CHAPTER 16

On Sunday, we decided on a family trip to the park for a picnic and bird-watching excursion. We drove north, in the direction of the prison, and I tried not to think about the man who was growing closer and closer with each mile that passed.

I glanced into the back seat, where Sophie was curled up against the leather seat, her journal out and giant blue headphones on. I said her name, testing her ability to hear, and relaxed when she didn't look up.

"She loves that journal," Grant said, following my glance. "Maybe we have a future novelist on our hands."

I scrunched up my nose. "Maybe. She'll have to elevate her interests a bit, first. Right now, I'm not sure anyone wants to read about her obsession with sixth-grade boys and the mall."

He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, both of his hands in place, body perched forward, his chest almost against the horn. I didn't know how—or why—he always drove like that, but just the sight of it hurt my back.

Putting on his turn signal, he checked his side mirror twice, then eased into the leftmost lane and scoffed. "Oh, come on. I'm sure you weren't into deep theology at her age." He flicked off the blinker. "I mean, you know ... before."

"Before my father left and I was a ward of the state?" I said tartly. "Yeah, that definitely changed my perspective on things. I was all sunshine and rainbows before that."

He pressed his lips together, and I sighed, irritated at myself for snapping at him. "No, you're right. But I was never into going to the mall." I reached over, pulling his hand off the wheel and threading my fingers through his. "And I always liked the older boys." I wiggled my eyebrows at him. "Like Grant Wultz."

His gaze met mine, and a warmth that only he could deliver hit me. Inside, I was a frigid expanse, but from the very beginning, he had always been able to affect me. Even if it was just a surface thaw, it was there and it was real, and I did love him for it.

Too bad the ability to thaw ice wasn't going to save him. I needed a pawn for my blockbuster crime, and he was the perfect fit.

We reached the park and paid the ranger, then parked in the lot next to an ancient RV with a giant satellite dish affixed to its side. Grant took the cooler out of the trunk, his binoculars already hanging around his neck, and I got the bag and blanket. The sky was getting dark, so I added three emergency ponchos, just in case of rain.

We hiked the trail for fifteen minutes before Grant found a spot he was happy with. After spreading out the blanket, I started to unpack the cooler as he paced at the edge of the clearing, his binoculars on his nose, his body straining to every inch of his six-foot frame.

"I don't understand him," Sophie announced from her spot in the middle of the red blanket. "What's so interesting about birds?"

"I have no idea," I said, prying open the plastic lid of the fruit salad. "But it could be worse."

She examined her elbow, then scratched it. "I don't know," she said dubiously. "There are bugs out here. And you have to walk. And it's just so boring, looking for things in the trees."

I had to laugh. "Don't let him hear you say that. He'll be crushed."

"So, what? Lie about it?" She smirked, our conversation from the other night still fresh in both our minds.

I gauged her with mock seriousness as I unwrapped the sandwiches. "Oh ... I'm not sure you have the skills to convincingly pull that off."

She glared back at me. "I'm better than you think."

I shrugged. "Okay, then, let's see you in action." I checked the time on my vintage men's Rolex watch—a gift from my adoptive father when I had turned eighteen. "See if you can keep up the charade for an hour."

Grant let out a yelp, and we both turned to see him sprinting through the trees, binoculars in hand as he went on the chase of some winged conquest. I gave Sophie a pained look, and she giggled, then quickly wiped the amusement from her face.

"It's not funny, Mom. Do you know how rare the orange-winged flatterbacker is?" She spread her arms in an exaggerated and almost perfect imitation of her father.

"I don't know," I said soberly. "Why don't you tell me?"

She huffed and waved her hand at me dismissively. "Just give me my sandwich. I can't possibly explain it to someone like you, who knows nothing about birds. Me, I find them fascinating ." She widened her eyes to emphasize the word.

"Not bad," I allowed and passed her a chicken-salad sandwich. "Entertaining but over the top. You'll have to tone it way down for your father."

"I know," she said, settling back down on the blanket and taking a big bite out of the sandwich. "Just watch a master at work. Once I eat, of course."

"Of course," I agreed.

I wasn't daft. I could recognize my own negative influence in her eager desire to lie with permission. Not that it was really lying ... it was just doing what I liked to do—play a part.

There was nothing wrong with that. It staved off the boredom, and that—at least for someone like me—was good for everyone.

By the time Grant returned, we were both done with the sandwiches. I was lying on my back, growing sleepy. Sophie had her journal out, her pen in motion unless it was time to grab another grape.

"You won't believe what I saw." Grant dropped onto the blanket, breathing hard. "A bald eagle, and I think I see his nest. I climbed up a tree to get a better look, but we might have to get to the next plateau to really be able to tell."

We? I closed my eyes. If he thought I was hiking up to the next ridge to see a stupid bird, he was crazy. I had leg day tomorrow, and I needed to have some muscle endurance left before the deadlifts took them out.

"Really?" Sophie dropped her journal and spun around to face her father. "A bald eagle? Is it still there?"

I unwrapped his sandwich, passing it to him as I watched my daughter warily, wondering if this was part of her act or if she was genuinely excited by the sighting. It was hard to tell, because a bald eagle was fairly cool—way cooler than a split-tag cardinal or a brown spotted dove. And this wasn't the overexaggerated reaction she'd delivered to me just twenty minutes earlier. This was genuine interest.

Or was it?

I didn't like it, I decided as she sat right beside him, peppering him with questions about the bald eagle's lifespan and diet. Her deception was confirmed when she shot me a sly side smile as Grant tilted his head back to down a bottle of water.

Her talent was eerily convincing, the role executed to perfection, and I wondered if it was the only one she was playing in our lives.

I knew my husband well enough to know he didn't plan for our bird-watching expedition to journey past the prison, but it still felt almost staged when the big gray building appeared on the horizon. It was stuck on the top of a ridge, like a sentry standing guard, just a dot at first, but then growing bigger and bigger until I thought we were going to drive right up on it. We didn't, of course; the road curved and it moved to Grant's side, and I pursed my lips and let out a long, slow exhale, hoping my husband wouldn't notice how every muscle in my body was tense in expectation.

"What's that?" Sophie called from the back seat. I didn't turn, my gaze stubbornly affixed out my window, looking in the opposite direction of the prison.

I said nothing, expecting Grant to respond, but he didn't and she spoke up again. "Hellloooo?" she sang out. "What's that big gray building?"

Grant tilted his head, looking out the window. "Looks like a prison. See the big circles of wire on top of the fences? That's how you can tell."

"So, like a jail? Full of criminals?"

He reached over and closed his palm over mine. He squeezed, and I pulled my hand away, annoyed by the action.

"Well, yes. It's where people go to serve time for their crimes. They aren't exactly criminals, Sophie. Just people that made mistakes—"

"Yes," I interrupted. "It's full of criminals." I glared at him, fed up with the kid gloves he always insisted on wearing around certain topics.

"I'm never going to go to jail," she announced dryly.

Grant chuckled, returning his hand to the steering wheel. "No, I don't imagine that you would."

No, she would never go to jail. I turned in my seat, tucking one foot underneath myself so I could face Grant. Through his window, I watched the building pass. It was far enough away that the men outside were too small to be distinguishable, but I still tried to look, to see if he might be there. Did he get time outside? Or was he isolated, kept inside?

Grant glanced at me, and our gazes held for a moment, a moment of silent communication. He nodded his head toward the prison. "Have you ever been there?"

The question was so absurd that my jaw dropped. "No," I finally said. "Don't you think you'd know if I went to the prison?" I let out an incredulous huff. "Why, have you?"

It was his turn to give me a look, paired with a long judgmental pause. "No," he said. "But if I ever do, I'll be sure to let you know."

I twisted back in the seat and flipped the AC vents fully open, needing the fresh air on my face. I suddenly felt flushed, like I had been caught in a lie, which was ridiculous. There was no way Grant had any idea what I was up to, and if he did discover that I was researching the Folcrum murders, so what? I had the right to do that. More than enough right.

We drove the rest of the way in silence. Back at the house, I went straight inside, stripped, and stepped into the steam room. Lying back on the teak bench and looking up into the thick air, I thought of those big, tall walls. The sad-looking recreational areas.

The truth was, it wasn't really Grant's business if I'd ever gone to the prison. And maybe one day I would go. Maybe one day I would sit down across from one of the most famous killers in the world and introduce myself.

The thought was both horrifying and exhilarating—a moment I wouldn't be able to take back once I did it, which was why I couldn't. Not before Sophie's birthday party.