All the Dark Places(69)

“It’s nice to see you.” He smiles again, his mouth a dark hole of missing teeth.

I draw a breath. My voice wavers. “It’s not nice to see you, Keith.”

“Then why did you come?” His voice grates. “No one comes to see me, now that my mother’s dead, except my miserable brother when the mood strikes him.” A shadow passes across his face, and he shakes his head like a dog might.

“It’s not a social call.”

His eyes—a light amber brown, all that remains of his physical self that hasn’t changed—bore into mine. Then he drops his gaze to my left arm, and I instinctively cover the spot under my sleeve with my right hand. I hear him chuckle and curse myself for falling into his trap. He’s looking for his mark, the brand he carved into my tender flesh with his pocketknife all those years ago. KR. He marked me as his possession.

When I was a teenager, Corrine took me to a dermatologist, whose laser treatments reduced the scar to a few faint ripples on my skin. But both Keith and I know it was there. I feel my breath flutter, catch in my chest.

“They might let me out, one day,” he says, nibbles a fingernail.

“I doubt that.” He’d been given life without the possibility of parole.

He only nods. Then leans forward. “I didn’t kill Indie,” he whispers. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

I grip the edge of the table, and the room swirls around me. I feel his sour breath on the back of my neck, the pain from thick strong fingers, pinching, shoving me into the dirt of the cellar floor. The burn of the knife on my flesh. The guard coughs, and I’m back to the present. My eyes settle on Keith’s hands, locked together by the handcuffs at his wrists. They’re not the same. They are thin and knotted, as if arthritis has rendered them useless. I take a deep breath and look him in the eyes.

“Tell all the lies you want,” I say quietly. “No one will believe you, and no one will ever hear you.”

He leans back slightly. “Someday, Melinda.”

My breath catches again, and I clear my throat. “My husband is dead, Keith, so any thoughts you had about speaking to him, being in his book, that’s all gone. He’ll never write to you again. He’ll never speak to you.” My voice is rising, and the guard gives me a look. I settle back into my chair. “You can’t hurt me anymore. You took away my childhood, Keith. You hurt me down to my soul, but I’m here to tell you that you’ve . . . lost. I’ve won. I’m not only surviving, but I’m flourishing. I’m living a good life.” Maybe not yet, not completely, but I will. When I walk out of here. I will live a good life. I clench my hands into fists.

“You’re a nothing, Keith Russell. You’re in here behind these walls for life, and I’m going to walk away. I’m going to get into my car and drive back to my wonderful life.”

He shrugs and glances at the guard. “But the past can never be changed, Melinda. And I might just write a book about those three days. I can’t profit off it, that’s the law, but I can write it. Tell the truth.”

My heartbeat kicks up again, and I fight to catch my breath. “My husband won’t help you!” The guard makes a move toward the table, but I sit back, fold my hands, and he retreats.

Keith shakes his head. “What husband? I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about.”

I blink my eyes. “He wrote to you. My husband. He’s writing a book, and you said you’d talk to him.”

“You’re crazy, Melinda. You know that?” His lips curl, and he leans forward. “You come in here, all high and mighty, but you’re still a little girl who likes to tell tales.” His sour breath wafts over me.

“You wrote to him! I read the letter.”

He snorts. “I haven’t written a letter in years. I got my hand broke in a fight. Can’t even hold a pen.” He flexes his right hand as if to prove his story. I watch the gnarled fingers stretch and then shrink back into a useless claw.

My breath stops. “You didn’t write to my husband?”

“Shit, Melinda. I didn’t even know you had a husband. Why would I?”

The letter had been handwritten, the writing neat and completely legible. My heart pounds. He’s telling the truth. Jay never wrote to him. Never asked to interview him. I let go a long breath, lean back in my chair.

The room goes silent, and I close my eyes. I hear the clock, which sits high on the wall, softly ticking. I look at the guard, and he nods slightly, as though he’s on my side. “I’m done here,” I say to him. He unlocks the door, and the other guard is standing there to walk me out.

I sit in my car in the parking lot and look at the winter sky. It’s gray, but the sun is up there somewhere. I feel weak in a good way, like you feel after a workout. Jay never contacted Keith. My heart swells. And Keith Russell can’t hurt me anymore. He’s paid a steep price, as he should have, for what he’d done to me and Indie, and he’ll never get out.

I start my car and drive out onto the street. The only thing that still lingers in a dark place in my being is the fact that someone out there, some unknown person, is trying to scare me. Would go to the trouble of calling me, harassing me, wrote me that letter. Someone who knows me well. Knows what was going on in my life, and that Jay was writing a book.