My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(36)

Having forensic evidence from the grave to support her ten-year theory that House had been framed and Sarah’s killer remained at large would do her no good unless she could get the evidence before a judge and get the witnesses back on the witness stand, under oath, and subject to thorough cross-examination. The only way to do all of that was to get Edmund House a post-conviction relief hearing, the precursor to a new trial. They could not do that without House’s cooperation. She hated the thought that she needed House or that her fate was tied to him in any way. During her previous two trips to visit him, House had toyed with her and her fragile emotions. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but she realized it now in hindsight. House had seemingly held all the cards. That was no longer the case. If House wanted a new trial and a chance to get out of prison, he had to cooperate.

The voices of the inmates and visitors seated at the surrounding tables echoed loudly. Tracy checked her watch and looked again to the door. She noticed an inmate lingering at the entrance, eyes scanning the tables. His gray braid hung well past muscled shoulders. She started to dismiss him. He looked nothing like Edmund House, but his gaze found hers and his mouth inched into a “look what the cat dragged in” grin.

“That can’t be him, can it?” Dan said, also looking to the door.

At his trial, the newspapers had likened Edmund House’s thick hair and burning good looks to James Dean. The face of the man walking toward them had broadened with age and weight, but the changes in House’s facial features and the length of his hair was not the most striking change in his appearance. Not by a long shot. The muscles of his neck and chest pressed taut the fabric of his prison-issued T-shirt and pants, as if the seams might burst. Filing appeals was not the only thing House had done to pass his time in prison.

House stopped at the edge of the table and took a moment to appraise them. “Tracy Crosswhite,” he said, as if savoring the name. “I thought you’d given up. What’s it been, fifteen years?”

“I haven’t kept track.”

“I have. Little else to do in here.”

“You could file another appeal.” The prison information network, like the drug and illegal steroid network, was intricate and extensive. She needed to know if House already knew they’d found Sarah’s grave.

“I plan on it.”

“Yeah? What are the grounds this time?”

“Ineffective assistance of counsel.”

“Sounds like you’re reaching.”

“Am I?”

She estimated House to be two hundred fifty pounds of thick muscle. Prison had washed dull the once-sparkling blue eyes, but not the piercing quality of his gaze.

A correctional officer approached. “Take a seat, please.”

He sat. They were separated by just the width of the table. The closeness made her skin crawl, as it had whenever House had looked her up and down in the courtroom. “You’ve changed,” she said.

“Yeah, I got my GED and I’m working toward my AA. How about that? Maybe I’ll become a teacher when I get out of here.” House looked to Dan.

“This is Dan,” Tracy said.

“Hello, Dan.” House extended his hand. Dark-blue letters, prison tats made with the ink of ballpoint pens, ran vertically along the inside of his forearm as thick as a mooring line.

“Isaiah,” House said, catching Dan’s focus on the tattoo. He kept his grip on Dan’s hand and rotated his forearm so the words could be read.

To open the blind eyes,

to bring out the prisoners from the prison,

and them that sit in darkness

out of the prison house.

“Proper English would have been ‘those that sit in darkness,’ but I don’t question the writer,” House said. “Dan have a last name?”

The correctional officer stepped forward again. “No prolonged contact.”

House released Dan’s hand.

“O’Leary,” Tracy said.

“Dan have a tongue?”

“O’Leary,” Dan said.

“So what brings you here, Tracy and friend Dan, after all these years?”

“They found Sarah,” she said.

House arched his eyebrows. “Alive?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t help me. Though I am curious, where did they find her?”

“Not relevant at this moment,” Tracy said.

House tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “When did you become a cop?”

“What makes you think I’m a cop?”

“Oh, I don’t know, your whole demeanor, your posture, the tone of your voice, your reluctance to introduce friend Dan or provide information. I’ve had a few years to make some observations. You’ve changed too, haven’t you, Tracy?”

“I’m a detective,” she said.

House grinned. “Still hunting for your sister’s killer; any new leads you’d like to share?” He turned to Dan. “What do you think about my chances on my latest appeal, Counselor?”

At Tracy’s instruction, Dan had dressed down in blue jeans and a Boston College sweatshirt. “I’d have to review your file,” he said.

“Two for two,” House said. “Watch me go three for three. You already have, and you agree. That’s why you’re sitting here with Detective Tracy.” He looked at her. “They found your sister’s remains and something about the crime scene confirms what you and I discussed all those years ago. Someone planted evidence to frame me.”