CHAPTER 14

LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

I NMATE 82145

I was Jenny Folcrum's friend in middle school. I came over to her house one day after school and her dad was home, working out in the yard. He had this motorcycle, and he offered to take me around the block. Said we could go down to the gas station at the corner and he'd buy me some candy. I did it and he held me really tight the entire time, like pressing me against his body. Jenny didn't invite me over again after that, which was fine because he had kind of creeped me out. There was definitely something wrong with him. I never told anyone about that, and maybe it's not important. I just thought that maybe it was.

—Christina Shutter, orthodontist

Hi, Leewood,

Last night I watched my wife sleep and thought of you. I thought of all of the ways that your actions, now over twenty years ago, are still affecting me today. I guess, in some sort of way, you brought her and me together. We have both been through traumatic loss. Bonded over it. Looked into each other's soul and recognized the sadness there.

Grief does strange things to people. For some, it weakens them. For others, it makes them stronger. Harder. That's what my sister's death did to me. It fortified me with a potent combination of grief and rage.

I thought it would get easier with time, but the wound has only festered. Because of you, I look for evil everywhere. I doubt the words out of my wife's mouth, the motivations of a stranger, the supposedly innocent offers of a friend.

You spent over thirty years on this earth before you killed someone. Thirty years existing without feeling the need to destroy someone's world.

Maybe we're all just psychopaths waiting for our trigger.

Or maybe you killed earlier in life and no one ever caught you.

Which is it, Leewood?

The Arby's Roast Beef 'N Cheddar sandwich wasn't hot, but it still tasted like heaven on a bun. I ate it slowly, and when a drop of sauce hit the table, I wiped it up with my finger and sucked on the digit. Dr. Timothy Valden watched, his mouth turning down on one side.

I didn't care. I'm not sure my manners prior to getting incarcerated were anything to brag about, but shitting in front of strangers for two decades could make any man lose his inclination to give a damn about manners.

"So, I thought we'd start with what your life was like that spring. The spring of Jenny's birthday party."

I ignored the statement, holding the sandwich with one hand while I stuffed a curly fry into my mouth. It was limp but salty, and I closed my eyes as I chewed, savoring the flavor.

"Mr. Folcrum?" he prodded.

I opened one eye. "I haven't had one of these in over two decades. Shut up and let me enjoy it."

"And then we'll talk?"

I took another bite of the sandwich in response. As I chewed, I studied him. Today, he was in a collared cotton shirt, the kind with two buttons at the top. White. I raised up and tilted to one side until I could see the rest of his outfit. Blue-striped pants with loafers. Guy was probably born into money and planned to sit in classrooms until he was fifty, then move to the front of them.

He seemed old to be in college. Forty, probably. I took a sip of the root beer and swallowed. "You got a job, Timmy? Or do you just go to school full-time?"

He stiffens. "I'm in finance. Well, I was. I took a break to go back to school. Why?"

"Just asking. I was an electrician. You probably knew that already."

He nodded. "Oh yes. I can confidently say that I know just about everything there is to know about you, Mr. Folcrum."

"Lots of people think that." I took another bite of the sandwich and set it on the foil wrapper, sitting back in the seat as I chewed. "If you knew everything, you wouldn't be here wanting to know about December 6."

"Okay," he allowed. "I guess I know everything there is to know about you prior to that date."

"What's my momma's name?"

"Your mother's name was Blaine. She passed away ten years ago." He matched my position, leaning back in his own chair and resting his hands on his thighs.

"Okay. Who was my best friend?"

"Wally Nall."

"You talked to him?"

He smiled the sort of smug, annoying smile that would get a man punched in these halls. "No," he admitted.

"So you don't know everything. Betcha don't know that I was sleeping with his wife."

He frowned. "Were you sleeping with his wife?"

"Well, you don't know, do you? You should talk to him and see."

"He testified on your behalf at trial. If a man was sleeping with my wife, I wouldn't do that."

"You wouldn't?" I hunched forward and picked up a ketchup package, then tore it open with my teeth. "Well, that says something about you, Timmy."

He didn't like the nickname. His mouth went flat and tight, pinching together like a new intake, worried someone was gonna try to put something between their lips. It was either the nickname or he was pissed that he'd just shown me some of his cards. He came here to get the dirt on me, but I was more interested in him. I knew about myself. I'd read that damn book front to back a hundred times.

"Serious question." I flattened the ketchup package, emptying it out onto a napkin. "If you could help prove a man's innocence and keep him from going to jail for life, would you? If the guy was banging your wife?"

He held up his hands, showing off his lack of a wedding ring. "No wife, Lee."

"Just because you don't wear a ring don't mean you don't have a wife. Maybe you're worried I'll break out of here and kill her."

He scoffed. "I'm absolutely not worried about that."

"Don't think I can break out or don't think I'd kill her?"

"I don't think you'd kill her. If"—he corrected himself—"there was a wife. But there isn't. I'm divorced. Recently divorced. If you want to kill my ex-wife, please. Have at her."

"Why don't you think I'd kill her? Haven't you heard? I'm a killer, Timmy."

"Of little girls," he clarified. "Not anyone who can defend themselves."

There was something in the way he said the first part, a crack in his voice. A clue. I moved my chair closer to the table and peered at him through the cloudy glass. "You got a little girl, Timmy? A daughter? Some cute brown-haired preteen? Or maybe younger? Maybe—"

"Stop."

"Ah, so you do have a daughter. Or a niece? Maybe your own little girlfriend?" I grinned at him. "Maybe you do know everything there is to know about me, Timmy. Maybe you and I are more alike than I thought."

"Are you saying you did more than kill those girls? Is that what you're saying?"

"Oh, you know what happens to ‘Chesters' in these walls." I used my tongue to dislodge a piece of food from between my right-front teeth. "I'd fess up to murder before I admitted to that."

He rose abruptly, and the chair squeaked as it scraped against the floor. "I think we're done here."

"Bring me a Big Mac next time, Timmy. Big Mac with cheese and all the fixings. Root beer and fries. Upsized." I grabbed the last fry and dragged it through the ketchup, then popped it into my mouth. "Don't forget it. I won't talk to you without it."

He stopped just before the door, and I knew what he was doing: considering telling me to fuck off, which was fine. But he wouldn't. And even if he did, he'd still show back up, paper bag in hand, begging for whatever he could get.

There was only one Leewood Folcrum. Even if I wasn't the monster they thought I was.