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LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

I NMATE 82145

Leewood,

My daughter caught a butterfly the other day. She brought it to me, cupped in her hands, then cried when she realized that she’d accidentally broken off one of its wings.

What was your daughter like, Lee? Were you close to her? Did you love her? Can a man like you love? If so, what does that look like? Does it look like a knife cutting open her skin? Does it look like a dead stare? Does it sound like a beg, a plea, a scream of pain?

I don’t know how a man like you ever got married, but I understand why your wife numbed herself with drugs. At least her death protected her from finding out that the man she loved was a monster.

I’ve looked at photos of the two of you, and I do believe that she loved you. There are some photos that make me think that you might have loved her too. I’ve enclosed one here, not that you deserve it. I hate to even extend this kindness to you, but I hope that it reminds you of the innocence of love and I hope you repay this favor with one of your own and tell me what happened that night. Tell me why. Then I’ll stop bugging you. Or I’ll keep writing you. Whatever you want, Leewood. Just tell me before you die. Please, I’m begging you.

I took the photo out of the envelope and looked at it. It was one of me and Jessica, in the parking lot of the plant where I used to work. I was in my electrician coveralls, standing by the back bumper of the red Chevy I drove back then. She was holding a foil-wrapped casserole and wearing a big smile. I turned the print over and wondered where my pen pal had gotten it. It looked like something he had just printed off a computer, so maybe this was floating around the internet.

God, I remembered those casseroles. My favorite was her broccoli-cheese-rice one. She’d bring them to me on the nights I worked late, and I’d share them with the other guys on shift. She was a good cook. A good woman.

I rose and walked over to the sink, carefully wedging the photo into the framed edge that surrounded the mirror. I had a few other photos there—one of Jenny’s old school photos and a couple from my other pen pals. It didn’t seem right to have Jessica’s photo next to some half-naked whore, so I removed the more risqué ones and dropped them into the trash can beside the sink.

I caught my reflection in the small square mirror. It had been a while since I had taken a look at myself. In a place like this, looks don’t get you anything except the sort of attention you don’t want.

Now I took my time and examined my reflection. My beard was full and wild. Normally, I’d visit the barber and have it all buzzed off when it got to this point, but it wasn’t bothering me, so I’d leave it. I couldn’t imagine dying with bare cheeks like a young tart. I winced at the realization that I would never again see a girl’s bare legs. Touch her cheek. Feel her tremble.

That, out of all of it, was the worst thing about dying. The realization that the final pleasures you experienced in life were done without the proper appreciation.

I might have been dying, but I didn’t look that bad. The beard hid the weight loss in my cheeks. I was pale, sure. A little weak around the eyes. But did I look like a walking corpse?

I didn’t think so. Which meant Tim Valden hadn’t just “figured out” I was dying. Someone had told him, and it damn sure wasn’t me. He didn’t look or seem like a man with connections inside this joint, but then again, you never knew what you were dealing with when you had a smart adversary—and he was smart. I could tell that. Not just book smart ... he also had a bit of calculation going on in that head. A wolf can recognize a fellow wolf, and while Tim might never be on trial for murder, I was beginning to suspect his visits to me weren’t altogether professional in nature.

Just tell me before you die. Please, I’m begging you. The words of my pen pal—the blonde’s brother—chimed in my head, reminding me that there were a few other people whom I had shared my diagnosis with. Him. A few of my female fans. Almost all the fellow lifers knew. It wasn’t exactly a secret within these walls, which meant that maybe it had gotten through them. Maybe it was all over the internet. Maybe everyone knew and Tim Valden wasn’t special.

I rubbed my fingers across the prickly hairs of my mustache and then bared my teeth, checking them in the mirror.

Something felt off about Tim Valden, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.