Richie scoffs and inserts a fingernail between his back teeth, fishing for some food that’s apparently lodged there. He removes the finger and examines the retrieved morsel that’s now under his nail. The convict’s colorless eyes meet Sam’s gaze and hold it. Without blinking, Richie runs his tongue up his finger, collecting the moist lump on the tip and pulling it slowly back into his mouth. Sam keeps her face neutral. Taylor shifts uncomfortably at her side.
“Already told you lot exactly what Denver says in his book,” says Scott. “Which, by the way, everyone got to read before me, even though it’saboutme. Wasn’t until my new lawyer printed it off on paper and it was classed as legal documents that I got to read it. No point asking me questions, pretty boy.How to Get Away with Murderis spot on.”
“What makes you think Denver killed Melanie?” Sam asks. Her heart rate is steady, her mouth free from the salty taste that she’s become so used to.
“You thick or just stupid?” Scott hisses. “Like what Denver says: he fucked with our shopping, then came in and killed her. Denver did it. So my question to you lot is when you gonna let me outta here?”
“Can you tell me, precisely, what was strange about your shopping?” Taylor asks.
With an eye-roll, Scott replies, “Just like what Denver says: he sent us steak, wine and prawns. We cooked the steaks right up. I never knew what to do with a prawn. Weird-looking things—still have their eyes in. Our Bella—that’s the dog—we gave her the prawns. The posh wine tasted like shite. Gimme a cold tin of Foster’s any day. That’s what I’ll have for my first free drink: a cold tin and Bristol City on the telly. Wanna join me, love?” Scott winks at Sam.
She ignores him, but she feels an uncomfortable heat bloom across her chest as the creep’s eyes roam her body. Taylor sits up straighter, clenching his fingers around his pen. Sam refuses to allow Richie’s lechery to put her off her stride.
“Mr. Scott, does the name Charlotte Mathers mean anything to you?… Nigel Mathers?… Jack Mathers?” she asks. Her words are calm, controlled.
“Never heard of ’em,” Richie says. “Are they Denver victims, too? I only read my chapter—that’s all my lawyer was allowed to give me. To be honest, I’m not a big reader anyway.”
“Mr. Scott,” Taylor replies, “almost every detail that Denver mentions inHow to Get Away with Murderis information that’s in the public domain. The evidence brought forward at your trial was compelling, the jury’s verdict unanimous. Denver’s account doesn’t explain a lot of details that speak to your guilt. For example, your bloody fingerprints on the washing machine, yourfootprints around Melanie’s body and the fact that you fled the scene and were apprehended at a friend’s house, hiding under the bed—”
“I’m done talking to you, you fuckin’ toff.” Scott takes a long sniff and then spits a glob of phlegm on to Taylor’s shiny shoe.
Sam hears Taylor’s pen crack in his hand, and leans forward. “Mr. Scott. Richie—may I call you Richie? As my colleague said,almostevery detail inHow to Get Away with Murderis in the public domain. It’s in your best interest to tell us how Denver might know things that only the perpetrator and the police should know.”
“You mean the earrings. The papers never mentioned Mel’s earrings. No one knew about those being taken except the killer and that just proves it wasn’t me,” Scott says, letting his eyes rest unashamedly on Sam’s breasts.I should have worn my Nordic sweater, she thinks, then almost smiles at the thought. Since when has chunky, oversized clothing kept women safe? Beside her, Taylor tenses.
“It could be argued that you took Melanie’s earrings. They were portable items of value that you could sell to support yourself while on the run from police,” Sam says.
“There weren’t any earrings on me when I was arrested,” Scott says, in a way that indicates to Sam that he’s been coached by his legal representative.
“Perhaps you hid the earrings before your arrest. You had days to do that. Or you sold them,” she challenges.
“Whatever, bitch.” Richie’s eyes wander the room; he’s clearly unbothered. The thought of this man walking free makes her skin prickle, but she needs to keep her mind in the room, so she pushes on.
“Just tell us who you told about the earrings, and if that leads us to Denver Brady, we’re all better off,” Sam says.
“I’m innocent. You know it. Pretty Boy there knows it. The whole world knows it. Fuckin’ outrageous keeping me in here. We’re gonna sue for millions. Wrongful imprisonment, reputational damage—the lot!”
“I’d say the reputational damage was taken care of by you, Mr. Scott, when you beat up your girlfriend,” Taylor says.
Richie fires up immediately. “She was a fuckin’ nut job, Mel. She gave as good as she got. I had scratch marks all up my arms all the fuckin’ time. She knew what buttons to push. Read the book. Denver says that Mel confessed to starting our fights.”
“Yes, I know there are women like that. Psychos.” Sam lets her comment hang, avoiding Taylor’s outraged glare. “We have a common goal here. For you to get out of prison, we need to find Denver. Help me to help you. Tell me everything.”
“My lawyer told me to tell you what I remembered.” Richie scratches his head, then cleans his fingernails on his bottom teeth.
“Your lawyer is right, Richie,” Sam says.
“He’s a clever bloke,” Richie says, and Sam wonders if that’s true, given that no lawyer worth his salt would allow a client to speak to the police unrepresented.
Richie leans forward, inches from Sam’s face, and she automatically switches to breathing through her mouth. Taylor’s knee presses up against hers under the table, as if promising to keep her safe.
“I’ve been having these memories since I read my chapter,” Richie says. “Flashbacks. Of a voice with an accent talking to Melanie in our house.”
“What kind of accent?” Taylor asks.
“Romanian, maybe, like my cellmate. All sound the same don’t they, foreigners?” Scott says. “But, yeah… I think Denver is a foreigner. Probably come ’ere illegally on a dinghy.” Richie sniffs loudly.
“Go on,” Sam says.
