She fought down the overwhelming urge to touch his face. “I’m here for the long haul. I really want to help you get parole, and I want to keep our sessions going.”

Carter let his eyes meet hers.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you doubt that. I won’t let you down. You can count on that one hundred percent.”

Kat was surprised at the vehemence of her own words but knew in her heart she meant them. Pound of flesh or not, she was going to help Carter, and no one could change that.

It took a moment for Carter to speak. “Okay.”

They sat for a few moments in silence, neither one of them finding it uncomfortable.

“Are you very nervous about your parole application?” Kat asked eventually after watching Carter put his cigarette out. He shook his head. “Shylock,” she murmured. “As brave as ever.”

“So says Portia,” Carter countered with a smile.

“The most intelligent character in The Merchant of Venice,” Kat said with a flirty undertone.

“Well, she did save Shylock,” Carter responded.

The metaphor was not lost on Kat. She knew Carter saw himself as less because of his life choices, much like people saw Shylock as less because of his religion. The comparison was tenuous, but to Carter, Kat knew, it was very real.

“That she did.” Kat’s eyes landed on his work. “But if we’re talking literary characters, I’m not sure that Portia is the right one for me to be compared to.”

“Oh, no?” Carter asked. “Who were you thinking? The Queen of Hearts from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Hecate from Macbeth?” He snapped his fingers with inspiration. “The White Witch in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”

Playing off his jibes, Kat grabbed her pen, and began to make a shopping list. “No,” she deadpanned. “But thanks for reminding me what I need from the store: axe, cauldron, Turkish Delight.”

“Okay,” he said with a chuckle. “Seriously, who would you choose?”

“That’s easy,” she replied. “I would want to be Walter from Walter the Lazy Mouse.”

Carter looked puzzled. “Not a velveteen rabbit or a spider named Charlotte?”

Kat shook her head. “No. The girls at school used to read those. But for me, it was always Walter.” She turned toward him. “Do you know the story?”

“Tell me.”

“Walter was a very lazy mouse,” Kat began. “He’s so lazy he won’t get up for school or go out with his family or play with his friends, and soon they all forget about him. His family moves away one day while Walter is asleep.”

Carter slumped in his chair, listening intently.

“He decides to look for his family,” Kat continued. “He meets many creatures on his travels, including frogs that can’t read or write. Walter tries to teach them, but, because he missed so much school through sleep, he can’t remember how to.”

For a quick, heartbreaking moment, she heard her father’s voice as he read the story to her.

“Peaches,” Carter whispered.

Sadness weighed heavily on Kat’s shoulders. “My dad used to read it to me when I was a little girl. He used to do all the voices.”

Carter folded his arms on the table. “He sounds—he sounds like a good guy.”

A small smile tugged at Kat’s mouth. “He was. He would say no matter what the obstacles, if I was determined like Walter, I could do anything I put my mind to.”

“And did you?” Carter asked, taking her by surprise.

“Did I what?”

“Did you do whatever it was you put your mind to no matter what the obstacles?”

Kat smiled, embarrassed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

* * *

Carter noticed her eyes go to the wall behind him and cursed quietly.

Time’s up.

Carter watched, trying to feign indifference but silently mad as hell that she had to go, as she started to pack up her belongings.

“I might have a look for that book in the prison library, you know,” he said casually. “Do you think Arthur Kill library would stock children’s literature or is that just wrong on too many levels?”

Peaches failed to hide a smile.

“What the fuck am I talking about? Riley probably has it hidden under his pillow to read on cold, lonely nights. I’ll ask him.”

She giggled and Carter smiled at the sound.

“In all seriousness,” she said, pulling her bag onto her shoulder, “if you do find a copy, would you let me know? I lost mine.” The heartbreak on her face was clear.

“I will,” Carter answered sincerely.

“Hey, Carter,” she called as the guard unlocked the door for her. “Thanks for today.”

He smiled as the door closed slowly behind her. “Anytime, Peaches,” he whispered to the empty room. “Anytime.”

10

Those who didn’t know Eva Lane personally considered her aloof and arrogant. But no one, not even those who disliked her, could deny her strength.

When seven thugs, high on whatever they’d taken that fateful night, had ruthlessly murdered her husband, Senator Daniel Lane, she’d remained stoic and calm in public. She received condolences from voters, strangers, and many of her husband’s colleagues with a smile and a nod of thanks. Everyone had marveled at her composure.

But deep down, she’d been dying. Her heart had been ripped out, leaving a gaping hole that couldn’t be filled with words of sympathy or touches from loved ones.

Daniel had been everything to her and when she was told he’d died, been beaten so violently that his brain had bled, causing a massive stroke, she’d considered taking her own life to be with him. An easy, selfish, and desperate way out. How could she possibly go on living when the only man she’d ever loved was gone?

For weeks after his death, Eva had taken to the bed they’d shared and cried. She’d screamed, shouted, thrown things, hit things, hit herself, but the pain remained. The hole was wide and cavernous, and nothing could staunch the grief every time her eyes opened and she realized her Danny was still dead.

Nothing except her daughter.

Her little Katherine, who’d witnessed the murder of her precious father, who was silent, pale, and desperate for her mother to give her words that would pull her from the grief consuming her so entirely. Eva knew she’d been selfish in her own sorrow, that her little girl needed her, and Eva needed Katherine, too. Yet Eva could barely look at her without seeing her husband. Every movement, mannerism, and look her daughter gave was so much like her husband that, for a long time, Eva could spend only small amounts of time in her company.

It broke Eva’s shattered heart further and contributed to Katherine’s belief that her mommy blamed her for the death of her hero-worshipped father. She should have stopped those bad men, she’d whimpered. If that stranger hadn’t been there, she might have been able to. The anguished “what-if’s” of a nine-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to see her father walk through the door again.

During therapy, Eva slowly began to realize what she was doing to her child. She was devastated when she heard Katherine’s thoughts about Eva’s blame. She also understood how lucky she was that she still had her daughter at all—how close she’d been to losing her, too.

And she would be forever grateful for whatever divine intervention occurred for keeping her baby safe. She had a beautiful, living, breathing connection to her cherished husband—and she would always treasure and protect her daughter, for the rest of her life.

Unfortunately, as well as looking just like her father, Katherine had inherited his determination. She was stubborn to a fault and, once decided on something, she was never swayed. Eva knew that her attempts at keeping her daughter safe were bordering on smothering, but dammit, didn’t Katherine see the risk she was taking?

It pained Eva to see her daughter dismiss her worries so easily. She’d tried relentlessly to steer her daughter away from the path she had chosen, to no avail. She sighed heavily now.