. As Mom said to me the other day, our job isn’t to be nice to the help.

  CHAPTER 47

  PERLA

  “What are you doing?” I stopped in the doorway to Grant’s office and glared at Paige, who stood by the fireplace.

  She spun on one foot. At least she was barefoot. Yesterday I’d caught her with her shoes on in the house despite my very clear instructions that everyone remove them prior to entry.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not allowed in here?”

  “We’d rather you not be. Where’s Sophie?”

  “Oh, she’s taking a shower. I’m just waiting on her to finish, and I was wandering.”

  Snooping, that’s what she was doing. Not that I didn’t expect it. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that this was normal, expected. Not a bad thing.

  “Is this . . . This is Mr. Wultz?” She pointed to a photo on the mantel, and damn if she hadn’t found the only photo in the entire house of Lucy. In the picture, his arm was around her shoulders, hugging her tight to his side, big smiles on both their faces.

  “Yes.” I moved forward until I was beside her. “That’s when he was in high school.”

  “The girl is really pretty.”

  “Yes,” I agreed carefully.

  “Is she related to him?” Her voice rose a little. If Paige Smith had a tell, that was it.

  I turned to face her. “Why do I think that you already know who that is?”

  She flushed. “I don’t,” she stammered. “I mean, not really. I didn’t see any pictures online, but I know—”

  “You know about Grant’s family,” I said.

  “Yes.” She looked pained. “I’m sorry. I won’t say anything to him about it, I promise.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Just last night. I was researching some of the prisoners that my dad told me about. One of them—I saw the last name Wultz, and it’s so unique. I looked it up and saw Grant’s name in one of the obituaries.” She wrung her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay.” I sighed. “It’s not exactly a secret. We don’t talk about it, but some people in the neighborhood know. I would appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. I mean, I don’t know anyone you know anyway. We aren’t exactly in the same circles.” She let out a nervous giggle.

  “Still,” I said stiffly. “Your discretion would be appreciated.”

  “Right. Yeah. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Does your father know?” I held my breath, afraid of her answer. Surely, if she had told him, he wouldn’t share that information. A man who worked with criminals, he would understand the need for privacy, especially in a case like this.

  “Uh, yeah.” Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry, I told him as soon as I found out.”

  At least she didn’t lie to me. She could have easily done so. The fact that she didn’t was another point in her favor. So what if her father knew? I could still pull and control the strings from here.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. This girl really needed to expand her vocabulary.

  “Sophie is probably out of the shower.” I glanced at my watch. “And I need to change.”

  “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” She turned away from the mantel and walked quickly toward the hall. I waited until she was almost to the door, then called her name. She immediately spun around, her shoulders hunched, steeled for a lashing.

  “Don’t tell Grant that you know. And please ask your father to keep this confidential. Leewood doesn’t know that we live in the area. It’s very important that he doesn’t find out.”