'Hello, Mother.'
'Oh, why are you always so dire when I come to visit you?' she scoffed, taking a pad and a pen from her Prada bag. 'You're such a downer.'
'I'm on death row.'
'Please,' she grumbled, and he could have sworn she had started using an English accent. 'You should see what these shoes are doing to my bunions.' She held out her leg so he could see the four-inch heel on her Jimmy Choo. 'I wore them on Regis and Kelly the other day and by the time I walked off stage, I was ready to kill somebody.' She had a sparkle in her eye. 'Figuratively speaking, of course.'
'Of course,' Martin said. They both knew what had happened. Martin was no fool – at least he wasn't as big a fool as his mother thought. He had spent a lifetime of reading crime stories and murder mysteries. By simple process of elimination, he had figured it out. There were only two people who could have committed these heinous crimes, and Martin knew he hadn't done it.
'Now,' Evie said, writing 'Chapter Twelve' at the top of the page with her bright, gold pen. 'My editor thinks we should talk a bit more about your childhood right after your father died. You're still blaming yourself for that, right?' She seemed hopeful. Martin nodded. 'What about that time I came home and found you in my underwear?'
'That never happened!' he screeched, horrified that the other prisoners might have heard. 'You can't write that!'
A guard appeared instantly. 'Dial it back, Martin.'
He nodded, gripping his hands together under the table. They were all on his mother's side here. She'd fooled them completely.
'Mother,' Martin began, 'why don't you tell them how you always bought clothes that were too big for me, so that when I went to school I got teased?'
She waved this off with a perfectly manicured hand. 'All mothers do that. Kids grow so fast you can't keep up with them.'
The guard paced back and forth behind Martin, apparently feeling the need to protect Evelyn. Martin kept his mouth shut. He had nothing more to say on the subject. There was no use arguing, because she would only point out that it wasn't her fault that Martin didn't grow. The too-big shoes, the baggy pants, the loose underwear that facilitated wedgies – these would all somehow be turned around on Martin and it would suddenly be his own damn' fault.
'What about men?' she asked, a pleasant lilt to her voice. 'Are you meeting anyone in here?'
Martin just stared at her, listening to the footsteps behind him as the guard paced away.
'Well, I'm trying, Martin. I really am. I come visit you. I talk to you. I try to bring a little happiness in your life . . .' She waited for the guard to pass, leaning over and hissing, 'Listen, you little fucker! If you hate it so bad in here then tell them the truth. Is that what you want to do? How interested do you think your precious detective would be if she knew that you were just a normal everyday putz who couldn't hurt a fly . . . and of course I love you, Martin. I could never hate you. I hate your crimes, but you will always be my son.'
Martin sighed. The guard had come back. He waited for the man to turn again and head in the other direction. 'Tell me how you did it,' he murmured. 'I saw you in bed when I got home from the massage parlor.'
'Massage?' Her eye twitched as her brain sent a message to raise her eyebrow, only to be told that the Botox had paralyzed the nerve. 'Is that what you want to call it, boy-o, a massage?'
'Handjob,' he sighed. His language had gotten coarse in prison, but then you couldn't see a man pull a shiv out of his rectum and stab another man and still say things like, 'Darn, that was a heck of a move, buddy!'
Evie was silent, her lips curved in a tight smile (though, honestly, after the face-lift, everything was tight). The guard walked away and she said, 'Pillows. You saw pillows.'
Martin leaned forward. She seldom talked about this and he wanted to strike while the iron was hot. 'What about when I came home from work?' he asked. 'You said you had a headache.'
'Your father used to fall for that, too,' she cracked. 'I put the car in neutral and rolled it out of the driveway.'
'How did you do it?' Martin whispered, desperate to know. This was where the scenario always got hung up in his mind. He understood that his mother had driven the Cadillac back to Southern Toilet Supply, but he could not for the life of him see anyone, especially Evie, being able to get one over on Unique. She was much too sassy.
Evie sighed, twisting her pen closed. She glanced up at the guard, who was talking to another prisoner. 'It's her own fault for still being there when I drove up. She was loading her car with UrWay.'
Martin 'tsked.' Office supplies were one thing; urine cake quite another.
'I asked her to help me to the bathroom. I'm an old lady, you know. I need help walking sometimes.' She winked on this last part – an unnecessary flourish, Martin felt. 'When we got inside, I "accidentally" dropped a twenty on the floor and pretended not to notice. I headed for the stall, and when she bent down to pick it up, I clobbered her with the sanitizer.'
'Hmm,' Martin said. Death by FreshInator. It seemed appropriate. 'And the mop handle?'
'It had to look sadistic, Martin. The sexual component is what sells.' She added, 'Besides, who would guess in a million years that she'd already had sex with you?'
'Shocked the hell out of me,' he admitted. 'But, what about Sandy? What did she ever do to you?'
'Who do you think wrote "twat" on your car?'
Martin put his hand to his chest. 'That was Sandy?'
'No, you idiot, it was me – but it seemed like something she would do.'
She had a point. Sandy could certainly take a prank too far.
'I just . . .' Evie shook her head, her voice catching. 'Martin, I just wanted a better life for us. I wanted you to stand up to people. I thought with the "twat" you might . . .' she shook her head, unable to speak. Martin reached out and held her hand. 'You have no idea how hard it is to raise a child on your own. I feel like I didn't give you things that you needed. Tell me what I did wrong! Tell me how to heal you!'
Martin realized the guard had come back. He let go of her hand.
Evie dabbed under her eyes and smiled at the guard until he left. 'I thought you might grow a pair,' she snapped at Martin. 'I thought it might convince you to actually do something with your pathetic, miserable life – but, noooo, all you did was complain. "Wah, wah, somebody scratched my car. Poor me. Nobody loves me." If you had confronted Sandy, we wouldn't be here right now.'
'Are you insane? Confronted her for doing something that you did?'
'Maybe it would've sent her a message that she couldn't get away with teasing you.' Evie made her voice even lower. 'You never understand, Martin.'
Her attacks were starting to sting. 'What don't I understand?'
'Did it ever occur to you that I was doing you a favor by taking her out? It wasn't easy getting her to meet me. I had to pretend that I had found illegal drugs in your sock drawer.'
'Illegal drugs?'
Evie shrugged. 'She had a problem.'
'Really?' Martin frowned. He'd never pegged Sandy for a drug user.
'That's not the point,' Evie snapped. 'I did it for us, Martin, to give us new lives. When I bashed her in the head, I was bashing her for you. I ran over her three times with your car, Martin. One roll for every decade she humiliated you.'
The math added up, but still Martin shook his head. 'It was never about me. You wanted something bad to happen so you could trot yourself out there as the victim. You couldn't make me gay or give me ALS, so you went out and killed somebody. Two somebodys.'
'Martin.'
'The minute I was arrested, you were on the phone with Families and Friends of Violent Criminals.'
'The FFVC has been very kind to me and I don't appreciate your bad-mouthing them,' she quipped. 'And, besides, I could have done something to you – did you ever consider that, genius? I could have poisoned you. I could have stabbed you.' She didn't wait for an answer, which was just as well because he didn't have one. 'I could've whacked you over the
head and made you retarded or ran over your legs with a lawnmower.' She was clearly exasperated. 'Don't you see, Martin? Can't you understand that this way is better, because we both get a second chance out of it?'
Martin threw his hands into the air. 'I give up. I really give up.'
'What is your problem?' she whispered, her voice hoarse. 'Why can't you grasp this basic thing?'
'What basic thing?'
'Is it so wrong to want to be around people? To be cared about? Isn't that why you keep making all those false confessions, so An keeps coming back to interview you?'
Martin crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to look out the window.
'You've got it pretty sweet in here, Martin. You get to read all day. You work in the warden's office doing the books. The other boys respect you, for once in your life.'
She had a point on that last one, he had to admit. Martin was on death row. People didn't mess with him nearly as much anymore (unsurprisingly, no one wanted to have sex with him in prison, either).
Evie pressed, 'You've carved out a nice little niche for yourself. It's much more than you would have if you were still living with me.'
He shook his head, coming to his senses. 'I think it's pretty obvious who's really benefiting. We have televisions here, Mother. I saw you on Entertainment Tonight drinking champagne at George Clooney's villa.'
She smoothed down her skirt, picking an invisible piece of fluff off the cashmere. 'Don't sit there and pretend you're not exploiting your own situation.'
'I'm at least doing some good,' Martin insisted. Some of the crimes he had taken credit for had been unsolved for years. He had read in People magazine that the mother of one of his 'victims' had actually said, on her death bed, 'At least now I know.' Was Martin to be blamed for not killing and raping the woman's daughter? Was it his fault that he hadn't committed the crime? Was it his fault that he would say anything to keep his beloved Anther coming to see him?
Aye, there's the rub.
'Martin?' Evie snapped her fingers in front of his face. She had packed up her legal pad and pen. 'I have to go. I'm meeting with the producers about your movie.'
Martin scowled. He had not approved of casting Philip Seymour Hoffman in the lead.
'Oh, knock that look off your face. Phil's a lovely boy.' She stood up, pronouncing loudly, 'Now, give your mother a kiss goodbye.'
He puckered up and she put first one cheek, then the other, near enough to his lips to pass for affection.
'I'll see you next month.' She wagged her finger at him. 'And you'd better have some good stories for me. Dark fantasies. Uncontrollable thoughts. Seething hatred. You get the idea.'
Martin rolled his eyes. Bob, one of his favorite guards, came over. Martin held out his hands for cuffing, but the man told him, 'You've got a private visitor.'
'An's here?' Martin felt his heart flutter in his chest. 'She didn't tell me she was coming.'
'They've found another body,' Bob said. 'Thirty-year-old prostitute with a meth habit.'
'Oh, I see,' Martin murmured. He specialized in confessing to prostitute deaths – he'd found early on that this particular type of victim tended to have had very little recent contact with their families, which made it easier for Martin to fabricate a nice backstory. He asked, 'Was this on Madola Road?'
'Abernathy,' Bob provided. 'What were you thinking, man?'
Martin shook his head. 'I just can't help myself, Bob. I get these urges.'
'Why the rope?'
Martin struggled for an explanation. 'My father liked to tie knots.'
Bob sighed at the depravity. Martin knew he was working on his own book deal (it was amazing how many people wanted to be writers). The relationship was not altogether one-sided, though. Bob owned a police scanner and was somewhat of a gossip. Most of the details Martin used in his confessions came from the man.
'Let's go.' Bob took Martin's arm and led him out of the room. As they walked down the corridor toward the private rooms used for interviews between lawyers and their clients – and comely police detectives! – Martin felt his pulse quicken. His breath caught as the door opened and he saw Anther sitting at the table. She wore a bright yellow dress and her hair was swept up into a sexy bun.
Martin noted her pretty yellow dress and tried to impress her with his Dutch. 'Het meisje draagt een geile jurk!'
She stared at him, and he felt the skin on his face, wondering if his mother had somehow transferred lipstick on to his cheek without actually touching him.
An said, 'Sit down, Mr Reed.'
He sat.
'We found a body.'
'A prostitute,' Martin supplied. 'A meth addict.'
'She was buried off of—'
'Abernathy Road,' he supplied. 'Have you done something different with your hair?'
She patted the bun self-consciously. 'We found a—'
'Rope,' he said. Why did they always have to go through the motions? 'Tell me about your day.'
'My day?' she echoed, her hand dropping to the table. Martin wanted to reach out and touch her, to caress her gentle hand in his, but the one time he'd tried, An had threatened to Tase him.
Martin spoke openly – prison had made him brazen. 'You know that I am in love with you.'
She gave a sad chuckle. 'Love doesn't pay the rent.'
'Ik wil de hoer graag betalen,' he offered, thrilled at the way the Dutch tickled his tongue.
She sighed again. 'Mr Reed—'
'I'd pay your rent every day!' he repeated, this time in English (he had trouble with Dutch tenses). 'Oh, An, you must know that I adore you.'
She colored slightly. There was an awkward moment between them. Then another, then another, so that it was more like an awkward five minutes before she asked, 'Did you read that book I gave you?'
'The Danielle Steel?' Martin had never enjoyed flowery romances, and prison was hardly the place to show your feminine side. 'Well, yes, of course I read it. You know I would do anything you asked me to.'
'She married a prison inmate, you know.'
Martin did not recall that from the plot at all. He gently corrected, 'Actually, Marie-Ange was already married to the Comte de Beauchamp when she suspected him of murdering—'
'No, Mr Reed. Danielle Steel the author. She married a prison inmate. Two, actually.' An shuffled her folders, her eyes avoiding his. 'Danny Zugelder was the first, and then the day after she divorced him, she married William George Toth.'
'Well, that's kind of strange,' Martin said, wondering how the jet-setting Steel would even meet criminals in the first place. 'I bet her mother didn't approve.'
'Maybe she did,' An said, smoothing down the hair at the nape of her neck. 'Maybe her mother said something like, "I just want you to be happy."'
Martin had heard his own mother say the same phrase often enough, but in his experience what she really meant was, 'Do what I fucking say you retarded twat.'
An said, 'I imagine her mother was probably happy to hear that her daughter was in love.'
'I imagine,' Martin answered, though he did not buy it for a minute. He certainly would not mind Evie hooking up with a homicidal maniac, but if it was someone he truly cared about – Anther, for instance – he would certainly have a great deal to say about . . .
Martin cleared his throat, straightened his prison coveralls. 'Married, you say?'
An nodded, flipping through her file folders again. He saw a photo of a decapitated woman in a trench and quickly looked away. (The crimescene photos were still the worst part of his confessions.)
Martin asked, 'How exactly does that work, I wonder?'
'Well, I suppose that they had the prison chaplain perform the ceremony.'
'I suppose,' Martin agreed, even as he pictured the scene in his mind. An would look lovely in a white dress. Maybe they could get some rice from the kitchen – or better yet, perhaps An could bring some from home. The Latino gang running the kitchen was very stingy, in Martin's opinion. God forbid you should wa
nt an extra roll. He imagined asking for rice would cause some kind of riot. Shivs at dawn!
'Martin?'
He let the word hang between them for a few seconds. An seldom used his first name, and Martin tried to savor every time as if it was precious. Because it was. Because, as vile and hateful as his mother could be, she was right about one thing: the life Martin had in prison was much better than the one he had when he was living under her roof. He was a murderer in here, which actually earned him a modicum of respect. He had his books. He had a job. And now . . . was it possible? Was the dream complete . . . did he actually have Anther?
'I'll never get out of here,' Martin reminded her.
She was looking down, but he could see her smiling at the thought. 'I know.'
'Even if my sentence is commuted, I'll never—'
'I know,' she repeated, looking up at him. 'You'll never be free. You'll never be able to touch me or be with me or . . .' her voice trailed off. 'We can't really get married, Martin. Not officially.'
'Yes.' He could see that now. An was a detective and Martin was a convicted triple murderer (or would be soon. He had another trial coming up in the spring – the evidence was not pretty). They were cat and dog, oil and water, night and day. There were too many things standing between them; the rice alone was a logistical nightmare.
An's voice was soft, lilting. 'No one can ever know about us, Martin. It'll almost be like you're a figment of my imagination.' Her face had colored again, a beautiful shade of red that made the winter-time eczema around her nostrils almost disappear. An asked, 'Do you know what I'm saying, Martin? Do you understand what I mean?'
'Ja,' he told her. And it was true. Martin finally understood.
Read on for an extract from
Karin Slaughter's breathtaking
new thriller . . .
Fractured
A broken window. A bloody footprint. Just the
beginning . . .
When Atlanta housewife Abigail Campano comes home
unexpectedly one afternoon, she walks into a nightmare.