In any case, I’d never met the real flesh-and-blood Michael Bale. Not in his entirety. I’d seen little sneak peeks of him whenever the guards were rude to Clear or me; dark, chilling flashes that made my hackles rise. Yet, he was allegedly a model prisoner.

A couple of hours later, we were driving through the extensive wire fences of the prison and pulling up in the parking lot. After going through security and being patted down, we were buzzed through. The hallway didn’t lead us farther into the building. It led us outside. We past well-kept gardens as we made our way over to yet another building, where we went through an additional security check.

After being buzzed through a continuous number of doors, we eventually reached the visitation room. It had always made me think of a high school cafeteria, only it was dull and plain, smelled of metal and cement, and was patrolled by guards. Apart from the tables, there were a few vending machines which contained candy, crisps, fruit, and sandwiches. There was also a row of non-contact visitor booths pressed up against a glass partition wall.

Women, men, and children sat around the tables. Some looked anxious, others looked excited. Clear was the latter, whereas I always kept my emotions in check. I’d let her live in her bubble, but I wouldn’t feed her fantasy that we were a normal, happy, loving family. There was nothing at all normal about our situation. Nothing at all normal about sitting opposite a sociopath while he smiled at you like you were his very own angel sent straight from heaven.

My skin chilled. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to leave. Go home. Eat cake and ice-cream until I was so full I could burst.

I frowned at the sticky stain on the table. God, would it kill them to actually clean the tables? It wasn’t exactly rocket science. I was pretty sure I had a pack of wet wipes in my purse. That should—

“Honey, you okay?”

I blinked at my mother, snapping out of my must-clean daze that was always brought on by nerves or stress. “Fine.”

At that moment, the prisoners were brought in. Dressed in his usual bright orange shirt and blue pants, Michael glanced around. Finally spotting us, he smiled. Pretty much all the inmates smiled, clearly grateful to be out of their cells.

Clear was instantly on her feet. She hugged Michael hard, and he kissed her cheek. He was good-looking, charming, and likeable. It was easy to see why Clear had fallen for him.

“You look good, sweetheart,” he told Clear. His pale blue eyes then slid to me. “Kensey, baby, it’s been a while.”

I didn’t stand. “Hi.” I gave him a small smile, thinking it fucked up that I was both grateful and resentful of the fact that—though it was twisted in some ways—he made Clear happy. That was something I’d never been able to do on my own. And an unhappy Clear was a self-destructive Clear.

Still smiling, he settled on the chair opposite us. “I love getting visits from my girls. Tell me how things have been going.”

I let Clear do most of the talking. He held her hand the entire time, but he didn’t ask for mine. Never did. He knew I struggled with the whole thing, and he seemed to respect it. Or maybe he didn’t push me for fear that I wouldn’t come at all.

He’d once told me that he wasn’t upset with me for finding it hard to love and forgive him, because it showed that he and Clear had raised me right. “Raised” wasn’t a word I would have used.

Clear patted his hand. “I need to use the restrooms. I’ll be right back.”

As she walked away, Michael’s head tilted. “Something’s troubling you, my Kensey.”

Not wanting to waste what time we had alone, I said, “I need to know if anyone has written to you or been to see you who asked questions about me or showed any kind of interest in me.”

“Questions?” His brow creased. “What sort of questions?”

“Personal questions. Or maybe they just mentioned me …?”

He drummed his fingers on the table. “Why would you ask me this?”

Knowing that he’d only be straight with me if I was straight with him, I told him about Smith.

His eyes narrowed and briefly blazed with something dark that made my skin prickle, but his expression didn’t otherwise change. “You should have come to me sooner.” His voice was low with a slight edge of menace.

“Has anyone mentioned me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. But I doubt he’d play such a game with you. An author by the name of Noah Linton wants my story. He’s not like many of the people who come here to interview me. For him, it’s not about the scoop. It’s not about the crimes that put me here. It’s the psychology of the situation that intrigues him.”

“The psychology of it?”

“He knows that I’m what you’d call a model prisoner. He wonders if marriage and fatherhood somehow rehabilitated me. Wonders why someone so seemingly normal as your mother would commit herself to me. Wonders how it must be for you to have me as your dad; how that would affect and shape a person. In that sense, he wants to profile us, which means finding out everything he can about us. He doesn’t really see us as people. We’re subjects to be viewed, considered, and examined. But not toyed with, so I don’t think he’s Smith.”

“Finch contacted me and Mom, asking for an interview.”

“I thought he might,” muttered Michael, expression darkening.

“Is there anyone else?”

He shook his head.

I chewed my inner cheek. “Someone who fits Ricky Tate’s description went to Redwater, posing as someone I’d met in a club and trying to milk people for information about me.”

Michael’s eyes again flared for the briefest moment. “As you may remember from Ricky’s letters to you, his syntax is atrocious, and his word range isn’t very wide. Does Smith show such weaknesses?”

“The grammar could be better, and there’s a lot of repetition when it comes to wording and phrases. There’s also a lot of slang and clunky sentences, like someone talking as opposed to writing.”

“Ricky’s quite the fan of slang.”

“But you’re not convinced it’s him,” I sensed.

“He’s very impulsive. Childish. Simple-minded. It’s difficult to imagine him coming up with the idea of taunting you this way, let alone having the patience to carry out such a plan. But it’s not impossible that it’s him. And if he poked around Redwater, fishing for information, there must have been a reason for that. It could simply be that he was hoping you’d do exactly what you’re doing now and tell me about it—then he’d have my attention.” Michael fell silent as Clear came out of the restrooms, but she went to a vending machine. “Are there any other people who you think might have done this? One of the Buchanans, maybe?”

“I really don’t know. If one of them somehow discovered I was a writer, they’d be more likely to expose the information to fuck up my life than to play games with me.”

“I agree. I’m guessing you haven’t told your mother any of this.”

“She’d worry.”

He nodded. “Yes, she would. We’ll keep this to ourselves for now. You may need to tell her at some point.”

He was right, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. “Ricky gave you his address so that you could reply to his letters, right?”

“Yes, but I didn’t keep his letters and I can’t recall his address. I do remember that he lives in Jacksonville with his mother. Don’t go looking for him, Kensey. Be smart.” He might have said more, but then Clear neared.