She composes herself for three more steps, four. Then she is in front of his cell.
At first glance, the space seems entirely dark and empty. Emma wants to close her eyes to catch the hum of Simon’s presence, but there’s no time for that.
She waits a moment before speaking to the darkness in the cell. ‘Hello, Simon.’
There is a long pause. Then –
‘You’ve been eating raspberries, Emma. And drinking whiskey. What a strange combination.’ A disembodied reply from the black.
‘Yes.’ She wonders how he picked up on the raspberries, then realizes she’s wearing the same shirt she wore to Audrey’s. ‘Thank you for the postcards. I’d say it’s nice to see you, but—’
‘But that would be a lie,’ Simon Gutmunsson says, and he steps out of the gloom, into the light.
It’s exactly like seeing a ghost ship emerge from a night fog. Simon’s hair and skin are ice white, and his eyes are a fathomless blue. He is wearing the blue scrubs that are the Byberry inmate uniform, over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. He is angular, and very tall, with his twin’s full lips and high cheekbones.
In normal life, Simon would be considered strikingly attractive. But his beauty is a razor; Emma knows it is a type of lure, like the filament of an anglerfish, that draws the hapless prey closer. The last time she saw him, he was ripping chunks off a man’s face with his teeth.
‘How the lit lake shines…’Simon smiles at her. He is just twenty years old, a murderer of twelve, and he is utterly without mercy. ‘Hello, Emma.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me visiting so late.’ Emma thinks he looks thinner than the last time they met, but it’s hard to be sure.
‘Is it late? There are no clocks in jail.’ Simon steps nearer, into the small bright area immediately before the bars. ‘In any case, you know I always enjoy visitors.’
Yes – you like to chomp them up and swallow them down.Emma pushes the thought away. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Emma. Are you well?’
‘I am.’ Trading banal conversational graces with Simon is disconcerting, like chatting about the weather on Mars, but she knows he considers politeness important. ‘And you?’
‘I’m quite in the pink of health – but somewhat disappointed by your lack of courtesy gifts. No picnic croissants? No contraband alcohol?’
This is a reference to their previous interactions. Emma shrugs in what she hopes is a careless way. ‘Sorry.’
‘What a shame.’ He makes an exaggerated pout. ‘Aside from the lack of gifts, I thought you’d come visit me sooner. Truly, Emma, you’ve hurt my feelings.’
She’s not convinced hehasfeelings. ‘I didn’t know where in Philadelphia you’d been transferred.’
‘There aren’tthatmany high-security insane asylums in the state, surely.’
‘I didn’t want to assume.’
‘You never kept in touch.’ In the gloom of the cell, Simon’s arctic blue eyes seem darker, threatening to swallow her whole. ‘No letters, no phone calls, no return postcards …’
‘Well, I’m here now.’ She doesn’t want to get drawn into argument or banter. She’s not here for that. ‘And Kristin is with me. She’ll come in and talk with you after we’re done.’
‘Kristin is here?’ Simon’s expression softens into something more human.
‘Yes.’ Emma’s glad now that Kristin stayed at the checkpoint; it’s good to have that ace up her sleeve. It’s important to give Simon some incentive to cooperate.
‘There’s something happening, isn’t there.’ Simon rolls his eyes. ‘The FBI only ever send visitors when there’s a problem.’
‘You don’t know about it already? I thought you’d be keeping up-to-date via theWashington Post.’ Emma tries to keep the dry tone out of her voice.
‘Alas, I’m no longer permitted access to newspapers.’ He makes an airy wave. All his movements are casual, as if he is perfectly at ease, and not speaking to her through a wall of bars. ‘You will have to be my herald. Describe the problem for me.’
‘Someone is killing college girls in Pittsburgh. It’s an issue of posing.’
Simon’s gaze trails away. ‘Well, I don’t really know that much about posing …’
