Laura frowned at the plastic earbuds in the case. “They look like hearing aids.”
“That’s by design.” Rosenfeld took the listening devices and placed them in her open hand. “Your words will be picked up through the vibrations in your jawbone. In order for us to pick up Clayton Morrow, he needs to be close. There’s a lot of ambient noise in the visitation room. All the inmates know how to work the dead zones. If you want to get him on tape, you need to be no more than three feet away.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Laura was more concerned with vanity. She did not want Nick to think she was an old woman who needed hearing aids.
Rosenfeld said, “If you feel threatened, or like you can’t do it, just say the phrase, ‘I would like a Coke.’ There’s a machine in there. He won’t notice anything’s off. We’ll tell the closest guard to step in, but if Morrow somehow has a shiv or a weapon—”
“I’m not worried about that. He would only use his hands.”
Andy gave an audible gulp.
“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. It’s just a conversation.” Laura pushed the plastic buds into her ears. They felt like pebbles. She asked Rosenfeld, “What does he need to say, exactly? What’s incriminating?”
“Anything that gives ownership to Paula Evans-Kunde’s actions. Like, if Morrow says he sent her to the farm, that’s enough. He doesn’t have to say he sent her to kill anybody, or kidnap your daughter. That’s the beauty of conspiracy. All you have to do is get him on tape taking credit for her actions.”
The old Nick gladly took credit for everything, but Laura had absolutely no idea whether or not the present-day Nick had learned his lesson. “All I can do is try.”
“Good to go.” One of the guards raised his thumb into the air. “The sound is coming through perfect.”
Rosenfeld gave him a thumbs-up in response. He asked Laura, “Ready?”
Laura felt a lump in her throat. She smiled at Andy. “I’m good.”
Mike said, “Gotta say, it makes us all a little bit nervous, having you in the same room with this guy.”
Laura knew he was trying to lighten the mood. “We’ll try not to blow anything up.”
Andy guffawed.
Mike said, “I’ll walk you as far as the door. You still okay with Andy hearing all this?”
“Of course.” Laura squeezed Andy’s hand, though uncertainty nagged at her thoughts. She was worried that Nick would somehow sway Andy to his side. She was worried for her own sanity, because he had pulled her back in hundreds of times, but she had only managed to escape once.
“You’re gonna do great, Mom.” Andy grinned, and the gesture was so reminiscent of Nick that Laura felt her breath catch. “I’ll be here when it’s over. Okay?”
All Laura could do was nod.
Mike stepped back so that Laura could follow the guard down yet another long corridor. He kept his distance, but she could hear his heavy footsteps behind her. Laura touched her fingers to the wall to stop herself from wringing her hands together. She felt butterflies in her stomach.
She had taken a month to prepare for this, and now that she was here, she found herself terrifyingly unprepared.
“How’s she doing?” Mike said, obviously trying to distract her again. “Andy. How’s she doing?”
“She’s perfect,” Laura said, which was not that much of an exaggeration. “The surgeon got out most of the bullet. There won’t be any lasting damage.” Mike hadn’t been asking about her physical recovery, but Laura wasn’t going to talk about personal things with a man who had so openly flirted with her daughter. “She’s found an apartment in town. I think she might go back to college.”
“She should try the Marshals Service. She was a damn good detective out there on the road.”
Laura gave him a sharp look. “I would lock her in the basement before I let my daughter become a pig.”
He laughed. “She’s ridiculously adorable.”
Laura had forgotten the earbuds. He was talking for Andy’s benefit. She opened her mouth to cut him down to size, but any pithy comment Laura might have made was drowned out by the buzz of distant conversations.
Her throat tightened. Laura still remembered what a visitation room sounded like.
The guard worked his key in the lock.
“Ma’am.” Mike gave her a salute, then walked back toward the monitoring room.
Laura gritted her teeth as the guard opened the door. She walked through. He closed the door, then looked for a key to the next one.
She could not help but start to wring together her hands. This was what she remembered most from her time in jail: a series of locked doors and gates, none of which she could open on her own.
Laura looked up at the ceiling. She gritted her teeth even harder. She was back in the courtroom with Nick. She was on the stand, wringing her hands, trying not to look into his eyes because she knew if she allowed herself that one weakness, she would crumble and it would all be over.
Trade him.
The guard opened the door. The conversations grew louder. She heard children laughing. Ping-pong balls hitting paddles. She touched the plastic earbuds, making sure they hadn’t fallen out. Why was she so damn nervous? She wiped her hands on her jeans as she stood at the locked gate, the last barrier between her and Nick.
Everything felt wrong.
She wanted to rewind her day to this morning and start all over again. She had refused to dress up for the occasion, but now she found herself picking apart her choice of a simple black sweater and blue jeans. She should’ve worn heels. She should’ve dyed the gray out of her hair. She should’ve paid more attention to her make-up. She should’ve turned around and left, but then the gate was open and she was going around a corner and she saw him.
Nick was sitting at one of the tables in the back of the room.
He lifted his chin by way of greeting.
Laura pretended not to notice, pretended that her heart was not trembling, her bones were not vibrating inside of her body.
She was here for Andrew, because his dying wish had to mean something.
She was here for Andrea, because her life had finally found purpose.
She was here for herself, because she wanted Nick to know that she had finally gotten away.
Laura caught flashes of movement as she walked through the large, open space. Fathers in khaki uniforms lifting babies into the air. Couples talking quietly and holding hands. A few lawyers speaking in hushed tones. Children playing in a roped-off corner. Two ping-pong tables manned by happy-looking teenagers. Cameras mounted every ten feet, microphones jutting from the ceiling, guards standing by the doors, the Coke machine, the emergency exit.
Nick was sitting only a few yards away. Laura looked past him, still unprepared for eye contact. Her heart jumped at the sight of the upright piano on the back wall. The Baldwin Hamilton School Model in walnut satin. The fallboard was missing. The keys were worn. She imagined that it was rarely tuned. She was so taken by the sight of the piano that she almost walked past Nick.
“Jinx?” He had his hands clasped together on the table. Improbably, he looked exactly the same as she remembered. Not in the courtroom, not when Laura was passing out in the bathroom at the farmhouse, but downstairs in the shed. Alexandra Maplecroft was still alive. None of the bombs had gone off yet. Nick was unbuttoning his navy peacoat as he kissed her on the cheek.
Switzerland.
“Should I call you Clayton?” she asked, still unable to look at him.
He indicated the seat across the table. “My darling, you may call me anything you like.”
Laura almost gasped, ashamed that the smooth sound of his voice could still touch her. She took the seat. Her eyes measured the space between them, judging that they were well within the three feet required. She clasped her hands together on the table. For only a moment, she allowed herself the pleasure of looking at his face.
Still beautiful.
A little lined, but not much. His energy was the constant, as if a spring was wound tight inside of him.
Charisma.