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LEEWOOD FOLCRUM

I NMATE 82145

Another week passed, and then, like clockwork, Tim was back. This time, instead of fast food, he had the guards deliver me a soft padded lunchbox with apple slices, two grilled-cheese sandwiches, and a large chocolate chip cookie.

I stared at the food. “This is different.”

“It’s my lunch. I didn’t have time to go anywhere.”

I picked up a grilled-cheese sandwich and studied it. “Your mom pack your lunches for you?”

“That’s hysterical.” He hunched forward and met my eyes through the dusty glass. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say I do believe what you told me last visit—that you didn’t do it.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” I repeated as I unzipped the plastic bag and pulled out the grilled cheese. Grilled-cheese sandwiches had always been my favorite hangover remedy, and I had a sudden and painful memory of my daughter, on her stool by the stove, carefully flipping the bread over in the pan. She’d made the best grilled-cheese sandwiches.

“Wally Nall believes you. You seem to believe yourself. But you got to admit, the circumstances are impossible.”

“They seem unlikely,” I conceded. “Not impossible.” I examined the sandwich, which seemed like a gourmet version of what Jenny used to make.

“So there has to be a piece that is missing. Something that makes the unlikely circumstances more probable.”

I shrugged and took a bite. It was good. Crispy but not hard. The cheese was more than I liked, but it was pretty damn good.

“So, what’s the missing piece? What are you hiding?” He studied me. “And why?”

“Let’s look at this a different way.” I spoke through another bite. “You’ve been meeting with me because you wanted to know the ... the motivations and justifications? Was that it? Of a killer?”

He gave me a pained look. “What’s your point?”

“Well, that’s why you said you were here. And if you do ‘hypothetically speaking’ believe me, then you accept that I’m not a killer. So I’m not really of any help in your project.” I shrugged, taking another big bite, the sandwich now half-gone. “No reason to talk to me.”

“Not being a killer and being innocent are two different things. Are you saying that you’re innocent?”

No, I certainly wasn’t saying that. I ignored the question. “You’re evading the question. I think that you are hiding your own secrets, Tim.”

He sighed and shook his head, muttering something I couldn’t catch.

“So, why are you really here? Why do you need to know the truth so badly?” I tilted my head and peered at him. “Is this just a research project for you? Or do you have a more personal interest in the crime?”

He scoffed, but the gesture felt weak. Wrong. My gut, which rarely steered me wrong, coiled tighter than a cobra.

I’d been blowing smoke, trying to distract him, but it felt like I had hit pay dirt, and that made me very, very nervous.