Lovegame(110)

She’s wrong. She’s right about so much, right about everything else. But on this one thing, she’s so, so wrong. I’ve never been more sorry—more sick—in my life.

What happened to her that last day—what I let happen to her—in that shell of a house, with her shell of a mother—it haunts me.

The profiler in me knew Melanie Romero was a narcissist from the moment I started observing her at that party. But like so many other mental disorders, narcissistic personality disorder encompasses a wide spectrum of behaviors and varying degrees of severity. And I didn’t realize just how gone she was, didn’t realize—even after I learned about her role in Veronica’s relationship with William Vargas—just how far she would go to cover up her own culpability and reap the benefits of her daughter’s fame.

That was my mistake, and because I made it, Veronica was terrorized, drugged, made to think that she was the crazy one while I did nothing to stop it.

How could I have not seen?

How could I have not known?

Understanding deviants and how they think is my job. More, it’s my vocation. It’s what I’ve dedicated my life to. And yet when it came to Melanie, I didn’t dig deep enough. I saw only the superficial threat and Veronica paid the price.

Is it any wonder she wants nothing to do with me? It’s bad enough that I lied to her, that I tried to use her to get information for the Vargas book. But then I also failed to protect her.

I’m so lost in my head—lost in the sickness of my remorse—that I make it to Huntsville before I’m ready. I have no idea what I’m doing here, let alone what I’m supposed to say to Jason.

Then again, what is there to say to the man whose choices have so brutally affected my own life? The man I’ve spent so many years trying not to be.

I slowly pull into the parking lot for the maximum security unit, park the rental car in one of the last spots. Then I empty my pockets of everything but my driver’s license and car key—the only two things I’m allowed to bring inside the entrance.

And then I just sit in my car for long seconds wondering if I really want to do this. If I really want to walk into that prison and see my brother for the first time since he’s been incarcerated.

I don’t believe you know for one second what it means to be sorry.

Goddamn it. Am I never going to be free from what I did to her?

Fuck it. Just f*ck it. Facing down Jason can’t be any worse than sitting here and dealing with my own demons. My own transgressions.

Now that I’ve made my final decision, I want to get in there and get it over with as quickly as possible. I stow my wallet, cellphone, and key ring in the glove compartment of the car and leave everything else that I’ve got in my pockets—a pack of gum, a random business card, a pen—on the passenger seat.

And then I start the long walk to the front door.

As I walk, I struggle to find the right words, struggle on how to deal with Jason when I see him. I’ve met with a lot of prisoners through the years—when I was in the FBI and even afterward, because of the books I choose to write—and there were very few that I ever had trouble speaking with. But I don’t have a clue what I want to say to Jason.

Maybe that’s because there are no right words. No right way to handle this first—and if I have my way, only—meeting.

I called last weekend and had my name put on the visitors’ log so that check-in would go smoothly—or at least as smoothly as it possibly can when visiting a maximum security prisoner. I give my name at the entrance, wait patiently as the guard verifies who I am and confiscates both my driver’s license and my key. I’ve opted for a contact visit with Jason and in the wrong hands, both of those things can easily be turned into weapons. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told through the years.

After I check in, the guard gives me a pat down more thorough than any doctor’s examination I’ve ever had, and then tells me to take a seat in the empty waiting room while he calls to have Jason brought into the visiting area.

It’s a long wait, but then, I’m expecting that. Once I gave up my FBI shield, everything about prison visitation grew infinitely slower and more complicated. It’s just the nature of the beast.

Twenty-five minutes later another guard appears and leads me down a narrow corridor into a large visitation room. All fifteen tables are empty, so I choose the one in the corner, closest to the window. I could use the sunlight right about now, even if it is being filtered through unbreakable glass.

A couple minutes later, a guard escorts Jason in. He’s not handcuffed, but his legs are shackled and when he sits, the guard secures the shackles to a metal loop in the floor.

Again, it’s just par for the course—guards don’t take chances with maximum security prisoners—but it’s an uncomfortable feeling to see my brother like that. No matter how much I know that he deserves it.

For long moments, he doesn’t say anything and neither do I. We just look each other over—fifteen years is a long time and it seems like it should make a huge difference. But I guess we’re still young enough that that hasn’t happened, because he looks almost the same as I remember him.

He’s still whip-cord lean, with broad shoulders and long, elegant-looking hands, despite his time spent at this work camp of a prison. And while his dark hair is shorter than it’s ever been and peppered with gray, his eyes are still carefully blank. And his attitude is still the biggest thing in the room.