* * *

Marti sipped her coffee and took a deep breath.

  “Well?” I said, my eyes bugging out in a very control-freak-plus-no-sleep way.

Marti, also running on no sleep, twisted up her face and snapped, “I’m getting to it!”

I crossed my arms and legs and sat back.

  “The suspense is killing me.” I said it dryly, but in truth I meant it. I was itching for answers.

  “Ok, ok. So I went up to Dad’s but you remember he had a bad bout of vertigo over thanksgiving that he was still kinda dealing with right?” Yes I remembered.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Well, he had a bad day, kind of a relapse, and he needed to rest and take it easy for a while. But he had some work related stuff that he needed to do. I can’t really say what it was about, but he asked me if I could run some files over to this guy at the county office. Some government doodad no doubt. I didn’t read it or anything, but…” She trailed off seeing my face. “Oh calm down dopey! I’m not wanted for unveiling some government conspiracy! So put your eyebrows back on your face and let me finish.” I complied, chugging some more mocha blend. “So anyways, I was down at the county office and, don’t ask me why, I sort of wandered into the prison.”

  “What the heck?” I was almost on my feet. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Marti’s gaze swept my carpet like a vacuum cleaner. She was avoiding my eyes, just as she was avoiding the truth. “Yes I do.” She looked up at me, her eyes suddenly full of fear and a strange helplessness I’d never detected in them before. “I’ve always wondered who he was. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s morbid and sick, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve always wanted to know his story. Who he was before. How he lived. What lead him there that night. More than that, as awful as it sounds, I’ve wanted to know how he paid, Meg.”

 The thing about best friends is there are times when you can somehow know exactly what the other person is talking about, without any rational clues.

Marti’s face was wild now, and I felt as if we’d been transported into some unreal place or mystical realm. In spite of her bathrobe and unbrushed hair, she looked like a regal queen, tall and majestic, whose soul was tortured by some agonizing pain: a pain that had settled somewhere deep inside, festering and growing until it had finally sprung back into the reachable trenches of her mind.

I shivered.

Who was he?

I knew.

He was the man who killed her mother.