Maybe it was an apology; a Hallmark card reading “Gotcha!” on the inside flap. Lucas frowned and glared down at his legal pad of questions. This was bullshit. He wasn’t some run-of-the-mill visitor. He’d moved his entire life for this opportunity. Halcomb had given Lucas his word.
Except Halcomb hadn’t actually promised, had he? The sudden realization that Lucas had imagined Halcomb’s letter as some sort of ironclad guarantee made his entire body sizzle with weariness. But why would Halcomb say one thing and do something completely different? What was the point? Maybe he was bored. The thought spiraled through his head like a paper airplane in the wind. Maybe he was fucking bored and he decided to screw with someone. That someone just happened to be me. Because how did a master manipulator get his kicks if it wasn’t by messing with people’s minds? Who better to target than an author who was guaranteed to salivate at the mere thought of interviewing a criminal who hadn’t breathed a word to the media before now? Goddammit, I should have listened to John.
“Fuck.” The profanity slid involuntarily past his lips. The guards seemed to shift their weight around him, as if hesitant to break the silence. Eperson finally did.
“Josh, uh . . . you want to lead Mr. Graham back up to the front?”
“Sure thing,” Morales said.
Eperson gave his comrade a nod and pivoted on the soles of his boots, marching back to wherever he had come from.
Lucas stood motionless for a long while, his eyes fixed on the yellow paper that had turned crinkly beneath the ink of his ballpoint pen. He had spent all night on those questions and notes, pressing down hard enough to make the back of the paper bumpy like Braille. Yesterday, he was sure he was a day away from correcting his downward trajectory, so close to fixing his screwed-up life. Now, he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. Because despite Halcomb upending their deal, Lucas was sure one thing in that letter was set in stone: Halcomb’s deadline. I won’t reveal the significance of the date or deadline, so please, don’t ask. Lucas had two weeks left to make the connection. Two measly shots left to get to Halcomb before the whole thing was called off, if that hadn’t already happened. Fuck him, Lucas thought. I’ve done what he’s asked. He’s going to talk to me whether he wants to or not.
This is bullshit. The word rolled around inside his head, loud and pulsating with slow-growing outrage, with disbelief. It had been the house in exchange for his cooperation. The house so Lucas could understand, could appreciate what had transpired in March of 1983. He was living there so he could write the story that no run-of-the-mill reporter ever would.
The media relayed the story, but what they fail to acknowledge is that this story, my story, is one that has yet to be told.
Lucas needed this story, goddammit. He needed this fucking book to work.
“Sorry, man,” Morales said, speaking if only to get Lucas moving again. “We have to go all the way back.”
Lucas would have moved to Washington regardless of whether or not Halcomb had asked him to do so—that was just the way he worked. He just wouldn’t have done it in a mad ten-day dash. The house was a dated relic, a dormant nightmare that he’d dragged his daughter into. He’d dumped money into a moving van, into endless tanks of gas. He’d signed a lease and made a security deposit. It was money he couldn’t afford to lose or even had in the first place.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed.
“Hey, sorry, man, I thought . . .” Morales cut himself off, as if catching himself in a statement he shouldn’t have been making. Backpedaling, he posed a question instead. “It’s going to mess you up, huh?”
“Uh, yeah, just a little.” Lucas narrowed his eyes as they trekked back to the front of the facility.
“Hey, you wrote a book about the Black Dahlia,” Morales reminded him. “You didn’t interview anyone for that, and that book was good, man. It was really good.” So Morales had read something beyond Bloodthirsty Times; a repeat reader. His eagerness to make Lucas feel a little less defeated would have been endearing if he hadn’t been so pissed off.
“Thanks.” He nearly sneered the word, then sighed at his own aggravation. “I’m sorry. I appreciate you trying to lighten the mood, I’m just . . .” He shook his head. “I just can’t believe this blew up in my face.”
Morales nodded.
“You interact with the inmates, right? I mean, you said that you don’t make it a point to get friendly, but you do interact with them.”
“Yeah, sure, man. All part of the job.”
“So, if you wanted to go one-on-one . . .”
Morales made a face at the suggestion.
“What if it was for a project?” Lucas asked, sensing the guard’s disapproval.
“You mean, like . . . for your book?” Morales’s expression turned thoughtful before giving Lucas a rueful glance. “I’m not real good with that stuff. I mean, I don’t know how I could help . . .” He cracked a grin. “I’m just a guy from East L.A., man. I know the streets, but that’s pretty much where my smarts dead-end. Cool offer, though. My mom would flip if I got my name printed in a book somewhere.”
“What about that other guy?” He tipped his head to motion behind them.
“Eperson? Yeah, he knows a lot of those guys.”
“You think he’d be willing to sit down and talk with me?”
“Probably. Eperson’s pretty cool. He does a lot of visitation stuff. That’s one thing I do know. Halcomb, he’s always got a visitor, and it’s always this one woman.”
Lucas stared at the guard, thrown for a loop by the new information.
The second barred door buzzed. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Do you know who she is?”
“That’s more like something Eperson would know. He knows when inmates are in and out of their cells, for how long, and for what reason. I don’t know if he has access to, like, names or copies of ID’s or anything, but I can ask.”