Ashley felt sick and scared. She hoped that Coleman was exaggerating. She couldn’t believe that Casey could be that cruel. Ashley was also tempted to confront him and ask why he had followed Casey to Portland if she was that awful. Of course, she knew the answer to that one. He wanted Casey’s money. And she didn’t confront Coleman because she owed him her life.

“That sounds awful,” was what she did say.

“It was the worst experience I ever had,” Coleman said. He had a faraway look in his eyes and an odd tone to his voice that made Ashley think that he was telling the truth.

“Well, kid, I wish you luck. You’re gonna need it with that bitch for a mother.”

“That’s one bitter man,” Ashley said when Coleman was out of earshot.

“You’d be bitter too, if your shot at millions of dollars just went down the toilet,” Jerry said.

“It has,” Ashley answered, “and I’m not bitter at all.”

Jerry threw his head back and laughed. “You are one amazing woman.”

During the walk across the parking lot to his car, Jerry seemed preoccupied. When they were ready to leave the lot he didn’t start the engine right away.

“What’s wrong?” Ashley asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just been thinking. You have to pay rent every month on that apartment, which is an okay apartment, but not that great. And I’ve got this house I’m living in that’s really too big for one person.”

Ashley stared at Jerry for a moment. Then she frowned. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Yeah. That’s what I was getting around to.”

“For a lawyer, you can be pretty inarticulate at times.”

“So?”

Ashley leaned across the seat and kissed her attorney. “I’d love to shack up with you, Jerry.”

Two guards led a heavily manacled Joshua Maxfield into the contact visiting room. The smaller of the two guards jammed his baton into the prisoner’s ribs to prod him forward, even though it wasn’t necessary. The other guard said nothing. Maxfield knew that it was no use protesting and maintained a stoic silence.

Eric Swoboda, Maxfield’s new attorney, unreeled from the plastic chair on which he was sitting. He was basketball-player tall, with a weightlifter’s neck and a defensive lineman’s girth. His head was huge and his jaw jutted out like a granite shelf. They had already met when Maxfield was arraigned on escape-and-assault charges stemming from his attack on Barry Weller. In light of what he’d done to his last attorney, Maxfield suspected that his new attorney’s physique had been the main reason that the presiding judge had appointed him. Joshua hoped that the behemoth’s brainpower was commensurate with his size.

The guards left the visiting room, but another guard stood in the corridor and watched the attorney-client meeting through the window. Swoboda started to offer his hand but stopped when he realized that Maxfield’s hands were chained in a way that made it impossible to extend them more than a few inches.

“Looks like they got you trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey,” the lawyer said.

“I would appreciate it if you could get the court to ease some of its restrictions,” Maxfield answered in a reasonable tone.

“I’ll try, but don’t get your hopes up. Everyone gets real uptight when your name is mentioned.”

Maxfield looked down, a shy smile on his face. “I guess I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Say, before I forget,” Swoboda said, “I read A Tourist in Babylon.” Maxfield looked up expectantly. “I don’t read much fiction, but I liked it.”

“Most people did,” Maxfield said, smiling with relief.

“I heard that the book won a lot of awards.”

“Yes, several,” Maxfield said proudly. “It was a national bestseller, too.”

“You wrote another book, didn’t you?” Swoboda asked.

“The Wishing Well,” Maxfield answered, his smile ebbing.

“I hear it didn’t do as well as your first book.”

The smile disappeared. “The critics were too stupid to understand it, so they panned it,” Maxfield answered bitterly. “The pack always tries to bring down someone who has risen too high, too fast.”

“How come you waited so long to write a new book?”

Maxfield colored. “Writing can’t be rushed. I’m an author of serious fiction. I don’t churn out potboilers. I’m not a hack.”

“The DA included a copy of your new book with the discovery. I read a little of it. It doesn’t sound that high-minded.”

“You have to understand what I am trying to do. My book is an exploration of madness. How does the human mind really work? How can a man look normal, marry, have children, and appear to be just as sane as you or I, yet have a demon within him that compels him to commit unspeakable acts? That is what I am exploring, the depth of the human soul.”

“Yes, well, Delilah Wallace thinks you’re describing murders that you committed.”

Maxfield’s fists clenched. “I am an artist. Artists use their imagination to create on paper a world that is as real as that which exists around us. If she believes that what I’ve written is real, I have succeeded as an artist. But the crimes in my novel are the product of my imagination. If I actually killed those people it would be a betrayal of my art. My book would be no more creative than a reporter’s account of a traffic accident. Don’t you see, I could never do what she is suggesting? It would be a complete betrayal of my craft. I am innocent of these murders.”

“I talked to Barry Weller. He says you claimed you were innocent right up until the minute you coldcocked him and stole his clothes.”

Maxfield flushed. “How is Barry? Not still mad at me, I hope.”

“You hope in vain. Every time I mentioned your name I had to listen to a string of swear words I didn’t know you could hook together in one sentence.”

“I’m sorry I hurt him, but I was certain I’d be convicted if I went to trial. I needed time to find the evidence that would clear me.”

“And did you?”

“I know who murdered Terri Spencer and tried to kill Casey.”

“Let me hear it,” Swoboda said, trying hard to keep from sounding sarcastic.

“Randy Coleman. He’s Casey’s husband. If she dies before the divorce becomes final, Coleman inherits millions. That’s why he tried to kill Ashley Spencer. As Casey’s daughter, Ashley will inherit a substantial portion of Casey’s estate. With her dead, Coleman gets all of it.”

“Coleman says that he stopped you from killing Miss Spencer.”

“He’s lying. It’s the other way around.”

“Who do you think a jury will believe, Coleman or the man Ashley Spencer saw standing over Casey Van Meter holding a bloody knife?”

Maxfield started to answer the question, but he realized how lame any protest would sound. His shoulders slumped and he sagged on his chair.

“And why would you want Ashley alive?” Swoboda asked. “Her testimony can put you on death row.”

“As long as Casey is in that coma I need Ashley alive.”

“Why is that?”

“Miles wants to pull the plug on his sister and Coleman needs her dead so he can inherit her money. Ashley is the only person who wants to keep her alive.”

“Why is keeping Casey alive important to you?”

“She’s the only one who knows what really happened in the boathouse. She’s the only witness who can clear me. You’ll see if she ever comes out of her coma.”

Swoboda smiled. “She has. That’s why I’m here.”

Maxfield looked stunned.

“Casey Van Meter came out of her coma yesterday. Delilah Wallace called me with the news. She was at the nursing home this morning.”

“Did she tell them I didn’t do it?”

“Right now Ms. Van Meter isn’t saying anything. I guess she’s pretty groggy.”

“When are they going to question her about the boathouse?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be notified when they do.”

“That’s great. She’ll tell them I didn’t kill Terri.”