“Why?”
“His father was a sick man, Ms. Conway. Ask Clive. He’ll show you the scars. That man tried to poison my son against me—I know he did. Clive would never admit it, but Lord knows what he told him. I think that’s why Clive turned out the way he did, with a savior complex. Always wanting to rescue these poor little girls from their poor little lives. It sounds horrible, but I actually felt relieved when his father died in prison a few years ago.”
“What was his name?”
“Barrett. But I’m not sure how that’s relevant? What law firm are you—”
Clare hung up fast, as if the phone had smacked her across the face. Then she typed the name into the inmate database on her computer and waited for an answer.
Barrett Cullen (deceased). Twenty-five years to life for first-degree murder and rape.
****
Clare had never really prayed for anything in her life. Sure, her mother had dragged her to church whenever she started feeling guilty. Lord, please make me a better mother, Clare had heard her whisper once. But Clare would just sit there, admiring the stained-glass windows—certain if God existed, He would’ve answered her mother by now. Certain He would’ve struck down Rodney Taylor with a vicious bolt of lightning the moment his hand grazed her thirteen-year-old knee. Certain He didn’t let girls like her get pregnant, not that way, not at sixteen, not by the devil himself. But, huddled in the corner of her office, Clare prayed. Mostly, for the end of the world. An earthquake—the big one. An atomic bomb. Something so devastating no one she knew could survive.
And then, she called Neal.
He answered—of course he did—like he’d been waiting for her to need him, to require rescue, and she started talking—spilling over, more like it—with no explanation.
“Slow down, Clare. Where are you?” It wasn’t even a speed bump. She blew right past it.
“He lied to me, and I don’t know what to do. God, I’m so stupid. I’m going to lose my license. I—”
“Clare, stop talking.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been awful to you, and you were just trying to help. And Neal, oh God, I did something really bad. A lot of things. Not just one.”
“Shut up!” Neal never yelled. Not like that. Not with rage. “Goddamn it. I can’t hear myself think. Where are you?”
“I’m at San Quentin.”
“Meet me outside the gate. I’ll pick you up. Twenty minutes.” He hung up, and Clare felt emptied, exhausted. She laid her head against her desk, the wood cooling her cheek. This time she prayed for something else. Something impossible. She prayed to go back, back to the beginning. The beginning of September. The beginning of grad school. The beginning of those nine months, before a baby grew inside her. The beginning of Lisa Taylor’s slumber party. The beginning of anything. Just not today. Not the end.
****
The room felt cold. The stares, glacial. The only warmth, Neal’s hand around hers, and she clung to it, knowing even that was temporary. He’d made that clear. This is it, Clare. I’ll do this with you because I love—I loved you. But, when we leave here, don’t ever call me again. He must have known how impossible that sounded, especially now, because he added, Pretend I’m dead if you have to. Whatever it takes. You need help, and I need to move on.
The redhead Clare didn’t know yet spoke first.
“Dr. Keely, my name is Gretchen McKinnon. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI We talked on the telephone earlier. I understand you already know Lieutenant Bonner. I agreed to let him sit in today since he’s kindly allowed us to conduct this interview here at San Quentin. It’s only fair he knows what’s going on in his house.”
McKinnon smiled at Bonner the same way Clare might have, trying to placate his ego, already aware of what an ass he was, that kindness had nothing to do with it. She reminded Clare of herself. Young. Perceptive. Far too pretty to fit in a man’s world. And for no other reason than that, Clare liked her. “If it’s okay with you, Clare—may I call you Clare?—I’ll be recording this interview.”
Clare nodded, as if she had a choice. The click of the tape recorder sounded like the first shot across the bow. A warning. And then, the questions fired like arrows. Each one pointed. Each one poison-tipped and aimed at her soft places.
Who suggested the escape? “He did, of course.”
When did the inmate first suggest the escape? “I don’t remember.”
What did he say exactly? “If you don’t help me, I’ll tell them we had sex.”
How many times did you engage in sexual intercourse with the inmate? “Just once.”
Is anyone else involved in the escape? “Rodney Taylor. Green River Trucking.”
Did you take any steps to plan the escape? “I contacted Rodney and asked him for money and a truck just like Cullen told me to. But that’s it.”
Where was he going? “Mexico, I think.”
Clare didn’t look at Neal. Not once. But he squeezed her hand hard every time Bonner guffawed with disbelief, every time McKinnon pressed her for more. A signal to remind her of the stakes, to cue the story they’d practiced. Neal knew the truth, most of it anyway. He knew the real and ugly and unspeakable answers—I suggested the escape. I had sex with him on the floor in the laundry room. Two times. I thought he loved me—the answers he’d told her to bury some place safe, not realizing the irony there. Those answers shot bullets to his heart, Clare knew that much, but he took them the same way he’d taken last year’s revelation about the married guy with the flowers. The way any self-respecting oak tree would. Without flinching.
Bonner reached a hand across the table and shut off the recorder. It was the saddest sound Clare had ever heard. “I’m sorry, Agent McKinnon, but I can’t listen to any more of this. You may be fooled by Dr. Keely—you won’t be a doctor much longer, my dear—but I don’t believe one word of this. She’s been carrying on with that criminal for months now, jeopardizing the safety of everyone who works at this institution.” He looked at a spot on the wall above Clare’s head, apparently too disgusted to meet her eyes. “Are you aware of the penalties for aiding an escape from a correctional facility?”
Clare kept her lips pressed tight together so nothing could slip out. But in her mind, she thrust a knife right to the center of his throat.
McKinnon offered another sympathetic smile. “I understand your frustration, Lieutenant. It must be difficult to accept that this happened here, right under your nose. But, I assure you, I am more than capable of getting to the truth.” She didn’t wait for a reply. The recorder whirred back to life. And Clare squashed the urge to hug her.
“There are serious penalties for the sorts of things you’ve described, Clare. However, I think I speak for everyone here when I say no one wants to see you behind bars.” For once, Bonner bit his tongue, and Clare relished knowing how hard it must have been for him, how that would keep him up at night. “You’re not the one to blame. This is Cullen’s m.o. He manipulates women better than the best of them. Doesn’t he?” Clare couldn’t make herself agree, so she said nothing. “Would you be willing to help us catch our man?”
“Will I be charged with anything?”
“Not if you assist in his successful apprehension. It’s likely you’ll face other consequences though. The revocation of your license, for example. Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about that.”
“I understand.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else we should know? Anyone else we should investigate?” Neal warned her this would come. Be smart, Clare, he’d said, and her heart swelled. After every foolish mistake she’d made, he still thought she was capable of being smart. The EME, the NF, these gangs are powerful. Ruthless. They know where you live. Just keep your mouth shut. When she opened her mouth to argue, he silenced her with three words. Remember that canary.<
br />
Clare turned her head slowly, deliberately toward Bonner, letting her silence speak for her. She watched his face until the ghost of fear passed across it and a little longer still, until Neal nudged her. “I don’t want this on tape.” McKinnon clicked the recorder off again and nodded at Clare. “Arturo Ramirez. He runs drugs for the EME.”
****
Cullen arrived outside Clare’s office at fifteen till seven just like they’d planned. By the time Ramirez’s men went looking for him in the laundry closet, he’d be clear of San Quentin, beelining for her car in the lot, keys in hand. Ready to drive to Muir Woods and unearth their future. Taking his place and ready for battle, Torres and the NF. McKinnon didn’t know about that. The gang fight Clare had set in motion. McKinnon didn’t know about a lot of things.
Cullen’s shadow appeared in the beveled glass, and Clare caught her breath. He stood there a moment before he knocked, and she wished she could read his thoughts. Not that it mattered. It was too late now anyway.
“Hi,” he said, peeking in as she cracked the door. His boyish grin nearly broke her heart in two.
Say something, Clare. But she feared something would give her away, so she pulled him inside, backing up until she felt the edge of the desk behind her thighs. Then she kissed him like it was the last time. And Cullen kissed her back like the first. The gentle, reserved way he touched her face, chock-full of promise and possibility. She tugged and grabbed and held on like there was nothing beyond this and it needed to count for something. He separated first, taking a full step away from her. Her face flushed. She could feel it burning.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “The officer will be here any minute. We have to stop.”
“I didn’t call the officer.” Clare paid close attention to his eyes. Part hurt, part hope, part confusion. That’s what she found there. The look he’d give later—the one she wouldn’t see—when he’d realize she had sent him to his doom. “It’s okay,” she said, and the dull blue brightened again. “I’ve got something better, easier. And we don’t have to hurt anybody.” She pointed to the bag in the corner, where she’d stashed the uniform and ID badge Bonner gave her. They belonged to Officer Swanson, a rookie. “I swiped it,” she lied.
“From where?”
“This bar in town. All the officers go there after work. They’ll be drinking all night. He won’t miss it until the morning. And we’ll be halfway to Mexico by then.”
Cullen didn’t say anything, and Clare felt certain she’d been caught. The most important lie, and she managed to mess it up. Maybe she didn’t want to get it right after all. “I wasn’t going to hurt anybody, Clare. I told you. I could’ve just tied him up.”
“I know, but I—”
“I just don’t want you taking risks like that. If you get caught … ”
“But I didn’t.” He dropped it with a single nod that implied they’d talk about it later, that there would be a lifetime to talk about it. Or maybe that’s only what he wanted her to believe. She’d come to accept she couldn’t tell the difference. Then he stripped out of his prison blues and tossed them aside, with a smile as wide as she’d ever seen. She wanted that feeling. Coveted it. The release of leaving an entire self behind and starting again. Even if it was only make-believe.
From the office next door, a muffled sound harder than a footstep startled them both, and Clare fought to control the jolt of adrenaline that told her to run. “What was that?” Cullen asked, edgy. He slid into the officer’s jumpsuit in a hurry and shoved his feet into black boots.
“I didn’t hear anything. Fitzpatrick’s not working today. Maybe it’s the janitor.”
“Should you check?” She nodded and opened the door to the hallway, walking out halfway, pretending to be wary. McKinnon insisted they be close by in case anything went wrong. That was FBI speak for in case he tries to kill you.
“No one,” she said. “We’re clear.”
He chuckled softly. “I’m getting jumpy, aren’t I? It’s just, we’re so close. I don’t want to blow it now.”
“You won’t.” I already did. “You remember how to get there?”
“Of course.”
“I drew you a map in case you forget. It’s hidden under the mat.” Another thing McKinnon didn’t know. Clare wasn’t about to give up Muir Woods. She’d buried too much of herself there. It belonged to her and nobody else. “There’s a change of clothes too.”
He nodded. “When will you be there?” Never.
“As soon as I can. I’ll wait for a while. When I’m sure you’re clear, I’ll call a taxi to take me to Rodney’s. Then we’ll pick you up at the cabin.” You’ll be in cuffs before you reach the parking lot.
“Clare … ” His voice lowered, dark and serious, and Clare knew he was about to make this harder. “If I don’t make it out of here, if they catch me—”
Oh God. “Don’t say that.”
“I want you to know I’ll never give you up. Not any of it. I’ll take it all to my grave.”
She couldn’t stand to be in her own skin. She wanted to shed it and slither away. But Cullen seemed to expect nothing in return. He didn’t even look at her. He’d already buttoned the jumpsuit and clipped the ID to his pocket. “How do I look?”
She tried to choose words she wouldn’t regret. Words that wouldn’t haunt her. When that proved impossible, she picked the words he wanted to hear instead. “Like a free man.”
chapter
twenty-nine
dragon
Levi crouched next to me, eyeing the door.
“Were those guys EME too?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. The EME don’t like your mom.”
I started to agree, to ask him what next, to brush at the grass stuck in my hair, but I never got the chance.
The sky erupted. A few days ago, I would’ve expected to see an explosion worthy of the random bursts of color that lit the Bellwether football field every Fourth of July. Now, I knew better. I hit the ground again and huddled like an animal in the weeds. Bullets pinged the buildings, tore through metal. Somewhere glass exploded. The EME! It had to be. They’d come for my mother, guns blazing. Two of them, but in the haze of gunfire, I couldn’t tell them apart. They moved together—one sinewy dragon, spitting fire from its mouth, shouting its battle cry.
“Stay down,” Levi told me. “We’ve got to get better cover. We won’t last here.” I hugged tight to my knees, making myself as small as I could behind the row of discarded seat backs. A gash already ripped through the top of one, the foam falling like snow around me. Levi shot as he ran, taking cover alongside the building. The men fired back at him, and the shot glanced off the sheet metal.
“Sam!” I peered up out of my cocoon, and Levi motioned to me with his hand. “C’mon. I’ll shoot. You run.” Another round of gunfire sent Levi darting backward.
Uh, no. I shook my head. “I can’t,” I yelled.
Levi stuck his hand around the corner and fired again. One half of the dragon went down, stunned. Somehow still alive, even with a bullet-sized hole torn in the front of his T-shirt. His face, familiar to me like a demon from a nightmare I couldn’t shake.
“Yes, you can. You have to. Just like in the hotel. Remember?”
And I did. I remembered. The big bad wolf of a man with oil-slick hair who pounded his way in, the tattoo like a garrote around his neck. He’d returned to finish the job. “Quién es ese?” he asked, struggling to his feet.
His partner shrugged, keeping the eye of his gun trained on Levi’s spot. “No es Cullen. Leave it for now.”
“Go, Sam!” Levi shouted, and my feet took off, sprinting through the weeds toward him. A bullet sliced the air just behind me, and I dove the rest of the way, landing with a thud in the dirt.
I forced the words out, my lungs burning. “It’s the guy from the Westin.”
; Levi nodded. “EME. They’re wearing vests.”
“As in?” The sun shining right at me, I felt cold.
“Yep. Bulletproof.”
A vicious chop of a boot pounded against the door, and I jumped. Levi leaned around the corner, fired, and snapped back, dodging another pop-pop-pop of bullets.
“Doc-tora Clare? Doc-tora Puta? We know you’re in there with your boyfriend.” The man’s voice singsong, his accent heavy, the intent clear. Abject terror. “Don’t make us come inside.” He kicked again, just rattling her cage. The door nothing but a formality. With a gun that merciless, he could go in anytime he wanted. Take anything. Do whatever. I tried to imagine my mother on the other side, but I couldn’t. The mother I knew had no place here. She stayed behind in Bellwether, sipping iced tea on our front porch and counting fireflies.
I’m trembling again, I thought as the side of the building shook beneath my hand.
A soft rumble built to a steady roar, and I thought, thunderstorm. Then, earthquake, when all I could see opened up around me. The garage door crumpled in on itself like paper, and the head of a beast—an 18-wheeler—pushed its way through, blasting back at the EME with a hail of gunfire from the cab.
I covered my ears as the EME shot back. Levi too. Until thin white smoke rose up like fog. The truck kept moving, slow and labored in its death march, even after the windshield bloodied and shattered. The man with the N tattooed on his hand took a last gasp, dropped toward the steering wheel, and tumbled out the door. His partner jumped from the passenger seat, fired one last round, and collapsed a few feet from us. One of the EME lay crushed beneath the truck. My mother and Cullen nowhere. The only sign of life, el lobo feroz. Not so big and bad anymore—a wound in his leg left a red trail behind him—but still a wolf. A wolf with a weapon.
“NF,” Levi whispered, eyeing the dead man’s tattoos from our hiding place behind a hunk of twisted metal. “Nuestra Familia. It’s another gang. A rival.” A gang on my mother’s side apparently.
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