Was he advocating more force? Or attempting to justify how he’d behaved when that fight broke out?

“There aren’t any easy answers.” She wasn’t up for a debate tonight, not when she was so preoccupied.

“Wallace came to the prison, then?”

Unsure how to answer, she stayed as close to the truth as possible. “No. He met the warden for lunch.”

“You weren’t with them?”

“What?”

“I stopped by your office on my break. Your assistant said you’d gone into town with the warden.”

She’d just acted like she wasn’t at the meeting. Scrambling to cover her gaffe, she tried to clarify. “I was supposed to be there, but one of my friends called. She was in the middle of an emergency, so I had to beg off.”

It wasn’t a good excuse. Any meeting with Wallace, especially one in which they left the prison, would be important, making it unlikely that she’d accept outside calls. But she hoped he wouldn’t think of that. For all he knew, she had a friend who was dying of cancer.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then shrugged and seemed to accept her words. “So you have no idea who the other guy was?”

“Nope.”

“Who do you think he could be?”

She wanted to blurt out that it had nothing to do with him but couldn’t without revealing that she knew more than she was saying. Wishing she’d never let him stay for dinner, she finished loading the dishwasher. “No one special.”

“He wasn’t part of the meeting?”

Averting her face, she bent to fill the soap container. “Not that I heard of.”

He leaned against the counter, considering.

“Why are you so worried about this?” she asked. “That meeting had nothing to do with the fight you broke up, if that’s what’s got you going. The warden specifically mentioned the gang problem.”

“I just can’t imagine who that person could be.”

“It’s no fun to eat alone. Maybe he was someone Wallace met at the restaurant and they ended up sharing a booth. For all your sister knows, the guy could’ve been another C.O. She hasn’t met every officer. We’ve done some hiring since she left.”

“She said he didn’t act like a C.O.”

Peyton laughed. “Not all C.O.s act the same.”

“But there’s a certain feel about them.”

“I’m not convinced of that. Anyway, what else could he be?”

“A reporter.”

No one who worked in corrections was ever happy about having a reporter around. Rarely did they heap praise on the system or those who ran it. Unless it was published in the local paper, which was generally supportive, prison articles were almost always steeped in criticism. That threatened change, and everyone feared change—the loss of jobs, the loss of tools necessary to do the job, a cut in funding, a court-ordered oversight. On top of this, John had been involved in an incident the media could easily use to “prove” the abuse so many inmates claimed. He didn’t want to be named in a story like that. No one did.

“What makes you think it might be a reporter?”

“My sister said Wallace spoke in a low voice and kept leaning close. She tried to say hi to him, but he practically ignored her. When she approached, they hurried out.”

“Wallace wouldn’t try to wine and dine a reporter with tacos.” She tried to make a joke of it, but John didn’t even crack a smile.

“Since that judge was murdered, there’ve been a lot of media hanging around. Maybe he was trying to head off another scathing article condemning us.”

If such an article condemned him, he’d probably receive harsher disciplinary action than he would otherwise. No doubt that played into his thoughts. “I’m sure it was nothing, John. Really. Investigative Services is still reviewing the incident. Lieutenant McCalley hasn’t decided yet how he’s going to react.”

“How do you know?”

She faced him. “Because he would’ve told me.”

His mouth rose up on one side. “You’ll put in a good word for me, right?”

This was the reason she didn’t fraternize with the C.O.s. She didn’t want personal relationships to interfere with her ability to be fair. “I’ll review the facts and make sure whatever action he takes is appropriate.”

John didn’t like her response. His smile faltered, but he covered it by acting as if he’d expect nothing more.

A few of the empty food containers were still on the table. More than eager to send him on his way, Peyton motioned toward them. “Get those, will you? I’ll wash them so you don’t have to take them home dirty.”

“Sure.” He walked out, but when he returned he brought only one dish—and her phone.

“Why—?” She didn’t get the question out before he handed it to her.

“It buzzed. So I grabbed it for you,” he explained.

She’d received a text message. From Wallace. Her iPhone gave a short hum by way of notification with every text and automatically displayed the message.

Anxiety pulled her nerves taut as she read what Wallace had sent. She’d just convinced John that nothing unusual was going on, and now he’d seen this:

Skinner’s angry. See if you can settle him down. That woman’s death was his fault, not mine. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t joined up in the first place.

That was easy for Wallace to say. His safety and well-being had never been at risk. Neither had he experienced the same kind of fear, physical pain and pressure Virgil had known—as a mere teenager. But Wallace’s reaction was beside the point. What concerned Peyton was the curiosity that lit John’s eyes.

“Something wrong?” he asked, obviously trying to gauge her expression.

He’d read the text, all right. He also knew it came from Wallace. Her iPhone clearly identified the sender.

“A mutual friend was in a…car accident in which the other driver was killed,” she said. “That’s tragic.”

“Truly.”

Her explanation wasn’t enough. He must have a million unanswered questions. How could the—fictional—driver believe it was Wallace’s fault? Why would he come to her to calm that person down? And what, exactly, had someone named Skinner joined?

John waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Thanks to his sister, he already knew far more than Peyton wanted him to. Slipping her phone into her purse so the same thing couldn’t happen again, she finished the dishes, thanked him for dinner and walked him to his truck with the excuse that she’d brought home a lot of work tonight.

Then she reclaimed her phone and sat in the living room, reading and rereading that message. Skinner couldn’t go inside Pelican Bay. This investigation was already starting to unravel.

14

A blanket of fog covered Highway 1, forcing Peyton to creep around the turns of the snakelike road hugging the rocky coastline. She couldn’t see the ocean to the right, or the towering redwoods to the left. Even when she rode the bumper of the car in front of her, she could barely discern its taillights. But she’d made herself wait until it was late enough that she could approach the motel without fear of being spotted and was relieved to finally be on her way—until she arrived. Once she’d parked around the corner and hurried to Virgil’s door on foot, she grew nervous because she had no idea how she’d be received.

“It’s me,” she murmured, following a brisk knock.

He opened the door, but he didn’t speak. Setting his knife on top of the TV—he’d come prepared in case she was someone else—he stepped back so she could enter.

The warmth of the room embraced her as she closed the door. The television was on, but Virgil wasn’t watching the kind of station most of the ex-cons she knew would pick. What with all the X-rated movies available on pay-per-view in this motel—she suspected that was part of the reason Rick Wallace preferred it—she thought a man in Virgil’s shoes would be taking in as much skin as possible. Pornography was expressly forbidden on the inside in any form, so it wasn’t as if he’d have another chance in the coming months. Instead, he was in the middle of a program about Egypt on the History Channel.