Page 11

Present Day

I wake up with a jolt, an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve been dreaming about Noel every night recently, but this is the first dream I’ve had that took place after I found out that he ... well, you know.

It’s not a time I want to think about. I certainly don’t want to dream about it. It’s bad enough that my days on death row are so miserable—I used to look forward to escaping into my dreams. If those dreams turn into nightmares ...

I sit up on my flimsy mattress, noticing that I am covered in a layer of sweat. It’s very uncomfortable, but I have no change of clothes within my cell. So I just need to deal with the discomfort. That annoying beeping sound is also going off somewhere in the prison, which may have been what wrenched me from sleep. There’s no end to the torment I have to endure in this place.

On the plus side, at least there isn’t a rat in my bed.

“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 looked so much like 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 the feeling I 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.