“Do you have a scheduled visit?” the deputy up front asked, and I shook my head, already fingering for my keys in my pocket to bail.
“I didn’t know I needed one, sorry.”
“Let her in,” someone said behind the deputy, and the guy I recognized as Eli Burton appeared from behind the desk, his eyes meeting mine. “She has a right to see the inmate.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and he nodded, escorting me through an electronically locked door and into a small room set up with a row of chairs. The chairs sat in front of what looked like small desks, and plexiglass separated this room from the other side of the room.
“I’ll have someone go and get her,” Eli said, placing a hand on my shoulder as I sat down in an empty chair. The room was empty, which was a relief. I’d feared talking to her in front of a whole bunch of people who didn’t need to know my business.
“Thank you, Detective Burton,” I said. “I know you’re aware of the full story.”
He nodded, his eyes sympathetic, and then backed out of the room, leaving me in the silence, looking around warily. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I glanced down at it. It was Korbin, awake by now, evidently.
“Hey, honey,” I said quickly, pressing the phone to my ear as I waited for Amanda. “How did it go last night?”
“Surprise bachelor party,” he said with a stiff laugh. “I’m still recovering. Did everything go all right with Paisley and Remington?”
“Yes,” I said without thinking about it. “They’re still at the house.”
A beat of silence and then, “Where are you?”
“There’s something I have to do,” I told him, lowering my voice despite the emptiness in the room. “Someone I have to see. Head over to the house, okay? I’ll see you when I get there. Rem was going to make breakfast.”
“Baby,” said Korbin. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, I promise. There’s just something I have to do. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“But Peyton—”
“Love you.” I hung up the phone before he could talk me out of this, switching it onto silence so there would be no more interruptions. I slipped the phone into my pocket and turned forward just in time to see the door on the other side of the glass buzz open, and then there she was.
Amanda did not look well, and I had expected and hoped to find pleasure in this, but I found none. Only pity came to my mind as she sat down in the chair on the other side of the plexiglass. Her hair was grown and thin like she’d been pulling it out or just not eating. Dark circles that looked like bruises shadowed her lids, and her lips were dry and cracked, skin pale, almost translucent. Her expression didn’t change when she saw me, and she sat down in the chair and picked up the phone, pressing it to her ear, dull, dead eyes staring at me—just staring. I took a deep, shaky breath and reached for the phone on my side, pressing it to my ear.
“Hello, Amanda,” I said. “Prison does not become you.”
She seemed to take no offense to this, but the slight smile on her scaly lips confirmed that she’d heard me.
“Peyton,” she said. Even her voice sounded gravelly as if she’d been smoking a pack of cigarettes twice a day. “You’re looking as charming and grotesquely perfect as ever.”
“Thanks,” I said, leaning back in the chair a bit to try and get more comfortable. The metal hurt my ass, and the unwavering smell of second-hand smoke lingered in the air around us, giving me a headache.
“Why are you here?” she asked, tucking one arm under the other with the receiver still pressed to her face. “I didn’t ask to see you.”
“No, but I asked to see you.”
“Why?” she asked, and I hated the innocence in her voice. I wanted to punch her. The sad-little-girl act, the victim.
“I think you know why.” I leaned forward until my face was less than a foot from the glass, silently pleased when Amanda moved back unconsciously, glowering at me. “You accused my fiancé of sexual assault, Ms. Briggs, but I know the truth.”
“You do, do you?” she asked, reaching one hand up to pick at her head in a way that must have been a nervous twitch.
“I’m not an idiot,” I said. “None of us are. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to accomplish here, but it’s not working.”
Amanda smiled. Her teeth, I noticed, were stained yellow. It made me wonder if Amanda’s persona before her arrest had been fake—that this was her, the real her, the crazy her who obviously needed a whole bunch of help.
“If it’s not working, then why do you care?” she asked with a slight chuckle that sounded like gravel at the bottom of her throat.
“I care because you’re openly hurting a man who would run into a burning building to save your life,” I said, leaning closer to the glass. “Even now, after everything. Because that’s the kind of people they are.”
