Lucas glanced at his watch and nodded. “In-processing is between eleven thirty and noon, so I should be fine.” He patted down his pockets, making sure he had his wallet and phone. “You’ll call me if you need anything . . .”

“I still think it’s crazy, you interacting with this guy,” Selma said. “Doesn’t it freak you out?”

“Why would it freak me out? He’s locked up.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She scrunched up her nose at a thought. “He’s just, you know . . .”

“I know. But that’s why people read this stuff. You get all the details from the safety of your own home.” He grabbed his keys off the counter only to stare at the plastic U-Haul emblem attached to them. Oh, shit! The Maxima was sitting somewhere in Seattle. He had meant to pick it up last night while returning the rental truck, but then the thing happened with Jeanie. And then he ended up on the phone with the prison and spent the rest of the day frantically putting together interview questions. The car had completely slipped his mind. “I am such a fucking idiot,” he muttered to himself. An extra day with the truck would cost him. An extra few hundred miles on the odometer would cost him even more.

Selma held her keys aloft, dangling them from a well-manicured set of nails.

“No.” Lucas shook his head. It was his oversight. He’d pay the extra fee if he had to. But Selma made a face at him, the kind Caroline used to show when he was turning something small into a big deal. “Just go. It’s rude to be late, even if your date is sitting in a supermax.”

He hesitated, still considering a refusal. But if he didn’t make it to Lambert on time, he’d miss his appointment, and that would be a hell of a lot worse than a few rental truck fees. He grimaced, squinted, and finally grabbed the keys from her hand.

“I’ll fill her up,” he promised.

“You better,” she said with a grin. “Have fun in prison.”

Lucas flashed her a goofy smile and bounded out of the house.

15

THE SUPERMAX PRISON was tucked into the far corner of a town called Lambert, a small place with a main drag, a handful of stoplights, and—Lucas guessed—a population that was either employed by Walmart, McDonald’s, or Washington State’s Department of Corrections. He sat in Selma’s Camry with the window rolled down, her double-cherry air freshener having spurred on a mild headache just behind his eyes. Studying the notes and questions he’d scribbled onto a yellow legal pad, he felt more nervous than he thought possible. Might have to visit the bathroom before the interview, he thought. Or puke up my breakfast to be able to think straight.

He had felt the same way when Jeff Halcomb’s letter had arrived in his mailbox, forwarded by his former publisher to his home address. He hadn’t heard from St. Martin’s Press in years. When he spotted their emblem on the corner of an envelope among a pile of bills, he had done a double take. His mind reeled at the possibility; did they want him back? Had they realized, after so many years of separation, that they had made a mistake by letting him go? Wouldn’t they have called if that were the case? He’d shoved the rest of the mail back in the box before tearing into the envelope, but rather than his old editor apologizing for not renewing Lucas’s contract, there was a smaller envelope inside marked “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL” in block letters. This one sported a prison mailroom return address.

Receiving a handwritten letter from Jeffrey Halcomb had been one of the most surreal experiences of Lucas’s life. He had read it, then read it again, then ran inside to show Caroline only to stop short of the front door. It was the demand that Lucas move into the house on Montlake Road that made him hesitate. If Caroline was privy to that particular ultimatum, the project would be over before it ever had a chance to begin. Moving into the Montlake house was both a weird command and a crazy idea. But just holding that letter in his hands gave him such a pang of inspired hope for the future that it seemed just as insane to refuse Halcomb’s request as it did to oblige it.

Now drawing that letter out from his bag, Lucas pulled in a breath as he reread the correspondence he had put to memory weeks before. I just don’t know, John had said. In all my years in the business, I haven’t ever had a client receive an offer like this. It feels off, Lou. It feels strange. Bullshit, it felt lucky. It felt like Lucas Graham had just won the true-crime lottery. All he needed to do was collect.

He shoved his legal pad into his messenger bag, closed his eyes, and took a moment to steady his nerves. Coming off as anxious or unsure around a master manipulator wasn’t the best idea. He needed to control the situation, and insecurity wouldn’t cut it. “You are Lucas Graham,” he murmured. “You can do anything.” But it rang hollow, as if it was a hard sell.

Halcomb had already convinced Lucas to move to Pier Pointe. It had taken no effort. If Lucas said no, Halcomb would go somewhere else. It didn’t matter if he claimed to be a fan of Lucas’s work. If Lucas didn’t want the gig, a thousand other writers would clamor at the opportunity. Lucas could already see it, walking by the display window of a Barnes & Noble, some other writer’s book about the Halcomb case stacked halfway up to the ceiling. Cardboard displays toting it as the most incredible read since some guy had discovered the Zodiac Killer had been his biological dad. And that’s where Lucas would stay—outside the book store—exiled first by his wife, then by his daughter, and finally by his choice to not take a chance. Doomed by his decision to play it safe.

The prospect of talking to a figure that represented everything that was wrong with the world was dazzling. Jeffrey Halcomb’s trial had dominated the airwaves for most of ’83 and the first quarter of ’84. Unlike Charles Manson, who talked to anyone who’d listen, the world had largely forgotten about Halcomb because he had chosen steadfast silence. And unlike Manson, who insisted that he was innocent, Halcomb never made that claim. Judging by the trial footage, it appeared that Jeffrey Halcomb was completely satisfied with having convinced eight young Americans to take their own lives.

And then there was Audra Snow and her baby. There were the deaths of Richard and Claire Stephenson, almost certainly Halcomb’s doing, despite the prosecution not having enough evidence to convict. Other names had come up during Halcomb’s trial as well, names of drifters that had been found across various western states. Someone had killed a young San Luis Obispo family in their backyard in the late summer of ’81. Knifed just before Christmas of that same year, an elderly couple was found dead in their Fort Bragg home. A midtwenties drifter was discovered naked and hog-tied along a hiking trail just outside of Tillamook. All the drifter’s possessions—including his clothes—had been stolen. If he hadn’t bled to death, he would have frozen during that first week of January 1982. All instances placed Halcomb in or around Pier Pointe during the Stephenson kill.

But despite the jury’s suspicions and the prosecutor’s insistence, none of the other cases stuck. If there were any witnesses to the Stephenson case, they had died in the house on Montlake Road and Halcomb certainly wasn’t going to fess up. Not that writers hadn’t begged for interviews. Jeffrey Halcomb had been as in demand as Charlie for the first few years of his incarceration. Reporters had clamored for a chance to talk to the silent cult leader for nearly a decade, but Jeff refused. Interest eventually waned. As far as Lucas knew, this was the first time Halcomb had agreed to an interview since he’d been locked up.