Sinful Desire

“New evidence about my mother’s guilt, or innocence?”

Dora Prince had steadfastly maintained her innocence. Of course, there was hardly an inmate in any prison anywhere who didn’t. Still, she was his mother, and he wanted to know if there was truth to her claim. He’d love to believe her. Hell, he’d be beside himself to learn his mother wasn’t a killer. He’d held on to the possibility for as long as she’d been locked away, grasping it tenaciously, never letting it go, waiting for a moment like this. For the chance that she might not have done it. That he wasn’t raised by a murderer. He dug his fingers into his palms in anticipation.

But the expression on Winston’s face was stony, his eyes hard. “New evidence about the crime,” he said, giving nothing away. “I know you were fourteen at the time, but is there any chance you remember some of the people your mother was associating with then?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. The answer was yes, and the answer was no. Ryan knew more than he should, but not enough to make sense of what his mother had given him, and he sure as hell didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He bought himself some time. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“We want to know who she spent time with. Beyond Stefano,” he said, dropping the name of the shooter, who was also behind bars.

“I’d just finished eighth grade.” Ryan was keenly aware of his own body language, of how he was sitting, how he was trying to strike a mix of casual and interested. Even though he was innocent, even though he didn’t have first-hand knowledge of the murder, he had intel about his mother that he didn’t intend to share, and that made him hyper-vigilant. Never say a word. He’d taken that directive from her to heart when he was younger, and as the years went on, too. Besides, what he knew would have no bearing on his mother or her freedom. But rather than focus on the classified documents inside his head, he narrowed in on the truth as he answered. “I didn’t have a great sense of the conversations she was having with that guy or any others—beyond the customers who came to our house to pick up clothes and costumes.”

Winston nodded and rubbed a hand over his chin, slowing as he seemed to consider. “We just want to get a better understanding of everything that happened. Something that might seem innocuous to you could actually wind up being a key piece of information for us. Were there new people in her life? Did she have any new friends?”

Ryan’s senses tingled as his analytical mind played connect-the-dots. “Does this mean you think there were others involved?”

Winston leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, the classic pose for trying to get somebody to open up. “Listen, I’m really just trying to get a better picture of what her life looked like at the time of your father’s murder. Trying to understand who she was involved with. It could be relevant to the investigation.” Winston made an encouraging gesture with his hands. “The customers you said would come over to pick up clothes—was there anyone new in the months or weeks prior?”

Ryan scrunched up his forehead, rewinding time. “Around then she was sewing leotards for a local gymnastics team. She tailored dresses for some of the girls in the neighborhood going to prom. She joked once that she had so much leftover fabric that she was going to start making dog jackets,” he said, and Winston’s lips quirked up in the barest grin.

“I like dogs,” Winston said.

“Same here.”

“Any idea who her clients were? Beyond the gymnastics folks? Her friends?”

“Sorry. I honestly didn’t keep track of who her friends were,” Ryan said, speaking the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“Listen, if anything comes to you, I’d greatly appreciate if you could share it with me,” Winston said, turning off the recorder then pushing back from his seat and standing up.

Ryan tilted his head. “What is it you’re looking for, detective? It would help me if I knew what sort of info you think would be useful.”

“Honestly, anything,” he said, emphasizing the last word with a touch of desperation. “Even if it seems like nothing—even if it seems like the smallest piece of evidence,” he said as he opened the door to his office and escorted Ryan through the main office, which reeked of the late afternoon scent of TGIF even though it was Thursday, as weary cops and detectives finished phone calls, shuffled papers, and glanced at the clock as if they were all counting down the minutes ’til quitting time.