Morales shrugged, as if suddenly reluctant to talk. “Yeah, I mean, it’s part of the job. He’s okay. Quiet, but I’m sure you know that, right? Him not giving anyone interviews or anything. He doesn’t cause too much trouble.”

“You know about his refusing interviews?” Lucas asked. It was interesting that a guard would be privy to that sort of information. How well did Morales know Halcomb? “Are you on one-on-one terms with him?”

Morales squinted, uncomfortable with the question. For a moment, Lucas was sure he wasn’t going to get a reply. Eventually, Morales shook his head and spoke. “Nah, man. I mean, the guys in here, some of them are good people, you know?”

Lucas furrowed his eyebrows at the sentiment. The way it had come out of nowhere, it seemed to him like Morales was justifying something.

“But nah, I’m not one-on-one with him,” Morales clarified. “I’m not one-on-one with any of them. That whole setup seems like a bad idea, you know? I just work here.”

Lucas wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t press the issue.

There was one more cage to go through before they reached the visitation cell—three in all, rendering the daydream of escape impossible. As they waited for the final buzzer to allow them inside, Lucas cleared his throat and pulled on the hem of his button-down shirt.

“You’re nervous,” Morales observed, then shot him a crooked smile. “Don’t worry, we haven’t had a homicide in here in, like, years; just a few instances of aggravated assault.”

“Great.” Lucas smirked at the vote of confidence.

“Nah, no worries. You’ll have two guards in there with you. They’ll Taser him in two seconds if he tries anything.” Except physical violence wasn’t the real danger when it came to Jeffrey Halcomb. His acts of violence were never fueled by anger, and that was, perhaps, what made him so dangerous. Every move Halcomb had made to get him to this point in his life had been strategic. The man had lived out his life as the king in his own game of chess.

“So, you really think this is a good idea?” Morales asked, pausing at an open door, the visitation room just beyond it. “You know he’s got . . . like, voodoo in him. Why else would all those people have done what they did?”

L.A. Mexican-American. A mother who Hail Mary’d on the phone. Whether it was stereotypical or not, Lucas couldn’t help but imagine paintings of Jesus Christ and Our Lady of Guadalupe decorating the walls of this guard’s childhood home. There was no doubt the Morales clan went to church every Sunday, celebrated Easter as ornately as Christmas, and believed that their destiny was in the hands of God. And where there was an unshakable faith in the Almighty, there was also an intrinsic fear of the devil. Officer Morales looked put-together. His uniform was freshly pressed and his badge was as shiny as a cowboy’s gold star. But underneath it all, he was his mother’s demon-fearing son. Lucas could only imagine how well regarded he was in his circle of family friends. He was, after all, protecting the world from God’s exiled angels.

“You don’t think Jeffrey Halcomb is good material for a book?” Lucas asked. “He can’t reach out and grab you through the page.”

“Yeah, but the dude had a lot of followers. He still does. You should see the amount of mail he gets, and what do all those letters say? I mean, what are people writing to this guy about? Don’t you ever get worried?”

“What, about stalkers?” Lucas gave Morales a smile. “Don’t you ever get worried about your occupational hazards, jail breaks and cafeteria brawls?”

Morales stared at Lucas for a long moment, as though he’d just been asked the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “Yeah, actually.”

Of course he does, Lucas thought. His mother probably brings up the dangers of his job every time he calls home.

It was then that one of Morales’s fellow officers came around the corner and met them with an upheld hand. The name on his badge read “M L EPERSON.” He was a big guy, probably a good fifty pounds overweight, a John Candy look-alike with the body of a forty-year-old and the face of a toddler. Sweat beaded around Officer Eperson’s temples despite the air blasting down on them from overhead. His uniform was a size too small, the buttons on his shirt holding on for dear life. Either Eperson had had too many Krispy Kremes or his wife had shrunk his uniform in the wash.

“I’m coming from Jeffrey Halcomb’s cell,” he told Morales, then turned his attention toward Lucas. “Afraid the inmate has canceled on you, Mr. . . .” Eperson waited for a name.

“Graham—and what the hell are you talking about?” Lucas gaped at the prison system’s Pillsbury Doughboy, waiting for the punch line. The receptionist had warned him to call in advance. He had been told that either prison administration or the inmate could cancel a visitation at any time, for any reason. Yet Lucas had stupidly considered himself immune to that possibility. It wasn’t supposed to happen. He and Halcomb had a goddamn deal.

“Yep.” Eperson shrugged, looking more penitent than necessary. “Sorry to say, but Halcomb’s got a reputation for saying one thing and doing something else. When you made your appointment, the receptionist should have told you to call two hours ahead—”

“She did,” Lucas cut him off with a murmur.

Eperson and Morales exchanged looks, then Eperson cleared his throat and gave Lucas a regretful smile. “To be fair, seems that calling wouldn’t have done much good here anyway. It looks like everything was fine until I went to retrieve him. That’s when he told me he’d changed his mind. There isn’t anything we can do if an inmate refuses to take a visitor. They’re in prison, but they still retain the right to privacy.”

“Great,” Lucas said. “Fantastic.”

“It’s not all bad,” Eperson insisted. “Apparently, Halcomb sent something up to the front desk for you. A consolation prize.” Morales exhaled a laugh at Eperson’s joke, but Lucas didn’t find it funny.

Maybe it was an apology; a Hallmark card reading “Gotcha!” on the inside flap. Lucas frowned and glared down at his legal pad of questions. This was bullshit. He wasn’t some run-of-the-mill visitor. He’d moved his entire life for this opportunity. Halcomb had given Lucas his word.

Except Halcomb hadn’t actually promised, had he? The sudden realization that Lucas had imagined Halcomb’s letter as some sort of ironclad guarantee made his entire body sizzle with weariness. But why would Halcomb say one thing and do something completely different? What was the point? Maybe he was bored. The thought spiraled through his head like a paper airplane in the wind. Maybe he was fucking bored and he decided to screw with someone. That someone just happened to be me. Because how did a master manipulator get his kicks if it wasn’t by messing with people’s minds? Who better to target than an author who was guaranteed to salivate at the mere thought of interviewing a criminal who hadn’t breathed a word to the media before now? Goddammit, I should have listened to John.

“Fuck.” The profanity slid involuntarily past his lips. The guards seemed to shift their weight around him, as if hesitant to break the silence. Eperson finally did.

“Josh, uh . . . you want to lead Mr. Graham back up to the front?”

“Sure thing,” Morales said.

Eperson gave his comrade a nod and pivoted on the soles of his boots, marching back to wherever he had come from.

Lucas stood motionless for a long while, his eyes fixed on the yellow paper that had turned crinkly beneath the ink of his ballpoint pen. He had spent all night on those questions and notes, pressing down hard enough to make the back of the paper bumpy like Braille. Yesterday, he was sure he was a day away from correcting his downward trajectory, so close to fixing his screwed-up life. Now, he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. Because despite Halcomb upending their deal, Lucas was sure one thing in that letter was set in stone: Halcomb’s deadline. I won’t reveal the significance of the date or deadline, so please, don’t ask. Lucas had two weeks left to make the connection. Two measly shots left to get to Halcomb before the whole thing was called off, if that hadn’t already happened. Fuck him, Lucas thought. I’ve done what he’s asked. He’s going to talk to me whether he wants to or not.