Chapter Eight

 

 

 

I woke to a loud blast of noise and jolted up in bed, my thoughts reeling. From the ceiling came another thump, then another, followed by a loud, female bellow. I fell back against the pillows. The sheets were rough against my back. I hadn’t been able to turn down the heat despite my earnest efforts and two visits by the sullen concierge. As such, I’d gone to bed in a tank top and underwear, both of which felt uncomfortably clammy now.

Another bang echoed from right above my head. So much for sleep. I slapped a hand to the bedside table in search of my phone. My fingers encountered candy wrappers, two Coke cans and the TV remote. I’d employed every distraction I could think of to stay awake—to no avail. It was just six in the evening. I must have conked out around four, maybe a little earlier.

The Young and the Restless was playing, muted, on my TV.

I greeted the next ceiling-borne thud with a groan. “All right, all right, I’m up. Asshole.” I glanced around for something I could pitch or tap against the ceiling in answer. There were no brooms lying around, no casually anachronistic spears. I’d picked the hotel on budget criteria rather than aesthetics. But even if the décor was a little dated, I couldn’t claim to be disappointed. For the money I’d paid, the room was clean, the sheets crisp and overly starched. I could smell ammonia in the bathroom when I went to use the facilities and splash water on my face.

My reflection in the mirror revealed black bags under my eyes and tufts of hair poking out comically over my ears. I didn’t look entirely sane. I must not have been, to make this trip in the first place.

I spared a thought for Ashley, back home. Six o’clock in Kansas City was middle of the night in Paris. As much as I wanted to hear his voice, I didn’t want to wake him.

I couldn’t call anyone. All the friends and family I had were abroad. There was no one left in Kansas who knew me.

My stomach gave a noisy rumble. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast on the plane—a couple of finger sandwiches and a Coke. No wonder I was hungry. Yet the prospect of going to dinner by myself seemed oddly daunting. I scrolled restlessly through my phone contacts, eventually alighting on the Bs.

B for Barnes.

Might as well, I thought, and pressed ‘Call’.

He picked up on the second ring. “Ms. Reynaud? Is everything okay?”

We were supposed to meet tomorrow morning for breakfast, then drive to Leavenworth together. I guess he was counting on briefing me in the car. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet.”

“Now?” Barnes sounded perplexed. “Uh, sure.”

I gave him the name of my hotel and we agreed that he’d come pick me up in twenty minutes. As I hung up, it struck me suddenly that I was really set to do this. I’d flown over the Atlantic mostly in a trance, committed to a course I had set largely on a whim. In a few minutes, I’d meet one of my father’s victims—my first since I’d left the country as a child.

One of the living ones, anyway.

Naturally, I overdressed for the occasion. I realized it when I was already in the lobby, anxiously tapping my Louboutins against the tile floor. Heads turned. I pretended not to notice. It might have been admiration I saw in the eyes of the staff and other hotel guests, but I still felt like a caged animal at the zoo. My camouflage made me stand out.

I cast another glance at my watch. Twenty-five minutes had already elapsed. Had Barnes changed his mind? Maybe I’d made a mistake telling him where I was staying. Paranoia, my old friend, wrapped around me like a comforting shroud as the lobby door swung open.

A tall, stocky figure entered. He swept his gaze over me, but there was no flash of recognition. I watched him approach the reception desk, my gut churning with more than hunger.

And releasing, as soon as I heard his voice.

“Hi, I’m looking for Laure Reynaud—”

“Mr. Barnes?” I said, rising from my paisley perch on the couch. I smoothed down my Just Cavalli dress even though it was so form-fitting it hardly moved. I resisted the urge to tug at the hem. I was in no way indecent. The neckline went all the way up to my collarbones.

Barnes blinked. “Oh, I didn’t see you there!”

I smiled tightly.

“Must be the print…” He cleared his throat and extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. At last.”

The softly chiding note in his voice was as unwelcome as it was deserved. I took his hand, tamping down a flash of annoyance. “Thanks for making time for me tonight. I don’t really know my way around town anymore.” Not that I ever had. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

I glanced meaningfully toward the reception desk, where the clerk was doing a great job of pretending not to eavesdrop.

Barnes caught my drift. “Sure thing. Restaurant’s just around the corner.” He led me out into the chilly evening and I cursed myself for not wearing trousers instead. I did my best not to let my teeth chatter. I’d heard so much about Americans only ever getting around in their cars that it felt like poetic justice to discover that Barnes was a big walker. His idea of just around the corner translated into two huge blocks in the frigid cold—me steadily turning blue from the chill and Barnes regaling me with tales of chili fries and onion rings.

I could have kissed the linoleum floor when we finally arrived at the restaurant. I refrained and instead asked the waitress for a glass of wine.

“Kind of wine, sweetheart?”

“Whatever kind you have.” I felt cold in my bones, far past the point of what coffee could mend.

Barnes arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. For himself, he ordered a PBR. “Want me to hang up your coat?” he offered, gentlemanly and a little awkward.

I shook my head. “I didn’t realize the South could be so cold in February.”

“Bite your tongue,” he snorted. “Around here, they like to think of themselves as Midwesterners. The literal heart of America…” Barnes shook his head like he disputed the soppy moniker. I wondered if, like me, he pictured hearts less like Valentine’s Day chocolates and more like thumping fists. He squirmed in his seat. “It’s worse in Missouri.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

Barnes nodded slowly, shifting to balance his forearms on the table. He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Ashley. I had only a vague idea that Donna had been seventeen or so when she disappeared into the ether—with my father’s help. That could put Barnes at forty- or fifty-something. It was hard to judge. His face was mostly clear of wrinkles, but he’d already started going gray at the temples. He wore a checkered shirt under a corduroy blazer, no tie. His winter jacket smelled faintly of mothballs.

“I’m from Topeka,” I added, when he said nothing further. “But I guess you already knew that…”

Thanks to my father’s crimes, my childhood was public knowledge. I tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if I’d stayed in the States. Adolescence was hard enough without people whispering about my family wherever I went. But was it really fair that I had the luxury of moving on while people like Barnes were forever stuck in limbo?

I played with a sugar packet, flicking the cheap paper with a painted fingernail.

Barnes eyed me across the table, his expression unreadable. “You have no idea how grateful I am that you finally decided to talk to your father.”

“If I can help…” I trailed off, uncomfortable with the intensity of his focus. Mercifully, the waitress returned with our drinks before either of us could further the awkwardness.

I ordered a burger and fries, one of my staple foods back home, while Barnes had the steak. We were promised a side dish of lettuce—management’s nod to a balanced meal, I suppose.

Barnes quickly picked up the thread of the conversation once we were alone again. “You haven’t talked to your father since the trial, is that right?”

The interrogation was back on. I tipped my head in acquiescence. “My grandparents thought it was for the best.” And I hadn’t pushed the envelope because I didn’t want to relive the ordeal of the trial. I’d grown up motherless and despising my father. It was easier to do that when we were thousands of miles apart.

That didn’t explain why even now, as an adult, I still couldn’t fathom telling my grandparents where I’d gone or what I was doing here.

“They may be right,” Barnes grunted. “I wouldn’t let my daughter talk to a man like that, either.” He sipped his beer straight from the bottle, fingertips leaving four round smears in the condensation on the glass. “My other daughter,” he added, though I hadn’t asked.

The one your father didn’t get to.

“Ah… What’s her name?”

“Georgia.” He flashed me an absentminded smile. “She’s a good girl. About your age.”

And he still talked about letting her talk to strange men? Maybe that’s what happens when you lose a child. I was no stranger to bizarre coping mechanisms.

In the ensuing lull, I recognized The Kinks warbling about sunny afternoons through the diner’s PA.

“Donna would’ve been thirty-nine this year,” Barnes blurted out and wiped a hand over his face.

“Really?” I asked before I could stop myself. I had miscalculated.

Donna had been seventeen when she was abducted, but that was twenty-odd years ago. I tried to imagine spending two decades wondering where my mother’s remains were, unable to mourn her properly. I couldn’t.

“Does… Does Georgia have any kids?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. I couldn’t promise Barnes that I’d bring him closure and I didn’t want to apologize on my father’s behalf. His crimes weren’t mine.

I wasn’t like him.

“Two,” Barnes replied. “Two little boys.”

“Bet you and Mrs. Barnes dote on them…”

Barnes flashed me a tepid smile. “The missus and I parted ways ‘bout eighteen years ago.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“S’all right. Ain’t like you’re to blame.” Barnes picked up his beer, then set it back down on the table, restless. “She didn’t like me writing to your dad. Said it was sick stuff. Maybe she was right…” He was silent for a moment, enough for me to wonder if I was supposed to assure him that no, he’d done the right thing. It was a short-lived reprieve. “I didn’t know what else to do, you know?” Barnes fixed me with a watery stare. “I thought if I could just find her. If I knew what happened…” He laughed, short and miserable, pointing a meaty finger at me. “Your father’s a wily bastard. No straight answers for twenty goddamn years—and now this.”

He gestured toward me with his chin, like my presence was a cross he had to bear. It galled me. It made me want to duck under the table and hide.

Instead, I stayed where I was, the picture of the distinguished European woman, and sipped my wine. It was vinegary-sour, but it hit the spot. “One visit from me is all he wants? He didn’t ask for anything else?”

Since we were apparently broaching the subject now, I figured I might as well know what I was getting into.

The waitress returned before Barnes could speak, a brief interruption to allow for two giant dinner plates topped with steak and burger and fries, and two considerably smaller salad bowls—a sad helping of green leaves with two cherry tomatoes for variety. I had no cause to quibble. My diet these days was a far cry from healthy.

Barnes took his time unpacking fork and knife from the napkin they were wrapped in. Only when he had them completely unfurled on the Formica table did he pick up the thread of our harmless little chat. “Your father’s getting old, miss. Think he’s looking for some kind of grip on life. You’re his only child, right?”

I nodded.

“Guess he must look to you as the one thing he did right in this life.”

“I doubt it,” I answered dryly. I didn’t feel like my father’s achievement by any stretch of imagination. “Does he write many of his victims or just you?”

“Oh, he’s got fans.” Barnes chuckled. “He’s one of the more popular inmates, from what I gather. Serial murderers always draw attention, you know… Dahmer, the Zodiac killer, they’ve all got fan clubs—even among the sane. People are messed up that way, I guess.”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

My twelfth birthday, I’d gotten a Myspace friend request from someone purporting to have known my mother. Took me a couple of weeks of very disturbing, very invasive personal questions to realize that the ‘friend’ was actually one of my father’s followers—my grandparents had the account reported and we got in touch with the police. As far as I knew, that was the last of it. I still received pictures and newspaper clippings in the mail sometimes, but now I mostly ignored them. Terror became tiresome after a while. People wanted me to move on, so I did. I turned the page and fed the book through a shredder.

“He’s a very charming man,” Barnes said when I started picking at my fries. “Must be the preacher’s son in him.”

“Preacher’s son?” I frowned. My grandparents had never told me about that.

“You didn’t know?” Barnes cocked his head. “His daddy was a born-again Christian. Started his own ministry in the seventies. Baptist, I think. He still has kin down in Colorado or someplace… ’Course, they probably don’t want to be associated with him.”

“I know the feeling.” Still, it rankled to think I was so ignorant of that side of my family tree. I made a mental note to find my way to a computer before I went to bed tonight. I couldn’t very well venture into battle without knowing what I was dealing with.

My father, the killer.

My father, the preacher’s son.

We ate in silence for a long stretch, both of us wolfing down our meal like we hadn’t eaten in weeks. I would’ve been embarrassed if Mr. Barnes’ appetite hadn’t matched mine so thoroughly. Conversation dwindled between bites. We discussed Barnes’ hardware store for a bit—how the economy was giving him an ass-kicking, how he’d had to lay off half of his employees because most of their clients now shopped at Best Buy and Walmart. Then, when that font of trivial details dried up, I delivered meaningless details about Paris.

I kept Ashley out of my anecdotes, but he was on my mind all the same.

“A friend of mine said there’s a rumor going around in the media that there’s about to be a big break in your daughter’s disappearance,” I said as we were winding down. Across from me, Barnes narrowed his eyes and drew up his shoulders as though bracing for a fight. It was all the confirmation I needed.

Barnes heaved a sigh. “Wouldn’t you do the same, if you were in my shoes?”

“Probably… But I’d wonder first if that’s not precisely what Kane wants.” I’d had enough of referring to him as my father. My skin was beginning to crawl. “If he’s as charming and suave as you say, maybe it’s the publicity he’s after, not the chance to see me.” If I had money to spare, I’d be willing to bet on it.

‘My father, the crook’ had a nice ring to it.

Barnes barked out a laugh, hoarse and mirthless. “You think I care?” My silence prompted him to go on. “Miss Reynaud—” He pronounced it ‘Renault’, like the car. “I’ve been trying to get my daughter back for twenty-two years just to give her a proper burial. I got no more anger for your daddy. He wants to get his picture on the cover of Newsweek? Let him. Press never cared about Donna anyway. Why should I care about them?”

I clamped my lips shut. I couldn’t very well say Because not all of us are dead. His daughter was cold in the ground somewhere. Grief like that didn’t lend itself to reason.

“I just hope I can help,” I said quietly. Ashley would have squeezed my hand if he were here. He would’ve been proud that I didn’t put myself first for a change.

I couldn’t shake the thought of him as I walked back to the hotel with Barnes in tow, shivering under my too-thin trench coat. We parted ways in the nearly vacant lobby, awkwardly shaking hands under the dull yellow lamplight.

“Six o’clock okay?” he asked, checking for the third time, like he expected me to change my mind and ask for a lie-in.

I doubted I’d get any rest at all. My thoughts were effervescent, my senses made even sharper by the brisk walk back to the hotel.

“Six o’clock is perfect. I’ll be here. With coffee,” I added, tacking on a retail-friendly smile. I had allowed Barnes to pay for dinner because he’d claimed he’d take offense if we went Dutch, but I fully intended to make it up to him tomorrow. I hadn’t come to Kansas City to be an imposition on anyone.

I went up to the room feeling strangely forlorn and dropped heavily onto the unmade bed. The mirrored doors of the wardrobe confronted me with my own reflection. I’d done a good job with the makeup. I looked put-together and confident. I looked like I knew what I was doing.

It was a welcome fiction.

One floor above, my neighbors dropped something to the floor with a thunderous clang. I put my head in my hands and gave the mascara a vigorous scrub.

 

* * * *

 

The first thing I needed to buy, before coffee, before breakfast, was a pair of goddamned earplugs. I had gone to bed last night with pounding one floor above and woken to the shrill ringing of my cell phone.

I blinked in the TV screen light as I fumbled to sit up. The room was bright enough with the glare of streetlights that I didn’t need to bother with the lamp.

“Hello?” I picked up without checking the caller ID. It didn’t quite slip my mind. I had an inkling that it might be Barnes telling me he’d got cold feet and could we postpone?

It wasn’t. Ashley’s voice came down the line all soft and hesitant. “Hey… Did I wake you?”

An answer lodged in my throat, knotting there as I pressed a hand to my lips to will it back down again. In a flash, I was wide awake and trying not to weep. “Oh God, I’m so glad to hear your voice,” I blurted out.

Ashley chuckled, the sound undulating over my skin like the stroke of a hand. “Me too. Can you talk?” I told him I could. The TV clock read four-thirty, but I knew I wasn’t getting back to bed any time soon. Benefits of jet lag. Ashley didn’t press the point. “How’re you holding up?” he asked.

“Good. It’s weird, but I’m good.” I’d barely been away twenty-four hours and already I felt homesick, my thoughts snagging on where I should have been right now. “What time is it over there?”

“Almost noon.”

“Are you cooking?” I pressed.

“No, I’m meeting a couple of colleagues for lunch in a bit. Tell me about you. What’s it like being back?”

I didn’t want to talk about me, but I obliged because it meant having a few minutes more in Ashley’s company. “I don’t think I’ve been to Kansas City before. It’s pretty big. Huge streets… I, uh, I met Barnes.”

“And?” Ashley’s breath gusted noisily into the phone.

“Nice guy. We’re going to Leavenworth tomorrow—well, today.” Less than two hours to go before I was supposed to meet him downstairs. My stomach pitched at the thought. “We’ll see how it goes. If Kane holds up his end of the bargain, I could be coming home tomorrow.” A vaguely optimistic note slid into my voice despite my best efforts to nip any false hopes in the bud. I didn’t want to sound like I was out of my depth. My pride was at stake, among other things.

Ashley sighed on the other end of the line. “I know I’m supposed to say you shouldn’t rush, but to be honest… I’d like that. I miss you, Laure.”

I pressed a hand to my stomach, pushing against my overinflated lungs. “I miss you, too.” I wish you were here with me. “Did you order in last night?” I asked, changing the subject the only way I knew how—by talking about food. It was fortunate that we shared an appreciation for eating because Ashley came up with the best descriptions for the takeout joints he had uncovered in Le Marais. In his short time in Paris, he already had a couple of restaurants I’d never even heard of on speed dial.

He regaled me with his latest discovery while I switched off the television and kicked off the covers. It was like a sauna in my room.

“Hang on,” I said, “I’ve got to put you on speaker.”

“Oh. Okay… Everything all right?”

“Yeah, just taking off my clothes,” I said.

Ashley breathed out a laugh. “Is that so? What’s the occasion?”

I told him about the faulty thermostat, but he didn’t sound convinced. The sound of his grunts and groans soon trickled down the line.

“What’s going on?” I asked, torn between amusement and concern.

“Oh, nothing. Just taking off my clothes.”

I bit my lip. “Reciprocity is a beautiful thing…” Yearning simmered in my belly. I wished so fiercely that he was in the room with me. I wanted nothing more than to roll over and climb into his lap—or, better yet, let him have his way with me. I glanced at the clock. Quarter to five. We didn’t have much time to fool around. “Tell me you’re home alone right now?” I pleaded huskily.

“I’ll do you one better—I’m in the bedroom,” Ashley confessed. “And I’m lying down as we speak. Pity you’re on the other side of the ocean.”

“No kidding.” I needed him like a physical part of me was missing. I felt well and truly bereft.

“But if you were here…”

“Yes?” I could hear laughter in Ashley’s voice. I didn’t care if he was laughing at me.

“I’d do my best to make it worth your while.”

“Like the last time?” I quipped.

“I do like you on your knees,” Ashley drawled, and I swear I could feel my pussy clench at the sound of his voice. It was like he knew precisely which buttons to push to ramp up my arousal from passing interest to single-minded desire. “Close your eyes,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Close your eyes. I want your attention on me.” Where it belongs, he seemed to be implying. I couldn’t disagree.

Obediently, I let my eyelids droop shut. “Don’t hypnotize me into falling right back asleep or I’ll never forgive you.”

“Trust me,” Ashley replied, “sleep is the last thing on my mind.”

I chuckled, but a flush of excitement was climbing up my body, turning delight into a far different sensation. I settled back against the pillows, wriggling this way and that until I was comfortable. “Okay. I’m good.” My eyes were closed, my legs slightly spread. I only had the use of one hand while the other held the phone, but one hand was all I needed to get off.

Well, that, and Ashley’s soft and sexy murmur in my ear.

“I want you to touch your lips,” he murmured. “Do it slow, picture me kissing you. I’m in your bed, above you, breathing in your scent. You’re driving me crazy and you don’t even know it. Shit, you don’t even have to try…”

I do try. I was wary of correcting him in case it was a mood killer. Let him think I woke up flawless and walked around like I was made of diamonds—indestructible and exquisite. Let him believe I had an easy time snaring a guy like him, much less keeping him in my arms.

I kept quiet. I only had to concentrate a little to feel like my fingertips were Ashley’s lips brushing butterfly kisses against my mouth. It was tantalizing, but I needed more.

“Walk your hand down your neck. Slowly. I want to hear your breath quicken. I know you like it when I tease… Don’t you, Laure?”

I made a dumb, acquiescing noise low in my throat. Speech was overrated anyway.

On the other end of the line, Ashley chuckled. “Good girl. I want you to trace you fingertips over your breasts. Don’t rush. Just go slow. I know that’s how you like it best.” His voice took on a cruel, familiar sharpness, the kind I should have found worrisome, maybe even a little annoying, but instead was growing to adore. I liked it when he bossed me around, and this—my hands in his service, my body delivered to his command—was the epitome of giving up control.

“Pinch your nipples for me, Laure. Don’t be shy. That’s it… I love to listen to you moan my name.”

Had I done that? I couldn’t say for sure, but I did it again because Ashley said he enjoyed it. My toes curled with pleasure, a jolt of electricity igniting in the pit of my stomach. Through half-lidded eyes, I glanced at the clock. Five in the morning. Jesus, time flew.

“Ashley—”

“Do you want to stop?” he asked quietly.

“No, but—”

“Then don’t break the rules or I won’t let you come.” He sounded so serious that the burst of disbelieving laughter I nearly let out tangled in my throat.

“Are you serious?” You’re all the way in Paris.

Ashley hummed. “Do you want to disappoint me?” I knew the answer to that one and gave it without thought, without hesitation. Our quarrels notwithstanding, I liked doing right by him. “Good. So be quiet and listen… Now, where were we? Ah—you were about to touch your cunt.”

Desire rippled over my flesh at the sound of that sharp, demeaning, sexy word. I wanted him to linger on the final consonant for hours. I wanted to feel him shape the letters with his tongue on my skin.

“Do you want to touch yourself, Laure?” Ashley purred in my ear and I nodded dumbly for a long second before I realized that he couldn’t see me. He answered my mumbled Yes with approval. “Then go ahead.”

He guided my hand between my legs as though he were right here in the room with me. I shivered as I traced my folds with a feverish palm. It might as well have been his for the images that rose up behind my eyes—of the pair of us in his living room, of Ashley’s lips against my skin as he teased me to the edge of climax, then stopped, leaving me to squirm in frustration.

I had no doubt that he could make this worth my while just as easily as he could stop me coming. I’d worry about the power I was giving him a little later. For now, I spread my legs wider and parted my folds with two fingers.

“That’s right,” he breathed. “You’re all wet for me. Does it feel good, babe? Do you want more?”

“Fuck, yes,” I bit out, hoping that the injunction on speech didn’t take into account answering his questions.

“Put your fingers inside.” He didn’t give me a number, so I stretched myself with two, the sharp thread of discomfort making me grimace. “And your palm flat against your clitoris. Feels good grinding against it like that, doesn’t it?” he teased. I moaned, too far gone to care if I was following the rules or not. “Not going to take much to get you off. Jesus, you sound like sin. Come on, sweetheart, ride those fingers for me. Let me hear you…”

I pressed my feet flat to the mattress and rolled my hips forward and up, every muscle cording as I teetered on the edge of orgasm. How could I be so close after just a few minutes? Ashley was a fucking sorcerer. Either that or I was just that easy for him. I couldn’t bring myself to care as I stroked myself to completion, vulgar, wet sounds filling the room. My breath rose to a pitch, pleasure cresting at my core like an earth-shattering tidal wave and carrying me with it.

I came with a high-pitched keen, reasoning, through the flutter of my pulse beats and the roar of blood in my ears, that there was no way other hotel guests hadn’t heard. I didn’t care. After all the thuds I’d put up with, they would just have to cope.

My phone had slipped as I rode out the aftershocks of my orgasm. I fetched it up from the sheets just in time to hear Ashley gasp my name and come with a grunt. For a minute or two, heat suffused my limbs and I felt content despite the distance between us. Then I made to roll over and tuck my body against his only to find the other side of the bed empty and cold. I dropped my head against the pillow with a sigh.

“Not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” Ashley sniggered. “Did you have a good one, at least?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” I shot back, still catching my breath. “Twenty. And now I have to go.” I needed to shower, get dressed. Procure coffee before Barnes came to pick me up.

“Wait!”

“What?”

Ashley dropped his voice an octave. “One to ten with ten being the best or the worst?”

“You dork. I’m hanging up now.” I wasn’t going to think about the phone bill. Transatlantic phone sex was totally worth the expense.

“Yeah, yeah. Love you, too,” Ashley said, a brisk half-second before the line went dead.

I gaped at the phone for a good minute after the screen went dark. I was still there when it lit back up again with a text from Ashley.

 

Did I freak you out?

 

Had he left it at that I might have answered back, earnest and quick to absolve him of any wrongdoing—because my freak-outs were my problem, not his—but he didn’t.

The semicolon and closed parenthesis that followed sealed his fate.

If I ventured into the bathroom with a goofy grin, no one need be the wiser. I was confident my good mood wouldn’t last.

 

* * * *

 

The vast, stone building of Leavenworth Penitentiary loomed ahead of us for a good twenty minutes before we reached the first checkpoint—a uniformed officer with a clipboard who signed us in before dragging his feet to the next car. His breath steamed the frosty air. It was barely seven-thirty and already a long queue of cars blocked the entrance to the parking lot, with us at its heart.

“It’s like this every time?” I asked, craning my neck as I glanced out through the rear window. There were at least as many cars behind us as there were in front, a long ribbon stretching out between barren knolls and empty fields. “I didn’t realize inmates were so popular…”

“Gets pretty busy on the weekends, yeah. Lockdowns mean some people don’t get to see their loved ones for weeks,” Barnes explained. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it in today.”

Half an hour later, Barnes at last pulled the handbrake on his creaky sedan and switched off the engine. We were about a hundred feet away from the flagpole, one gray Ford Falcon in a sea of Hondas, Buicks and Chevrolets. I even spotted the odd Chrysler. Some cars looked newer than others. Prison drew a diverse crowd. I noticed a few out of state plates—a couple from Colorado, the rest Missouri—and tried to picture myself driving hours to spend an hour with my jumpsuit-wearing dad.

We walked up the stairs under the fluttering of stars and stripes, a hollow in the pit of my stomach.

My knowledge of prison life began and ended with The Shawshank Redemption, so I hadn’t expected much coming in. The metal detector scans, the pat-downs, the invasive questions all took me back to my last encounter with customs at the airport. It was the faint odor of antiseptic and the barren, gated hallways that reminded me of where I was—not in transit, not going anywhere. Trapped like an animal in a cage.

The click and hum of electric grilles filled me with anxiety. I stole a glance at Barnes while an officer rifled through my purse, hoping to see the same discomfort I felt replicated in his expression. I would have to look elsewhere for solidarity. Barnes was sliding his shoes back on and making small talk with the guards, completely in his element. I wondered how many times he’d come here that he felt so at ease.

A muscular woman with a severe widow’s peak emerged from a side door to retrieve us.

Barnes grinned at the sight of her. “How you doin’, Mattie?”

“Eh, can’t complain.” She glanced from him to me and back, a sigh building in her chest. “You’ll have to wait. Kane’s busy right now.”

“I thought visitation hours started at seven-thirty,” I said.

“He’s visiting with somebody else,” Mattie interjected, shooting me a withering stare. “You signed in?”

Barnes came to my rescue. “We’re all good. Who’s he got this time?” He lowered his voice an octave. “You think you can have one of your guys hurry it up? Laure here came all the way from France…”

“Uh-huh.” Mattie didn’t sound impressed.

“Took a lot to convince her to see her pop,” Barnes went on, patting my shoulder with a broad hand. I stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Mattie did a double take. “You’re Kane’s daughter?”

“Who did you think I was?” I asked, clipped and suspicious.

“One of his…” She shook herself, cleared her throat. “Never mind. Let me see what I can do.”

She directed us into an office, out of the hallways where I guessed we weren’t supposed to stand around and wait. Filing cabinets lined the far wall, behind a desk covered in paperwork and mostly empty pencil holders. Coffee rings painted concentric circles on the desk mat.

If the electrified chain-link fences topped with coils of barbed wire outside hadn’t driven the point home, then the bars on the windows certainly made it impossible to ignore that I was, in fact, inside a maximum-security prison. A shiver of panic ripped through me, but I was too incensed to be afraid. “She has some nerve,” I muttered under my breath.

“It ain’t her fault,” said Barnes. “Your father’s got all kinds of fans… Some of ’em are women. They can be pretty intense.”

“Well, I’m not one of them,” I shot back, petulant and sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to think about my father having a girlfriend or two or ten. I didn’t want to imagine him living some star-crossed romance and writing soppy love letters while my mother’s face faded a little more from my memory each year.

God, Ashley, why didn’t I ask you to come with me?

Before Barnes could try to comfort me, the office door swung open once again, sparing us both the awkwardness. “All right,” Mattie announced. “We’re good. That little spitfire he’s been seeing looked none too pleased, but… He didn’t know you were coming, huh?”

It took me a moment to realize that the question was meant for me. Barnes’ name was on my father’s approved visitors list, which was how we’d gotten past the checkpoints. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask if Barnes had taken the time to call ahead to let my father know I was in town. Makes no difference.

“I thought he’d appreciate the surprise,” I drawled, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I was too nervous to care about making a good impression. Ten, twenty feet separated me from the visitation room.

Mattie rattled off the rules as we walked down the cinder block hall. “You get one hug at the beginning and one hug before you leave. You will be frisked on your way out, so don’t let him talk you into smuggling contraband. No touching. You make a scene, we pull you out and Pops goes back to his cell. Understood?”

I nodded. Mattie badged us through. The metal clang of the door echoed through my skull like a death knell. Then we were inside, in a room like the high school cafeterias I’d seen in movies. My feet instantly turned to lead, imaginary roots burrowing into the concrete.

Barnes pressed a hand to the small of my back to get me moving. I progressed at a slow, shuffling pace between the picnic tables and chairs nailed to the floor.

The faces around us were nondescript, unfamiliar. A few jumpsuit-wearing men looked up as I passed, but they were either too young or too swarthy to be my father. They didn’t give me more than a cursory glance.

“Here we are,” Barnes muttered under his breath and I snapped my head around. Barnes nodded meaningfully to a man at a table right in front of us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stand—a splash of orange, a cornsilk beard. Long blond hair, like a rock star. Deep-set blue eyes, like mine but swimming with tears. This was Tracey Woodrow Kane, about twenty years older than I remembered him.

I swallowed past the bile rising in the back of my throat. This isn’t for me. This is for Donna. This is closure for all of us.

My father beamed. “My God… You look just like your mother.”