me, she’s still in prison. Her own making, and I get some satisfaction from that.”
“What about the other two, Sparks and Denby? You keep your ear to the ground,” Dillon added.
“All right, to clear all this out. Because he had the firearm, Denby’s got another five years before any chance of parole, and his chances are slim there. Sparks? He’s made himself a model prisoner from what my ear to the ground hears. He may get early release. That’s a solid year off,” he added as Maggie hissed again. “Prisons are crowded, and he’s nearly served his minimum. It’s possible they’ll spring him in another year. Eighteen in so far, and that’s a long stretch.”
“It’s hard to believe so much time’s passed.” Julia looked back toward the kitchen. “Sometimes it seems like yesterday Dillon brought me downstairs, and that little girl sat there.”
“There’s one more thing, because it might just happen. There’s a true crime writer who’s been interviewing him for months now. I don’t know who else she’s talked to—my ear doesn’t reach that far—but I know she’s talked to Denby. But she’s spending a lot of time talking to Sparks. Since she’s got a law degree and he’s listed her as his attorney, I can’t tell you what they talk about.”
“Another bloodsucker,” Maggie decided. “Who is she? I want to Google her.”
“Jessica A. Rowe.”
Sparks groomed himself for his visit with his lawyer/biographer. He worked some product into his hair, still thick, to add a sheen (subtle) of silver to the gray. He practiced his sad but adoring looks in the mirror.
He still had it.
Then again, Jessica proved to be one of the easiest marks in his long career. At forty-six, stout, saggy, plain as a plank of wood, she’d been ripe for a little illicit romance. Desperate for love.
He’d started her out with the repentant routine, shared details—some real, some fabricated—that hadn’t gotten into the public trough as yet. Shyly, he’d confessed he’d tried to write his story himself, as a kind of penance, but he couldn’t find the words to express himself.
He expressed himself with her, maneuvered her into using her very rusty law degree to represent him so they could talk confidentially.
Over weeks, then months, he’d primed her, reeled her in, wooed her.
Through the years, he’d had letters from, visits from, women drawn to men in prison. He’d considered many as liaisons to the outside. Rejected many as either straight-out crazy or simply unreliable.
But Jessie, oh, Jessie was another type altogether.
The rule follower fascinated with rule breakers. Because, his instincts told him, she wanted to be one.
The lonely middle-aged woman who believed herself—rightfully, in his opinion—unattractive, undesirable. The naive-to-the-point-of-stupid mark who thought of herself as insightful.
The first time he’d taken her hand, held it, looked into her eyes as he kissed her fingers in gratitude, he knew he could, and would, play her like a violin.
Now, after months of preparation, after stolen kisses, fraught embraces, after promises and plans to marry upon his release, came the true test.
If she failed it, he’d wasted his time. But she’d passed all the small ones. Reporting back to him on everyone he intended to pay back. He had other sources, and every bit of information she gave him matched. Right down the line.
And since she worked hard on getting him that early release—and might pull it off—it was time to act while he still had an ironclad (literally) alibi.
She was waiting when the guard took him into the conference room. They no longer shackled him. They would subject him to a search after—unless he bribed the handpicked guard.
But no need on this visit.
She’d changed her hair from the first time they’d met. Shortening it, coloring out the gray, trying to add some style. She used makeup now, though never lipstick. If they managed to kiss, there would be no telltale smear.
He knew she worked on exercise and diet, though her body, in his opinion, would never be anything but stubby.
Still, he gave himself full credit for her efforts, for the more stylish suit she wore—so much better than the brown bag she’d had on during that initial meeting.
“I’ve missed you. Jessie, I’ve missed you so much. All the years before you, I could deal with them. I deserved them. But now? It’s torture just waiting until I can see you again.”
“I’d come every day if I could.” She opened her briefcase, took out a file, as if they had something legal to discuss. “But you were right. Too often