‘I do, but don’t worry about that,’ he tells her. Simone likes this guard. Straight-talking, knows her name. Seems to be ahuman being beyond a jailer, has tattoos of his kids’ names; she once overheard him say he was craving a Burger King.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Nah. Privileged. You want to speak to him or not?’ he asks.
And, out of intrigue, out of loneliness, and out of having absolutely nothing fucking better to do, Simone follows him out.
And there, in a meeting room so different from her cell it feels like civilization, is Moody.
‘It’s you,’ she says to him. The meeting room is air conditioned, and it’s bliss. The chilled, stale air on her wrists, the back of her neck. She wishes she could sleep here, in the quiet and the cool, the exact opposite of the cells. Blue carpet, dark-wood furniture, two telephones and everyday objects that are now contraband, notepads and pens, things Simone can’t resist running her fingers over.
He has nothing with him. No phone. No file. Nothing, just himself, too-big suit, long legs tucked back underneath his chair, floppy hair, glasses, eyes on hers.
Simone is surprised to find herself emotional. James Moody. A lawyer – of all things – who has likely betrayed her trust.
‘Why on earth are you pleading guilty?’ he says to her. No introduction, no response toit’s you. Just this.
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she tells him coldly.
‘Excuse me?’ he says, tone light.
‘No one knew we were in Terlingua except you. They searched your house.’
‘A drone discovered you heading there. The police searched every last place in Terlingua, including mine. I told them I’d checked my rental the hour before, that it was locked and empty. They believed me, so they didn’t come for you.’
‘Oh,’ Simone says, voice small.
‘You disappeared. When I started to ask around, I found out you’d bought identities off a honeytrapper, who waited for you to finish the transaction, then told the police when you’d boarded the boat.’
‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘It was the dark web guy.’
‘Yes.’
‘We had to go.’
‘I get that,’ he says. ‘But why are you pleading guilty?’
Simone hesitates, but she thinks he’s trustworthy. The policedidsearch his house, and they didn’t come back for them. And the information he passed them about Max had been accurate. ‘The police said they wouldn’t prosecute Lucy if I did, for the shooting at the Buick. And you had come up with nothing …’
‘In only a few days! Law, when it works, is a long game.’
‘It’s all about Lucy.’
He pauses, evidently with lots to say, grabs a pencil from the pot on the next table and begins upending it, rubber then the tip, rubber then the tip.
Simone is distracted by the fact that, on the table, are two cups of tea. Polystyrene cups, but tea, nevertheless. Builder’s tea, the colour of brick dust. Simone can almost taste the tannin.
Moody catches her looking. ‘Brits really do love their tea, huh?’
‘Yes.’ She stops, thinking that it really wasn’t him. Why else would he be here, trying to help her? ‘The food in here is awful. Awful pizzas.’
‘I bet.’ A pause. ‘You weren’t lying when you said you didn’t like lawyers.’
‘I had a bad experience.’
He inclines his head, takes a sip of his tea, passing her hers. ‘Oh?’
‘Parents were crap parents,’ she says. ‘It got nasty with lawyers.’
