slammed her head against a protruding rock in the ditch. They called it a fluke, a one in a million occurrence.
I wasn’t sure I believed it.
I wondered if Miles would suspect me on sight, whether, in some flash of divine inspiration, he would guess it was me. I wondered what I would say to him, if he confronted me. Would he care that I like to watch baseball games, or that my favorite color is blue, or that when I was seven, I used to sneak outside and study the stars, even though nobody would have guessed that about me? Would he like to know that until the moment I hit Missy with my car, I felt sure that I would eventually make something of myself?
No, he wouldn’t care about those things. What he’d want to know was the obvious: He would want to know that the killer’s hair is brown, that his eyes are green, that he’s six feet tall. He would want to know where he could find me. And he would want to know how it happened.
Would he, though, like to hear that it was an accident? That if anything, it was more her fault than my own? That had she not been running at night on a dangerous road, more than likely she would have made it home? That she jumped right in front of my car?
Outside, I noticed that the bird stopped chirping. The trees were still, and I could hear the faint hum of a passing car. Already, it was getting hot again. Somewhere, I knew that Miles Ryan was awake, and I imagined him sitting in his kitchen. I imagined Jonah beside him, eating a bowl of cereal. I tried to imagine what they were saying to each other. But the only thing I could imagine was steady breathing, punctuated by the sounds of spoons clanking against the bowl.
I brought my hands to my temples, trying to rub the pain away. It seemed to throb from somewhere deep inside, stabbing me with fury, matching every heartbeat. In my mind’s eye, I saw Missy in the road, her eyes open, staring up at me.
Staring at nothing at all.
Chapter 22
Charlie made it to Hailey State Prison a little before two, his stomach growling, his eyes tired, and his legs feeling as if the blood had stopped flowing sometime about an hour ago. He was getting too old to sit for three hours without moving.
He should have retired last year, when Brenda told him to, so he could spend his time doing something productive. Like fishing.
Tom Vernon met him at the gates.
Dressed in a suit, he looked more like a banker than the warden of one of the toughest prisons in the state. His hair was parted neatly on the side and streaked with gray. He stood ram-rod straight, and when he extended his hand, Charlie couldn’t help but notice that his fingernails looked manicured.
Vernon led the way inside.
Like all prisons, it was drab, cold ...concrete and steel everywhere, all bathed in fluorescent light. They made their way down a long hallway, past a small reception area, and finally into Vernon’s office.
At first glance, it was as cold and drab as the rest of the place. Everything was government issue, from the desk to the lamps to the file cabinets in the corner. A small, barred window over-looked the yard. Outside, Charlie could see the prisoners milling about; some were lifting weights, others were sitting around or clustered in groups. Every other person, it seemed, was smoking.
Why on earth would Vernon wear a suit to a place like this?
“I just need you to fill out some forms,” Vernon said. “You know how it is.”
“Sure enough.” Charlie tapped his chest, feeling for a pen. Vernon handed him one before he found it.
“Did you tell Earl Getlin that I was coming?”
“I assumed you didn’t want me to.”
“Is he ready for me yet?”
“Once we have you set up in the room, we’ll bring him in.”
“Thanks.”
“I did want to talk to you for a second about the prisoner. Just so you’re not surprised.”
“Oh?”
“There’s something you should know.”
“And what’s that?”
“Earl was in a scuffle last spring. Couldn’t really get to the bottom of it—you know how things work in here. No one sees anything, no one knows anything. Anyway . . .”
Charlie looked up when Vernon sighed.
“Earl Getlin lost an eye. Had it gouged out in a brawl down in the yard. He’s filed half a dozen lawsuits alleging that we