Page 11 of Death Row
“Kemper?”
I lift my head at the sound of the female voice coming from behind the door to my cell. It sounds like Rhea. She must have pulled the night shift.
“Kemper? Are you awake?”
I crawl out of bed and stumble in the direction of the door. “Yes,” I say, although my voice is even more hoarse than usual. My throat feels painfully parched. I’d sign a confession for an extra glass of water with my meals. “I’m awake.”
“I just wanted to tell you,” Rhea says in a whisper, like she doesn’t want the other guards to hear her, “I looked into that man you were interested in. Found out who he is.”
I am suddenly wide awake. I forget all about my sweat-soaked clothes and the rat that is almost certainly scurrying around my cell. “Who is he?”
“He’s a chaplain,” she says. “His name is Richard Decker. Father Decker.”
A chaplain? I suppose that makes sense, especially given the way he was dressed. But it also doesn’t make any sense at all. He lookedso muchlike Noel. The fact that he’s a chaplain might explain why he was in the prison the other day, but it doesn’t explain the similarity in appearance. It doesn’t explain thefeelingI got when our eyes met.
“Could I see him for a visit?” I ask her.
There’s a pause behind the door. “Yes. I can arrange for Father Decker to give you your last rites once they move you to death watch.”
Death watch. When there are three days left before my execution, I will be moved to death watch in preparation for the final event. It is not something I am looking forward to.
“My understanding,” Rhea says, “is that he has performed last rites before for other death row inmates.”
Everything she is telling me strongly indicates that Father Decker is exactly who he says he is. He is a chaplain who councils inmates and offers last rites when they are needed. The thought that this man could be my dead husband is almost too ridiculous for words.
Yet, I can’t stop thinking that’s exactly who he is.
“Please set it up,” I croak.
“I’ll do that,” Rhea says softly. “I think it will give you peace.”
I want to look that man in the eyes. When I do, I will know exactly who he is.
Chapter 11
Before
How could I have been so stupid? I’ve wanted so desperately to trust Noel that I’ve missed every blatantly obvious sign that he’s been cheating on me.
The perfume, for one. After I smelled it that one time, I became attuned to it, and every time he came home, I sniffed him and realized healwayssmelled like that perfume. It’s been a week, and every single time he goes to “work,” he comes back stinking of eau de slut.
There’s also, of course, his constant absences. And the lack of interest in sex. The first couple of years we were married, we were hot and heavy. And even after that, Noel was always up for it if I was.Always.It’s only in the last six months or so, right when his “work schedule” has ramped up, that he has complained about being too tired.
I have spent most of the last week driving myself crazy. I even took a day off from work and parked outside the building where Noel works, determined to follow him, the same way I did with Franklin when I suspectedhewas cheating on me all those years ago. I had been so furious with Franklin—I was planning to go postal on his beloved car with a Louisville Slugger. But the cute boy with the infectious grin who taughtme how to hawk phlegm into a Diet Coke kept me from doing anything rash.
There’s nobody like Noel to stop me now, so I spent the day sitting outside his building in my car. He never left once, which made me realize that if he is cheating, it must be with someone he knows from work. Do they do it in an empty lab? A supply closet?
It’s five o’clock now, and I’m sitting on our living room sofa. I’ve got a paperback copy ofThe Nantucket Restaurantby Pamela Kelley in my hand, and even though I was devouring it last week, I haven’t managed to read even a sentence since smelling that perfume. Noel has promised he will be home for dinner, and he seemed to really mean it.
As I shift on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, something crinkles beneath me—it sounds like a piece of paper. I reach under the cushions, searching for the source, and come up with a small scrap of paper. It’s a receipt.
I peer at the fading print on the receipt, from a local jewelry store. The last four digits of our credit card number were used to purchase a fairly expensive necklace. Since the receipt was dated well over a week ago and there are no anniversaries or holidays coming up that he might be holding on to it for, it seems that if it were meant for me, he would have given it to me already. No, I strongly suspect the recipient of this intended gift has already received it.
Maybe she’s wearing it right now.
Howdarehe? Noelneverbuys me jewelry, and certainly never anything this expensive. Apparently, I’m not worth it. Butsheis.
This isn’t really happening. It can’t be. Noel wouldn’t cheat on you—this must all be a terrible dream.
