Prologue

EMMA

"Another day, another fucking article about true love, first marriages, and the devastation of divorce. Tell me, Emma, why the fuck are we doing this again?"

"Because we"re writers, Megan… We went to school to be writers, so we"re going to write."

"Yeah, but not this shit," she mutters under her breath, tapping her stiletto-shaped nails along her keyboard to keep her from typing another empty word.

I understand her frustration. I really do. I didn"t work my ass off to get to Columbia University just to sit in a tight eight-by-ten cubical and write inconsequential editorials on how Harry met Sally. I know it"s a waste of my potential. It"s something that Megan, my parents, and my boyfriend, Levi, like to remind me of daily. But when The Recorder, one of New York"s largest newspapers, offered me a position, there was no way I could turn it down, even if it didn"t utilize my skills.

Sighing, I get to my third wedding feature of the day. This one is no different from the other two except for the myriad of fireworks that went off at the end. Unfortunately, what should have been a night of bliss for this happy couple turned into a nightmare when they were forced behind bars for burning down their neighbor"s trees. A disaster for them, but it makes for a good article. If there"s one thing people love to read about, it"s a disaster.

"Emma!" I hear my name shouted across the floor. Then, over the sound of keyboards clicking, coffee machines whirring, and the non-stop workplace chatter, I listen to my boss, Reese Laurent, call me into her office. Her strained, raspy voice from her half-pack-a-day habit reminds me of home. I try not to let that affect me as my heels clack on the gray nylon carpet on my way to her.

The walls of her office are crystal-clear windows. They wrap around her space, giving her the best view of the city towers. It"s a shame that she clouds them in smoke, just as she does once I close the doors behind me.

"Take a seat," she orders, waving away her cloud of nicotine before taking the chair across from me. While she types something into her computer, I stare at the awards she has displayed on her walls.

One day, those will be mine.

I"ll have this office, and it will be my name engraved on those metal placards.

Until then…"I got a story for you. I think you're going to appreciate this one."

The harsh snap of Reese"s voice breaks me from my thoughts and sparks a bit of excitement. Leaning forward in my seat, I tuck my cropped, jet-black hair behind my ear and squint into her piercing gray eyes. "Okay," I say patiently, waiting for her to give me the details, but instead, she continues to stare at me with that displeased look.

Brow cocked, lips pinched, Reese twirls a thin black pen between her fingers and watches me closely. Her eyes hold a glint that"s never been directed at me before. Typically, when she looks at someone this way, it"s because they did something to piss her off. But what the hell did I do?

"I know you've been trying to break out of the wedding section since you first started, and I've been tough on you. So here's your chance for something new."

Okay…

Sensing my apprehension, Reese drops the pen and fiddles with her keyboard. The screen turns bright, illuminating the headline in bold.

Bunny Walker Set for Execution by Electric Chair in the Next— "That's crazy that they're bringing it back," I mutter, addressing the article.

Pausing, Reese folds her fingers over one another, scrutinizing the text. "Did you ever hear about their story? They were two psychotic teenagers who went on that murder spree. Killed a cop, a couple, and a congressman…and even tortured one of their families. The tabloids called them "The Beauty and The?—"

"Blade."

Bunny and Cade.

"You know what they did."

"I think it"s safe to say everybody in the country knows about them." How could we not? Bunny and Cade rocked the world with their violence. Two teens, no more than seventeen, bathed New York state in blood, leaving nothing but a trail of bones and sorrow in their path.

I remember sitting on the floor in my grandmother"s house as a little girl, my mom and her in the kitchen cooking and gossiping about other relatives, when a documentary about the two would come on. My legs would be crossed, eyes only inches away from the television, watching as the police carried a slack Bunny out in handcuffs and a deceased Cade in a body bag.

"What a waste,"my mom and grandma would both say as the crowds cheered over their capture. Cade"s death is unknown, but according to leaked segments of the autopsy report, it was brutal. And Bunny…no one's heard from her since.

"So then you'd understand why they're bringing back the death penalty. This woman is a monster. I'm glad my tax dollars won't be going to her anymore."

By next Friday, the state of New York will hold its first execution in…decades. "I guess I don't get it. New York doesn't do capital punishment. They haven't since the sixties."

"Well," Reese tsks, shaking her head swiftly, "They're making an exception."

My stomach sinks at the news. What Bunny and Cade did to all those people is…despicable…but bringing back a law that has long since been passed just to kill her doesn't feel right.

Swallowing past the discomfort in my stomach, I tilt my head to the side. "Is this my story?" I ask, as my nerves burst into uncontrollable elation. I bounce in my seat, stuttering over my thanks and promises.

"Oh my God, thank you! I-I won't let this opportunity?—"

"Woah. Woah. Woah. Hold on." Lips pursed, Reese reaches across her desk, pulling a laminated sheet from beneath stacks of mail. "I'm sorry to give you the wrong impression, but this isn't going to you. Jerry's taking this one. This," she utters, extending the slip to me, "is what I wanted to share with you. I want you to cover the mayor's newborn's baptism. They've invited the press into the grand ceremony."

Confidence deflating, I take the invitation weakly, eyeing the gold lettering with tears in my eyes.

"I'm sorry if this disappoints you, Emma. You just don't have what it takes for the big stuff yet. But don't worry. You'll get there." I'm dismissed from her office with a cold smile, one that doesn't even hold until I reach the door.

"What did she want?" Megan asks. I don't say anything. I simply hand her the invite and throw myself back into work.

Losing myself in the dull, cliché world of weddings, I failed to notice the call that lit my screen. I pause the music in my ears and palm my phone, studying the number I don't recognize. After looking it up and discovering nothing, I attempt to call it back. There's no ringing or voicemail, just an empty line before it clicks off.

Puzzled and slightly panicked, I lift the device to my ear and listen to the voicemail. With my arms pressed into my stomach, I'm leaning into the call. At first, all I hear is the buzzing sound of static, nothing but white noise to add to the quietness of my breathing, but then something new.

I feel it more than I hear it, the crack of a smile splitting lips in two.

"Hello, Miss Brookes. My name is Bernice Walters. You can look me up if you don't know who I am—" Bunny. "Anyway, I'm dying on Friday, but I have some things to get off my chest before I do."

There's a pause in the message. It almost sounds as if she's catching her breath, but then I hear her smile return, and I'm left with a chill that wasn't there before.

"Our meeting would have to be discreet. I'll have someone help you with that. I only ask one favor of you, Miss Brookes. Keep an open mind."

My stomach sinks into hollow cavities as I recline in my chair, seeing if anyone meets my eyes across the office. I'm thinking, surely, this has to be a fucking joke, a prank on the desperate wedding writer, but no one laughs… No one's staring as Bunny finishes in my ear. "I look forward to our visit."

I can still hear her grin as the line goes dead, and even long after the hissing static fades from my ears, she's all that's in my head.

"What the fuck?"

"What?"

Shaking myself out of a stupor, Bunny's satiny voice still slithering around my mind, I turn toward Megan, who hangs over my stall with a concerned pout. I say nothing but shake my head, waiting until she returns to her space before going back to my call. I listen to it three more times, ingraining the words into my mind, and then I lock it away and sit stiffly in my seat.

I write cutesy articles about weddings and finding true love that appears at the back of the paper. I'm not writing headline news…so why me? Why does Bernice ‘Bunny' Walters want her first and final words to be with me?

I try to wrap my brain around why she chose me out of everyone. In terms of writers, I'm not the best at The Recorder. Fuck, I'm probably not even the best in my department. There are other journalists who are more qualified. "What?" Holy shit.

Shutting down my computer, I push away from my desk and head back through the hallway. My feet guide me back into Reese's office without any help. "I need a few days off. Family emergency." I may not know why Bunny Walker chose me, but I'm going to go find out and bring this company the best fucking story they have ever seen.

* * *

Oakwood Correctional is three hours outside of New York City, and that's on a good day.

Today is not a good day.

I had to leave my tiny apartment at four this morning to make it to our eight o"clock meet-up time, and still, I was late.

I park in front of the entrance to the prison, ID in hand, practicing my introduction in the mirror because I'm nervous, and I suck at speaking when I'm anxious.

"Hi, my name is Emma Brookes. I have an interview today with?—"

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Oh God!" My hand slaps my chest, heart racing. I shift to the window and eye the male guard standing outside my car. With caution, I roll the glass down a crack, enough to ask if he needs anything without danger. "Can I help you?"

"You seeing an inmate today here, ma'am?"

"Um. I am," I state simply, keeping with who to myself.

"May I see some identification?" Confused, I question why. Aren't I supposed to hand over my belongings inside?

He responds with a tight-lipped "Ma'am," fingers parted for the ID in my hand. I still don't understand why I'm not doing this inside, but I slide my ID through the slit in the window, waiting while he scrutinizes every detail.

With no expression, the officer drones for me to step out of the vehicle. "Okay, um, is there an issue? I was requested—" But he cuts me off with a swift shake of his head, a sly finger to his lips.

"I want you to go inside and step up to the second window. She won't ask you anything, but don't say a word if she does. Hand her your ID and go through the security clearance. I'll handle it from there." The officer hands me back my card and walks away without another word, disappearing between cars.

I process the strange interaction for a moment, ID loose in my hold. The instructions he delivered were simple enough, but the shadiness of this interview is making me squeamish. Shaking away the intrusion of doubt, I jump away from my vehicle and glide toward the entrance, ensuring to slap a smile on my face as I step through.

"Hi, my name is?—"

The guard with a slicked bun and bright red lips doesn't even look at me before barking, "ID." She's rude and tired in her tone, probably because she wants me to move along so she can finish whatever show she's watching on the computer.

Within seconds, I have a visitor"s pass made and roughly jolted my way. My smile is less sincere as I take the pass and ID, following her directions to walk to the right. I do as I'm told, stepping through the buzzing door into the chest of an officer three times as large as me. I begin to apologize, but he quickly interrupts me with strict instructions.

"Back against the wall, please. Arms out to your sides with your feet apart." A bit taken aback by his tone, I drop my oversized canvas bag on the white plastic table for another guard to go through while he pats me down.

While his hands search me, I watch as the other roughly handles my equipment. Then, without care, he tosses my phone and recorder into a bin, securing it within a locker before muttering, "Clear."

"Here as well. You'll get your belongings at the end of the day."

"Well, actually, I need those?—"

"End of day."

With a tight smile, I nod and step away from the wall, taking some of my items back from the guard"s extended hand just as a familiar officer walks down the brightly lit hallway.

"Jordan, I'll take her. You're wanted down in the fields." This mountain of a man looms over me a second longer before agreeing and stalking off. I'm left standing between the mysterious guard and the one behind the table.

"Thanks," I say, taking my bag with missing items from his outstretched hands before turning around to introduce myself. He beats me to it, taking me by the hand while the other snakes around my back.

"My name is Officer Cole Cyrus. Hope I didn't freak you out too much out there. I needed to make sure who you were before I brought you inside."

"Um, no. It-it was fine. I understand. Thanks."

"Great. It'll be easier next time," he utters. Eyeing the neglectful officers behind the desk, he motions me forward. My booted-heeled feet click on the linoleum in my haste to keep up, leaving me with hardly the chance to take in my surroundings as we enter hallway after hallway.

Uhhh. "Where are we going?" I ask, noticing how the blinding white lights above my head slowly dim into dull yellow beams. The farther we walk, the quieter the clamor and roars of frenzied women calling out for my attention become. They offered sickening praises and made promises that had me clenching my bag into knots before we strolled down an unmarked corridor.

"Back the fuck up!" I can still hear being shouted somewhere through the dark, but my chauffeur hardly bats an eye at the ruckus.

"Shit," I mutter. I underestimated how…loud this place is.

Through all the noise, I hear a thunderous banging, followed by shouts of fear and rage. I turn around in place instantly, wondering if I should walk my ass right out of the building and forget about this interview completely.

"Are they okay?" I ask, unsure if I mean the guards or the women.

"One of them probably reached through the cage. You gotta pay attention in a place like this. Just because there are bars, that doesn't make you safe."

"Right." Of course. How could I forget that safety is just an illusion?

I stay close to Officer Cyrus after that, practically becoming his shadow as he leads me through endless hallways and down five flights of stairs. The farther we go, the darker it becomes. Slowly, the prison loses its stereotypical appearance and transforms into something out of a horror movie.

Walls made of rough concrete close around me as we descend a darkened hallway. Above our heads, the long strips of light flicker, turning our shadows into dancing ghouls while silence follows our clicking feet.

"Conference rooms are in the basement. Prisoners hardly ever get any visitors from anyone needing it, so these rooms are mainly storage areas now." Because only the worst get sent to Oakwood. I doubt many people are flocking at the gates to come inside and have a word with the inmates. "But many people have tried with Bunny. I've watched her turn every single one of them away."

"I don't understand, then. Why would she request a meeting with me?"

Stunning me with a perfect smile, he chuckles. "I have no fucking idea."

After another few minutes of walking, large, rectangular windows come into view as we approach the individual rooms on my right. All the doors are open, giving me glimpses of the insides, except for one at the end of the hall. My pulse accelerates. The forceful thumps are what carry my feet to the end of the aisle, that and the sudden guidance he lays out for me.

"You already heard the rules, no hands under the table and no passing anything to the inmate. I'll be in the room with you the entire time for your protection, but keep something in mind, Miss Brookes. Bunny Walker is a very smart woman. If she wants to hurt you or scare you…well, it won't fucking matter if I'm there or not."

With that being said, he holds the door open for me like a gentleman. I stare at him momentarily, renewed fear locking my limbs in the doorway before he kindly nudges me in with a smile. "Take a seat. I'll be right back."

Once alone, I take a deep, steadying breath, spearing my other through my hair, reminding myself there's nothing to be scared of.

Sheasked for me, not the other way around.

I'm here to do a job…nothing else.

On shaky legs, I step past the doorframe and take a look around the dreary, poorly lit room. It's generous to even call it that when, earlier, I walked past cells that looked more alive than this. The handcuff bars on the table are alarming but nowhere near as much as the bloodstains.

Or the claw marks.

I run my fingers over those nail scratches as clinking chimes from somewhere outside the door. Whispers filter in, though I can't make out what's being said. It's only when they're right outside that I hear Officer Cyrus's muffled words.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He sounds so…concerned. I don't get to hear her response, because once the snap of the door handle turns, I'm darting into the closest seat, acting more prepared than I feel.

Officer Cyrus steps in first, followed by a simple, "This way."

That's all I need to hear for my stomach to fall to my feet. Nodding to myself, I slide the bag from my shoulder and settle into the seat closest to the door. My breaths come in silent, labored pants while I bring out my notepad and my second recorder they didn't find, trembling until they're flat on the table.

Shit.

Fuck.

Why am I so damn nervous?

This is the chance of a lifetime, my opportunity to get out of the damn lovers" section in the paper and write something that actually matters to me. I can't fuck this up.

Exhaling, I sit up tall, brush the hair away from my face, and wait without the hint of a smile on my lips. There's no clock in the room, but I swear I can hear the ticking of a timer in my head. Maybe it's the tapping of my pen or the snapping of my tongue against my teeth. Or the footsteps coming into the room, letting me know she's almost here.

There's no chatter, only the faint sound of chains rattling against the uneven floor. All last night and on the drive up here, I contemplated what I would do when the moment came for us to meet. Do I stand? Smile? Keep my eyes locked on the straight blue lines of my notepad?

None of the above.

I'm turning in the chair before the door completely opens. It's as if I can feel her, the force of her, before our eyes even lock. But when they do, the power behind them is more than I'm equipped to handle.

There's a gentle nature to her seafoam gaze, but underneath the surface, I spot havoc barely contained by limb-restricting metal chains and an orange jumpsuit. As Officer Cyrus walks her around the table, a slow smile spreads across her swollen, cracked red lips. Their naturally rosy color brings a faint feeling of envy, but that's until I take in the severe split and growing bruise in the corner.

There's no blood, but that swelling looks fresh.

With respect and care, Cyrus guides her into the empty seat across the table, setting her down until I hear the metal groan. As he secures her, I spot more vicious bruising digging into her alabaster skin. Bunny barely bats an eye when he is forced to press against them. She doesn't flinch when he clasps the cuffs on the arms of the chair. He doesn't fasten them overly tight, but her wrists turn an ugly shade of purple, regardless.

"I think it'll be fine," she rasps, but Cyrus finishes securing her ankles to the legs of the chair before apologizing, "Just in case," and silently stepping out of our way.

"Thank you, baby." I stare between the two of them, noticing a softness passing between their stares. Subtly, I search for that connection of love, but that's not what I see when I take in their glances. I don't spot even a fraction of attraction. Instead, see tenderness…affection, in a way I don't understand just yet. I study a little harder, but then Cyrus takes his seat by the door, giving us enough room to pretend like we're alone.

Okay. It's now or never.

I clear my throat silently and face the front, getting my first long, clear look at Bernice ‘Bunny' Walters.

The tabloids were right to call her The Beauty. Hair as light as sun-kissed leaves falls to her ribs in delicate waves. Though worn with age and scarred by life, her skin still glows with fiery youth. As a teenager, she was far too beautiful for words. I remember seeing her picture in the paper and feeling nothing but awe. Somehow, that beauty has only grown. At the age of forty-five, her radiance outweighs anyone I've ever come across. It's a force I have no choice but to cower under.

"You okay, sweetheart? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Clearing my throat with another cough, I slap on a weak smile and spare Cyrus a glance before joking, "I kind of feel like I am. You haunted the streets of New York for years… You still kind of do. You both do."

"Do we?" she asks, a glint entering her crystal-clear glare. I shrink underneath that spark, blinded by the rage reflecting off it. A nod is all I can manage to keep the smile on my face and the nerves out of my voice.

"So, um…uh," I stutter, shifting to find some comfort in the stiff metal seats. "Why don't we start with?—"

"Are you scared, honey?"

The temperature in the room changes with her question. Any warmth that I felt within my bone vanishes, and I'm trapped in the ice that hardens over her eyes. Not wanting to feel defeated before I even have a chance to start, I drop my pen in the center of the pad and clasp my hands together. "No…just curious."

"About?"

Alright. Here goes nothing. "You've been a prisoner here for a little over two decades and, in all that time, you haven"t talked to a single soul about your crimes. People have tried, hundreds of them; reporters, students, criminologists, psychologists. Fuck, probably even priests."

Smirking, Bunny leans back in her seat, at least as far as she can. "Okay. Your point?"

"Everyone wants your story, and you had all this time to share it…so why now? Why, a few days before your execution date, do you decide to share it all? Are you hoping it'll save you? That I can help you? I?—"

"Is that what you're thinking, Miss Brookes? That I brought you here to be some sort of messiah? That I was hoping you'd be able to save me from the chair?"

"W-well…"

"I'm not," she states, her face falling blank faster than I can blink. "I didn't ask you here, hoping you'd write the piece to save my life."

That's news to me. I was sure I was asked to come as a last-minute attempt for the state to spare her. "You didn't?"

Nodding, that smirk slithers higher on her broken lips. "I don't want you to tell the world we weren't monsters. We were."

"Then what do you want?"

Leaning close enough for me to catch the faint whiff of blood and mint on her breath, Bunny looks me dead in the eye, keeping me prisoner just as much as her.

"I want you to tell them why."