“Well, okay, now.” She switched the cross of her legs. “We don’t have to have him here if you aren’t ready for that. But you have to realize that everything I hear from you is from your perspective.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t know where she was going with this, but I didn’t like it.

  “And we all have biases on our perspectives. Most of the time we can’t even see our own biases. Some of them were built decades ago. Some of them were created more recently, as a result of trauma or circumstance.”

  My hand instinctively went for my neck, but I caught and disguised the action, pretending to brush something off the breast of my ebony sweater.

  I waited for her to continue—I’d been through this song and dance before. She wasn’t going to put out a net and have me fall into it. I was the one with the hook here, and I’d put in all the work to make sure it was pierced in her psyche, the line taut.

  “Can we talk about your history with men, before Grant?”

  I sighed, settling back against the soft leather chair. “There isn’t much to tell. I had a few boyfriends but nothing serious. I was a virgin when I met Grant.”

  She flipped a few pages back. “Oh, that’s interesting. So you were . . . let’s see . . . twenty-one when you met Grant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he your first love?” She peered at me. Today she was wearing black-and-white-plaid eyeglass frames. They looked ridiculous.

  Grant wasn’t my first love, but I couldn’t tell her that. If I said that, she’d want to know the intimate details, and I didn’t talk about that love with anyone, especially not her. “Yes.” I delivered the lie with a wistful smile.

  “And how close were you with your father?”

  “Excuse me?” I tried not to recoil, not to show too much, but it felt like her pen was pulling open my stomach and examining the contents.

  “When we look at a woman’s adult relationships, they can sometimes be influenced by the most powerful male figure in her life, which is typically her father.”

  “My father died shortly after I met Grant.”

  “Did you have a good relationship with him?”

  I thought of George, and this time, the smile that pulled at my lips was genuine. “Yes. He was wonderful. We were very close.” I flicked my gaze back to her, and my anger flared. “No daddy issues, if that’s what you’re asking about.”

  Definitely not. I didn’t have daddy issues; I had a fucking daddy tsunami that was six layers deep and capable of decimation.

  “Would you like some tea?” She placed her notebook on the small gold table beside her and stood. “I’m going to pour myself a cup.”

  “No.” I glanced at my watch, irritated to see that there were still eighteen minutes left in our session. Maybe this would be our last. The point had been to establish a key witness for the defense, and Dr. Maddox was getting a little shaky on that front.

  “I’ll be right back.” She walked toward the office door and I saw she was wearing glittery white Birkenstock sandals, each toe painted a different color. Ridiculous.

  I spoke just before she reached it. “Actually . . . I would love a cup of tea. With whatever diet sweetener you have. Preferably Splenda.”

  She nodded and closed the door behind her, and I immediately stood, taking three short steps over to her chair, resting my weight on the arm of it as I looked at her notepad.

  There were only three words on the pad. Three words, neatly written in her clean block writing, with dozens of question marks framing the question.

  I stared at the words for a long moment, then returned to my seat, the phrase burning into my mind.

  Is she lying?

  CHAPTER 56

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  Fun fact: Leewood Folcrum’s canteen account had over $74,000 in it. Prisoners can only spend a hundred dollars a week, and he barely did that, so his spending couldn’t keep up with the donations that came in. He was real popular with the ladies, and they showed their affection in a few different ways, one of them being money.

  —William Smith, Lancaster Prison corrections officer

  If I was right and Tim was the blonde’s brother, it meant that any day, he’d be getting my letter with my faux confession.

  Either he hadn’t gotten the letter yet or he wasn’t the brother, because he was on the other side of the glass, still waxing on with these stupid questions and wanting to know what had really happened.

  “Given your condition,” Tim said slowly, his pen spinning between his thin fingers, “it just seems that you’d want someone to know. Before you pass and take it with you.”

  Given your condition . . . Again, if he wasn’t my secret pen pal, I still needed to figure out how much he knew about me and how he knew what he knew. As shitty as I looked and felt, it was still a stretch for him to have assumed with such confidence that I was dying.

  “Someone to know what?” I spit out. Today was a bad day. My entire body was weak; just moving my hand to my mouth felt like I was dragging shackles. The fries he’d brought were cold, and I was beginning to lose my taste for anything.

  “What happened that night. You’ve got to be itching to tell someone the truth of why you did it.”

  “Sometimes people just do things, Timmy.”

  “Only if there’s a psychological break. Is that what you had? Did your mind crack open one day, Leewood?”

  To that, I kept my mouth shut. This guy was like a boxer. Circling and circling, looking for an opening so he could land a punch. Normally, I’d be getting up and leaving. But frankly, I didn’t have the energy to move.

  “Leewood?”

  I yawned.

  “I don’t think you had a psychological break. You didn’t just snap one day and decide to take out a trio of preteens.” He shook his head. If anyone here was losing it, it was him.

  “Sounds like you got it all figured out.” I picked up the burger with both hands and brought it to my mouth but caught a whiff of the scent and stopped, suddenly turned off by the smell of the chargrilled patty.

  “Which means you had a motivation. Hedonistic, financial, jealousy, anger—what was it, Lee? Huh?” He leaned forward, and the glass fogged from the hot blow of his breath.

  “I think I know why you did it.” He said it with such confidence that I cracked one eye open. He was smiling, but it was a grim smile, like he was pleased and upset all at the same time. It reminded me of the Would You Rather quiz we gave the new inmates. Would you rather sit on a cake and eat a dick? Or sit on a dick and eat a cake? It was good ’cause there was cake involved—not that any of us was getting to eat cake anytime soon—but it was also bad because there were dicks involved, and in this place, the chance of getting a dick was uncomfortably high. The question made the newbies hella uncomfortable, as if their answer would decide their fate. Sometimes it did.

  That was one thing I’d never sunk to, not even twenty-plus years in. A shrink might say it was because I liked little girls, but the truth was, I lost all sexual inclinations after what happened that night. You hold a little body in your arms, one growing limp and still, and you stop looking at that thing as a sexual object. You pull a knife across virginal skin and have blood spray like a hose across your living room—you start to see that shit when you close your eyes. All you see is blood, and maybe that would be different if they hadn’t locked me up in here, but they did, so that’s the image I’ve had stuck in my head when I think about anyone under the age of puberty. Bloody dead girls, one still flopping in my hands like a fish. The way she had stared up at me—her mouth gaping open, hurt filling those eyes—I still saw it when I lay down at night.

  “I think you did it because of Jenny,” he said hoarsely.

  “Whatcha mean, ‘because of Jenny’?” I couldn’t help it. I was a horse led to water. Damned if I wouldn’t drink.

  “I think you killed her because you were scared of her.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” I said, for the tenth time, as if I had known what would happen.

  As if I’d known she would survive.

  CHAPTER 57

  PERLA

  Once Sophie headed to bed, I got her phone out of the lockbox and texted Paige. The text was short and sweet.

  My mom doesn’t want you to work tomorrow. Enjoy the day off!

  I sent it, then waited to see how Paige would respond. I had spoken to Paige before she left and discussed a long list of items for us to take care of, so this should raise a red flag in her mind.

  My cell phone rang, and I placed Sophie’s down on the kitchen counter and answered it.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wultz. This is Paige.”

  “Oh, hi, Paige,” I said, and walked over to the sink, turning on the water.

  “I just got a text from Sophie, but I wanted to make sure . . . She said you don’t need me to work tomorrow?”

  I paused. “She said what?”

  “She just texted me and said that you said to tell me I had the day off.”

  I turned off the water and waited for a beat. “Ummm, no. No. I definitely need you here tomorrow. I’ll talk to Sophie. She must be confused.”

  “Yeah, I thought it was strange. So, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow? At eight thirty, right?”

  “Yes, exactly. The car is still working well for you?”

  “Oh yeah. I told you, mine is fixed, so you don’t have to—”

  “No, keep driving ours for now. I have surgery this week, so I’ll need you more for the next week or so.”

  “Okay . . . if you’re sure.”

  “I am.” I smiled. “Have a good night, Paige. Thanks for calling.”

  She said her goodbyes, and I hung up, then deleted the text from Sophie’s phone. I scrolled through her day’s activity, checking her social media accounts, texts, and browser history. It was all clean, and I smiled to myself as I returned her phone to the box and locked it.

  It was fun, setting all this up. Too bad it was going to end soon. That ending would be sad, but also the start of a new game, one with higher stakes, more deception, more rewards.

  I would win at both.

  CHAPTER 58

  Grant and I rode in silence to the surgery center. I closed my eyes, willing the Ambien I had taken that morning to hit.

  “Kellan’s a good doctor,” Grant said, his voice tight. “Everything will be fine. He has a good team. A good anesthesiologist.”

  I looked over, surprised at the tenor of his tone. His fingers were wrapped around the wheel, the tendons in the backs of his hands visible from the strain. “What are you, worried?”

  “Of course I am. You’re going under. Things happen.” He swallowed. “It will be fine,” he repeated. “I’m sure it will be.”

  “If something did happen to me, you’d be okay,” I pointed out. “Just add more hours to Madeline and keep Paige on. No biggie.”

  He glanced at me. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

  “Well, you would have to get a manager for the complexes,” I allowed. “But to be honest, nothing I do with them is that difficult. Anyone with basic organization skills and intelligence could do it.”

  “I’m not thinking about the apartments,” he snapped. “I’m thinking about the emotional impact. The loss of you as a person.”

  “Oh.” That’s right. People were supposed to mourn. I needed to add that to my list. “How do you think you would handle it if I died? What do you think your reaction would be?”

  “I would be destroyed.” He reached over and grabbed my hand. “I know what I was like with Lucy, and it . . . I stopped knowing how to live for a period of time. I was just blinded by hate and rage and the deep, deep sadness. It was like falling down a well of hell, one where no one could reach you, no one could hear you screaming, no one understood. That’s what I would go through if you passed. What Sophie would go through.”

  “Oh.” I studied his face and mentally repeated the words, trying to cement them in my mind. They were great. I couldn’t use them verbatim—that would raise his suspicions—but what a great visual to think of when I spoke to the media fresh after the event. Maybe I should have a mental episode. Freak out enough to be sedated. That would play well for the cameras and the story. Like falling into a deep well of hell.

  “I can’t believe your focus was on the implementation details of our lives.” He squeezed my hand as his attention returned to the road.

  “Well, I guess that’s because that’s what I’ve been thinking about the last two weeks,” I said lightly. “Getting everything handled for this week when I’m out of commission.”

  “Kellan is a good doctor,” he repeated, as if convincing himself of the fact. “You’ll do fine.”

  Impulsively, I undid my seat belt and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. “I will, don’t worry. I’m a hard girl to kill.”

  I settled back in my seat, glowing from the concern he’d shown. Of course, he’d ruined it with that mention of Lucy. The bitch had been dead more than twenty years, and I was still competing with her, but that was okay. I’d had him in ways she never did. There was no way his love for me wasn’t greater. If her death had pushed him down a well, mine would open up a crater.

  Maybe Sophie’s death will break him. That would be an interesting turn of the coin. I had no interest in nursing him through a mourning period and pulling him out of some well of Sophie-triggered sorrow. That wouldn’t sit right with me. I didn’t need her to be a martyr in our relationship, and right now, seeing him get this worked up over a simple plastic surgery . . . I could see it happening. Him moping about. Breaking into tears. Babbling about Sophie to anyone who would listen. Taking my time, my limelight.

  Which was why he needed to be clearly identified as the villain. The public could debate over whether he was the original Folcrum killer or just working with him . . . but he needed to have his shiny father-of-the-year crown gone from his head before the press descended and decided whom to shower with love and whom to shit on. I didn’t need his grief to be constantly compared to my own. What if mine was found lacking? Wooden?

  As he made the turn into the surgery center, any internal debate over his role ceased.

  Grant had to take the fall. Otherwise, he’d ruin this for me.

  CHAPTER 59

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Grant’s voice was muted, like it was buried under piles of blankets.

  “Mommmmm,” Sophie sang out. “Time to wake up!”

  “Give her a minute.”

  “Can I have some money for the snack machine? They have Starbursts. It’s right there, in the hall.”

  “Sweetie, she’s about to wake up. Just wait. You can have candy later.”

  Sophie didn’t need candy. I tried to open my eyelids, but they were too heavy. I tried to speak, but my mouth was so dry. I swallowed and licked my lips. “Water,” I croaked.

  “Honey? Honey, we’re right here.” There was pressure on my arm; then someone was shaking me. Why in the hell were they shaking me?

  I coughed, and then my eyes worked. I squinted, trying to bring things into focus. “Water,” I repeated.

  “Sophie, go get the nurse and tell her Perla wants some water.” He loomed above me and was grinning like an idiot. “Hey, sweetie. Kellan says you did great.”

  I did great. Like I had done anything more than lie there and drool. I tried to smile, but my entire face hurt. I closed my eyes and let out a sob. Why the fuck did this hurt so bad? It felt like someone had smashed me in the nose with a hammer.

  “It hurts so bad,” I whispered, and tears leaked out of my eyes as the red-hot pain intensified. “Why does it hurt so bad?” I started to wail as a nurse appeared, a white cone in hand.

  “Here you go,” she said cheerfully, her hand firm on my back as she pushed me upright and pressed the paper rim to my lips.

  I guzzled it. “More.”

  She lowered me back down. “We’ll give you some more in a little bit, but we don’t want to upset your stomach. That’s enough for now.”

  That’s enough for now. What was I, ten? Rage flooded through me, and I opened my mouth to tell her off, but the action caused another stab of pain, and I cried out, then started to sob.

  Grant gripped my arm, rubbing it reassuringly while he babbled on about how strong and amazing I was, that the pain would be over soon and that I looked so beautiful.

  He was a good husband, despite all his faults. I turned my head, looking at him through the tears, and felt a wave of affection and remorse. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He kissed my forehead as carefully as he could. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my love.”

  I wanted to laugh at that, but the scrunching of my face triggered another slice of pain.

  CHAPTER 60

  LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

  INMATE 82145

  Leewood and I are in love. I’ve already booked the prison chapel for next spring. That will be the first time we see each other in person, and I’m going to wear an all-beaded dress with this long princess train. All my siblings are coming into Lancaster for the wedding. Well, except for my older brother, who says I’m crazy.

  —Tiffany Rose, veterinarian tech

  I knew Tim had gotten the letter when he showed up on a Saturday. He didn’t have any food with him this time, and he was standing on his side of the glass, in a green sweater and corduroy pants. He was half-bent over the table, my letter there, his hands tented on either side of it.

  I took my time sitting down. I’d had a week to prepare for this beating, so I was ready for whatever bullshit he had to bring. “Hello, Grant.”

  It was a shot in the dark. I could have been wrong about which girl he was related to. I could have been wrong about how he’d gotten his hands on the letter at all. Maybe someone had given it to him. Maybe he was best friends with Grant Wultz. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But I felt the odds were big enough that I could take the stab and see if I was right.