"An actual signature or a stamped signature?"

"I think stamped. But what, are you blaming Joan now? Whether it's signed or stamped, I got no letter."

"As I said, I don't recall approving those two."

"Somebody had to, and you're the only one who processes the approvals. How can you not recall?" Angus's tone hovered at barely civil. "It couldn't have been that long ago. Norris and Bolder, the inmates they replaced, were released a month ago. So if you approved it, you approved it this past month."

"Not necessarily. I line up the approvals before the openings occur. It could have been a long time ago, and lots of paper crosses my desk in a month or two." Machik didn't sound rattled, but he did set down his prisonburger. "I am not certain how it happened, but I will check into that for you."

"For me?" Angus raised his voice. "How about for you? How about for Natalie? How about you're concerned that she could have been killed, or I could have? How about that you care about a legal aid program that's now jeopardized? How about you care about these inmates, for God's sake?"

"I've said I'll look into it, and I will. You have my word."

"Kurt, it's outrageous. It endangered not only us, but everyone, especially since it happened during the riot."

"It wasn't a riot."

"Oh, please." Angus leaned back in his chair. "Don't bullshit me. I was here, and the way it went down meant that neither of us could get out when the lockdown was announced. If Natalie hadn't sent Graf over to where I was, I'd be dead."

"I understand your position and I will address it. I will. I promise. I'll get back to you." Machik turned to Nat. "Obviously, I have yet to get a full report on what happened, and I assure you that as soon as our investigation is complete, we'll supply you with one. Would you like me to send one to your lawyer, too?"

"My lawyer? I don't have a lawyer." Nat felt a kick under the table, coming from Angus.

"You don't?"

"She means not yet," Angus interjected. "And why do you assume I wouldn't sue, Kurt?"

"I know you care about the institution. You've given our inmates a lot of your time over the years."

Angus paused. "Tell you what. I'll give you a written release if you get me that report by the end of the week."

"No can do, Angus." Try.

Machik sipped from a plastic glass of water, which flexed in the center from the pressure of his long fingers.

Nat said, "I have a question. The news implied that the bodies of the inmates and the CO., Ron Saunders, were found in the RHU. But that wasn't true."

Machik sipped more water. "I'm not sure exactly what was reported."

"The article quoted the warden."

"Perhaps he thought that was correct, at that point. I'm not sure when he was interviewed."

"How could he have thought that? I found Saunders's body myself, and it was nowhere near the RHU. It wouldn't be an easy mistake to make, especially not by someone as familiar with the prison layout as the warden." Nat gestured to the wall behind her. "The room they were in would be right on the other side of that wall, if I'm oriented correctly. There would have to be blood all over the rug, maybe even on the walls. I could show you."

"Not today. We're in lockdown, so I can't permit you back there. But I'll tell you, confidentially, that we don't always give a detailed press release, for obvious reasons."

"What reasons?"

"It's for the safety of the community. So we don't set off a panic."

Angus asked, "Don't you think they have a right to know?"

"Frankly, no." Machik stood up slowly. The mood in the room had changed, and Nat and Angus stood up as well. "I do have to get back to work. I'll talk to the warden and let you know."

"When is lockdown ending?" Angus asked. "I have a client with an appeal at the end of the week. I need to meet with him to file his papers."

"Unsure. Call before you come." Machik picked up his plate, his burger half eaten, and shook Nat's hand. "Again, I'm very sorry about what happened to you. I've enjoyed meeting you."

"It's mutual," Nat said, but her lying wasn't improving.

It was Domestic Initiative Night, and Nat stood at the sink in her kitchen washing a bundle of floppy watercress, waiting for Hank. He'd called to see how she was, and she'd said she'd tell him over dinner, but he was running late. She poured chilled chardonnay into a thin crystal glass and slipped an audiobook into the CD player: Frank McCourt reading his memoir Teacher Man. She set the watercress in the strainer, took a sip of cool, tangy wine, and breathed a relaxed sigh as soon as McCourt began to speak, his charming Irish lilt reverberating like Gaelic music in the galley kitchen.

"Here they come. And I'm not ready. How could I be? I'm a new teacher and learning on the job"

Nat gathered wet watercress from the colander, put it in the salad spinner, slapped on the lid, and set it whirling. Each simple task carried her further from weeping widows and prison officials, from razorwire and stab wounds. The salad spun dry, and she took another sip of wine, eyeing the view outside the kitchen window. The cityscape under a curved moon, rocking in a black sky.

She took the dry watercress out of the spinner, arranged it on two white china plates, and scooped a perfect mound of lobster salad on top of each, light on the mayo, with chunky celery and fresh lemon.

She slid a wooden mill from the shelf and ground fresh pepper on each salad, releasing the pungent scent of the peppercorns and adding the finishing touch. She carried both salads to the table and assessed the setting with a food critics eye. Round cherry table. The tasteful glow of two ivory candles, smokeless. Real linen napkins, also ivory. Red chunks of lobster adding just the right boldness. The stage was Revelations About Scary Scratches.

She cleaned up the sink, put away the dishes, and wiped down the black granite countertops until they glistened darkly. She took a self-satisfied sip of chardonnay, finally feeling at peace in the quiet apartment, the atmosphere enhanced by the sensibility of a writer as fine as Frank McCourt. On the audiobook, he was managing to articulate her own thoughts about her profession, though he'd never met her. Which, of course, was the magic of books.

"Honey!" came a shout from the front door. It was Hank, at the top of his lungs.

"TURN ON THE TV! RIGHT NOW! IT'S IMPORTANT!" It was her brother Paul, even louder.

Paul's here? "What's going on?" Nat set down her wineglass, alarmed. Something must be on the news. Maybe about the prison. She crossed to the TV, a silver Samsung on the counter.

"IT'S GOING INTO DOUBLE OVERTIME!" Paul shouted, barreling toward her with Hank, and the three almost collided as the men thundered into the kitchen, racing to the TV.

Babe, where's the remote? Quick!" Hank hoisted his briefcase and gym bag onto the counter, knocking over her wineglass. It shattered upon impact, sending the chardonnay spilling onto the counter and over the side.

"Hank! Be careful." Nat grabbed a paper towel. "Oops. Sorry, sweetheart! Why is it so dark in here? Where's the clicker?"

"FORGET IT!" Paul stood at the TV, punching the Power button.

The sleek TV sprang to life, and a square of supersaturated hues glowed in the candlelit kitchen, flickering frantically as Paul kept hitting the channel changer on the cable box like a video game.

"Don't break the TV, Paul," Nat said, her tone big sister circa 1986, even to her. She pressed the paper towel into the spill, then reached for another to wipe the floor before the wine soaked between the boards.

"HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!"

"All right!" Hank slapped Paul high five, as Nat rose with the wet towels and tossed them into the wastebasket. Shards of thin glass were strewn across the counter, glinting in the candlelight. She'd never get it all up in the dark.