Page 7 of Death Row
Rhea finally pauses for a moment, turning to look at me with barely disguised annoyance. “What is it, Kemper?”
“That man—the one visiting that other inmate—he’s ...” I swallow, trying to moisten my sore throat. “I think he’s my ...”
How am I supposed to say this?I’m pretty sure that man in the visiting area is my dead husband.
Yes, I recognize how that would sound.
Rhea sighs heavily. “Spit it out or start moving.”
“He looked like my husband.”
That gives her a moment of pause. Her somewhat scruffy eyebrows inch upward. “Your husband that youmurdered?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I ... I mean, yes, that husband. But I didn’t murder him.”
She smirks at my assertion.
“He looks a lot like Noel.” I shuffle my shackled feet. “Alotlike Noel.”
“But your husband is dead,” she points out. “And he didn’t have an identical twin, did he?”
He did not.
“Who was that man?” I press her.
“Hell if I know.” Rhea grabs my arm, clearly weary of this conversation. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your cell.”
As far as Rhea is concerned, the matter is concluded. But I keep thinking about that man all the way back to my cell, and I don’t stop thinking about him, even when I fall asleep that night on my crappy mattress with Pat the Rat staring at me through the darkness.
Chapter 7
Before
I’ve had three glasses of wine tonight, and I’m starting to feel it.
This is the first party Noel and I have thrown in close to a year. After he finished his postdoc, he got a job at a pharmaceutical company, and even though he warned me that the workload would be more than we were used to, it’s been rough.
But Noel says it’s worth it. Not just because of the money, but because he’s working on a medication that’s really important.Not just one that prevents male-pattern baldness,he’d said, although I personally think those medications are important too. (Thankfully, Noel—now in his early thirties—doesn’t need them yet.)
Anyway, it’s nice to have friends over at our house. It’s a Saturday night, and we’re young and not yet burdened with children (although Noel has been talking about the latter more and more lately). Why not spend an evening making slightly tipsy conversation with friends and strangers?
In fact, I’m going to have another drink.
I’m reaching for the bottle of rosé that’s on the table I set up with the wineglasses when my good friend Kinsey joins meand reaches for her own glass. She and I used to have lunch together at least once a week, but somehow we’ve gotten out of the habit. Noel isn’t the only one who’s been busy lately.
“Having fun?” Kinsey asks me.
“Oh yes.” I tip the wine bottle to fill the glass nearly to the brim. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re slurring, Talia,” she giggles.
“No, I’m not!”
“You totally are.”
Am I? Oh well. The nice thing about throwing a party at your own house is you don’t have to worry about driving home.
“So.” Kinsey seizes the bottle of rosé and pours her own glass. I don’t know how many she has had, but she looks very sober. “How is your handsome husband?”
