Emma can’t figure out a reason to say no, so she lets Kristin draw her right hand over the seat armrest. Kristin’s palms are cool and soft, and she twists at the waist gently to access Emma’s hand. Her white hair drifts down over today’s ensemble: a dark blue cable-knit cardigan over an oversized white shirt and black palazzo pants. Emma feels drab in her jeans, long-sleeved black thermal, and travel-worn green vest. Instead of a satin handbag, Emma has an old black backpack that Bell scrounged for her from lost property in the Quantico gym.
Kristin examines each of Emma’s nails in turn, lifting the soft pads of Emma’s fingers from underneath. She seems utterly absorbed in her task. Emma reflects that Kristin is a person who truly lives in the moment. She doesn’t seem to worry about the future or hang on too tightly to the past. Like a Buddhist monk. It must be a strange way to exist – unconcerned, unentangled, but also weirdly unmoored.
‘When you say Simon is unreliable, what does that look like to you?’ Emma asks. Maybe she’s reading Kristin wrong.
‘Hmm? Oh, I don’t think it’s really aboutlooking.’ Kristin collects the orange stick and sets about gently pushing back Emma’scuticles. ‘I think it’s more of afeelingthan anything else, because Simon rarely lies. He obfuscates, or diverts the conversation, or he simply refuses to answer. He’ll reply to a question with a question of his own. Emma, I’m shocked – you have nice nails. I thought you’d bite them all very short, but you don’t.’
‘I like to leave a little edge on them,’ Emma says. ‘It’s useful for scratching. So Simon doesn’t lie?’
‘Not really.’ Kristin finishes with the orange stick before picking up the emery board. ‘Not for important things. But what hewilldo is exaggerate, or dodge, and he’s also terribly prone to … I’m not sure how to explain it, but he wields honesty like a sword. And he will cut through your heart with any information you share, which is something he does almost without thinking. Open your fingers for me, just a little.’
Emma does as requested, feeling the light rasp on her fingertips, watching Kristin’s tranquil expression as she makes smooth strokes with the emery board. ‘Simon hurt you when he killed Marlowe Drury, didn’t he.’
‘Oh goodness.’ Kristin’s tranquility falters, the sadness shining through as she sighs. ‘I liked Marlowe very much, and Simon knew that. You have a sibling, don’t you, Emma? I’m sure you know what it’s like when they play that one-upmanship game with you.’
‘Yeah, I do,’ Emma says, although she and Robbie pretty much squared their differences three years ago, and comparing ‘fighting over who gets the upper-floor bedroom’ with ‘murdering your sibling’s romantic interest’ is a significant jump. Interesting, thatKristin finds a correlation. ‘I’m sorry for bringing it up. Thanks for doing my nails, Kristin.’
‘That’s perfectly all right.’ Kristin looks up, smiling happily again. ‘Give me your other hand? I know we’re in the middle of an investigation, but we’re still girls, aren’t we.’
Emma gives Kristin her other hand, because she’s right, they’re still girls. But she isn’t sure what that signifies anymore, except that girls are the ones who always end up victimized, abused, tortured, dead. What the advantage of manicured nails might be in those circumstances, she really can’t imagine.
On the ground in Philadelphia, Francks drives them to Byberry without a hitch. Because they’re visiting during the day this time, and can see the signage, they don’t make the mistake of checking in at the women’s facility. Emma’s skin goosebumps as they step out of the sun off the steps and into the grim austerity of the men’s wing. Their paperwork is checked by a male administrative officer at the reception desk. He escorts them down a series of stairs and hallways, and through a number of locked doors, until they reach Grenier’s fiefdom underground.
As Emma enters the checkpoint room, she is struck again by the low ceilings and the cramped quarters. At a wooden table near the door to the cells, Grenier’s colleague scratches his pen across clipboard forms. Grenier himself is in a white uniform shirt and pants, leaned back in his chair with one foot up on the corner of his desk, reading a copy ofGuns & Ammo. He’s wearing brown Packer Chore work boots, plenty of scuff on the toe. Emma can see him in a corduroy western shirt on weekends, with worn jeans.
Grenier looks over as she and Kristin approach his desk. ‘Well. If it isn’t Miss Junior FBI.’
‘We’re here to see N362,’ Emma says, and hands him the paperwork.
‘Nice to see you’ve got the lingo down.’ Grenier is expressionless as he examines the papers, but the toothpick in his mouth wiggles as he speaks. ‘Do I have to run through the visiting information with you all over again?’
‘No.’
‘Good. But I don’t want to have to walk down to haul your friend out, like before.’ Grenier eyes Kristin balefully. ‘If she wants to visit, she’s gotta play by the rules.’
Emma catches Kristin’s nervous glance, looks back. ‘We won’t take up your time.’
Grenier stays stoic. ‘Time don’t matter to me. I’m just like the inmates here, Miss FBI – I got nothing but time. It’s the inconvenience that bugs me.’ He waves toward the entrance to the cell hallway as his colleague rises to open the door. ‘Awright, away you go.’
‘I have something I’d like to give the inmate,’ Emma says, pulling the package out of her backpack.
Grenier sighs when she shows him what she’s carrying. ‘No can do. We don’t allow that here.’
Emma speaks quickly. ‘Could he have one while I’m talking with him? It would make him more agreeable. You can keep the carton, and I’ll take one down each time I visit.’
She taps the carton of Marlboros, and Grenier’s eyes track herfingers. She knows she is supplying the equivalent of a direct offer for him to skim packs for himself.
Grenier sighs again, but it looks more like theater this time. ‘Well, that’s difficult. Not impossible, mind – just difficult.’
Emma has thought this out well in advance, and she reaches into her vest pocket to make a demonstration. ‘Look – I have six cardboard matchbooks. If I take one matchbook in with me, and tear out every match but one, and then tell him to kick the matchbook back …’
Grenier tilts his head, scratches his neck. ‘That could work. Whaddya think, Randy? Will that work?’
Randy stops fiddling with the door lock to look. ‘I guess.’
‘I mean, if he sets hisself on fire, we can hose him down. The folks in the neighboring cells will bitch about how they’re missing out on cigarette privileges, but that’s not my problem.’ Grenier considers, finally gives Emma a nod, like she knew he would. ‘Okay, you’ve got a deal.’
Emma takes a pack of cigarettes from the carton, extracts one cigarette, tears out matches from the first matchbook, turns to the door as Randy opens it. One last glance back at Kristin, who is hovering nearby, hands clasped in front of herself.
