The guards haven’t been kind, but they haven’t been cruel, yet, either. Indifferent. They are indifferent to her suffering, her pain, her desires. She is just another cog in their overflowing machine, another idiot who chose to break the law. Her value to them is yet to be determined—she is famous, after all. There is plenty of time ahead to assess these things.
They come to get her at noon. She is escorted from her cell to the receiving room and left there to sit on the dirty metal stool. Everything here is dirty; though it’s been cleaned, again and again, the stink of raw bleach hangs on every corner like a blanket. Bleach and fear, the prison olfactory. Plus the dirt of a thousand people, grimed into the history of the place.
There is a phone on her side of the Plexiglas, and a phone on the other side as well.
She doesn’t know who is coming to see her. The visit isn’t scheduled, isn’t on the books. Her lawyers usually send word ahead, and they’ve informed her they will come on Tuesdays and Thursdays to discuss her upcoming hearings. The guards tell her when someone else will be coming; she keeps hoping for Jasper, but he’s steered clear. She doesn’t blame him; there is still so much at stake. Sometimes the CBI agents come to accuse her of awful things. This time, there was no forewarning, and she is vaguely curious, but happy for the unscheduled alteration of her day.
She hopes for a moment that it’s Mindy. She’s torn; she desperately wants to see her daughter—yes, daughter, still; she will always think of Mindy as her own—but hates the idea of her seeing her mother behind bars like this.
Those hopes are dashed when the door opens, and a tall, dark, handsome man steps through.
Zack Armstrong has finally come to call.
He sits and stares for a moment, as if unsure what to do, then picks up the phone. She picks up on her end.
“Hello, Zack.”
“Lauren.”
“How’s Mindy?”
He doesn’t answer, and she sighs. “Please, Zack.”
“She’s better. The transplant worked. She has another round of chemo to go, but Oliver is very hopeful. It’s too early to say she’s in remission, but the cancer has stopped growing.”
For a brief moment, she shuts her eyes and raises her head skyward. Thank you.
“Is she still refusing to see me?”
“Yes. Do you blame her?”
“I blame myself. If I hadn’t stopped off to pull Juliet’s plug I would have had time to talk to her properly.”
Zack stares at her. “Are you really crazy, or are you just playing another long con?”
“What do you think?”
She is enjoying the cat and mouse. Everything here has been so dull and gray. She’s not one for torture, but it’s rather fun to watch him squirm.
Not healthy, though. She needs to keep him in check for a little while longer.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. The prison psychiatrist says I’m too impulsive. That I blurt things out without thinking of the effect they might have on other people.”
“I’ll say.”
“Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“Lauren, just cut to the chase, okay? I don’t want to play your games anymore.”
“Fine. Quid pro quo, my friend. I will help you if you help me.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“No? You don’t want to know what really happened? Then what do you want? If it’s within my power, I’ll make it happen.”
“You’re in jail, Lauren. Haven’t you figured out yet that you have no power?”
“Suit yourself. When you’re ready to deal, you come on back. You know where to find me.”
She stands, smiling, and begins to put down the phone.
“Wait.”
Predictable. So predictable, Zack Armstrong. Such easy prey.
“Sit down. I want to hear it. I want to hear it all.”
“No cops, no lawyers. Just us.”
“Just us.”
She leans closer to the Plexiglas. “Just us, Zack. This is going to be our little secret. No pillow talk with Juliet, no late-night confessions to Mindy. I tell you exactly what happened, and you do me a favor. Deal?”
Zack stares at her, calculating the cost.
“Deal.”
“I swore to Vivian I wouldn’t ever tell you this. But considering the circumstances...I suppose she might forgive me now.”
“Are you playing a trick? Trying to get off? Is this some sort of technicality, some plan by your lawyers to prove how insane you really are? If you tell me the truth...”
“I will. I won’t ever say this outside of this room. I will never repeat it, do you hear me? It’s not going to come up at sentencing. I’m willing to pay the price for my actions. This is just for us, to cement the strange tie we’ve always had.”
“How do you know they aren’t listening?”
She leans back, looking around. She has considered this. Are there microphones in the telephones? It’s possible. She will have to be extra careful.
“They aren’t,” Zack says quickly as if he’s afraid he’s chased her away. “I asked. There’s no way for them to record these conversations.”
She lets her shoulders relax. “Good. Thank you for checking. You always were a smart one.”
“Would you stop playing with me and tell me, for God’s sake?”
“All right. Vivian asked me to kill her.”
“Bullshit. Give me a break.”
He stands, and she shouts into the phone, “I swear it. And I have proof.”
“What do you mean, you have proof?”
“She wrote you a letter explaining everything.”
“I know all about the letters.”
“Not this one. No one’s ever seen it. Even me.”
“And you’ve been keeping it safe all this time?”
“Yes, I have. Along with copies of our conversations. In case this ever happened—” she waves vaguely at the room around her “—I needed something to help mitigate the circumstances.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Lauren.”
“Read the letters. You’ll understand everything. I promise.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
She looks at the ground coyly, and then she begins to talk.
91
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
AUGUST 2000
VIVIAN
Vivian sits at the table with a cup of tea, watching Liesel bustle around the house. She has already packed the baby’s things, and really, there is nothing left to do but wait until darkness falls.
It feels strange, counting down the moments until you die.
Of course, she’s been doing it since Zack pulled away. She’d sat on the couch, consumed with a single thought: I need the baby out of me. I can’t take being pregnant another minute. And once she’s out...
The bottle of castor oil was decidedly unpleasant. It, and a few other little tricks, worked to start her labor. She spent the next several long, painful hours running everything through her head, so weary of the blackness, of the sadness.
When her water finally broke, she called her midwife, who hustled on over. She was surprised by the early delivery but winked when she saw the castor oil bottle on the counter. She’s the one who told Vivian to try it when she was to term, after all. She cleaned it all up. Put the house in order while Vivian grunted and moaned.
It was the longest night. The blackest. Vivian feared it would never end. And when it was over, when she was empty, devoid of child, cleaned and stitched and assured the child was healthy, she breathed a sigh of relief. Not much longer.
Liesel, too, now moves about the house, setting it to rights. As she does, they discuss it at length, what would be the easiest way to go, discarding suffocation, shooting, and strangulation. Stabbing is on the table briefly, but Vivian demurs. There is something so awful about the idea of metal entering her body. She already feels violated from the birth; she didn’t want anything else stuck inside her.