Dead Secret

Jodie let her gaze fall away, the question floating between them. No one knew for sure what Momma Ruth had done. If ever anyone asked, she’d say it didn’t matter; she’d done a terrible thing and now she was paying for it, and that was as it should be.

She’d tried to teach Jodie the same acceptance, but Jodie already knew she could endure her prison sentence. It was the loss of Abby she couldn’t live with.

She flashed another glance at the clock. Only five more minutes to go.

Nate drew up beside them, on her way to the sink with a jar of brushes. Her freshly buzzed hair made her look like an army recruit.

‘Jesus, what the fuck is that?’

Momma Ruth flapped at her to go away. ‘You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t need any of your smart-ass comments.’

‘Hey, come on, try me.’

Momma Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, it’s us. Our choices and mistakes.’

‘It’s a fucking mistake alright. Looks like a giant fingerprint.’

To Jodie’s surprise, Momma Ruth looked pleased.

‘You can see that?’ She glanced at Jodie. ‘It’s what I was aiming for. You know, like our mistakes are hard-wired into our DNA? Like we don’t really have any choices.’

Nate made a face. ‘Fuck, that’s depressing. You believe that crap?’

‘I believe I would have ended up here no matter what, yes. Because of who I am. Wasn’t in my blood to make different choices.’

‘Well, I got choices. And I choose to call that bullshit.’ Nate banged her jar on a nearby desk. ‘And I choose to dump these brushes with you, because I ain’t fucking cleaning them.’

She stomped back across the room, and when she’d gone Jodie said, ‘Is that really what you believe?’

Momma Ruth got to her feet, her eyes on a level with Jodie’s. ‘Think about it. About what you did. If you had the chance to do it over again, would you really do anything different?’

Jodie stared at her, and for an instant, she was back in Ethan’s car: his gaze challenging hers in the rear-view mirror, watchful, twisted.

‘I picked a pretty spot … she didn’t wake up once.’

The air rushed out of Jodie’s lungs. She clenched her fists, her whole body.

She’d kill him again in a heartbeat.

Mrs Tate clapped her hands. ‘Time’s up, ladies, start clearing away.’

Jodie’s pulse picked up. The whole room seemed to move at once. Desks and chairs chirruped against the floor, easels clattered. Jodie fumbled with jars and tubes, working hard to stay calm, while the other women queued up at the sink. They straggled out to the corridor in dribs and drabs, until finally only Jodie and Mrs Tate were left.

Together they tidied away the last of the mess, clearing the counters and stacking the desks and chairs in a corner. Mrs Tate looked tired. She thanked Jodie briefly, then led the way out of the room, Jodie following her as far as the door. There she hung back, watching as Mrs Tate took a left down the corridor.

Jodie scooted a look around. Then she quick-stepped back into the art room, reached up into a cupboard and retrieved the plastic mannequin.

Her fingers were shaking. She twisted the head to detach it at the neck, at the same time moving closer to the tray of tweezers Mrs Tate kept for jewellery-making. She’d need them to prise out the cotton wad of pills from inside the hollow doll.

‘Garrett!’

Jodie froze. Her gaze snapped to the door. To the scowling, heavyset officer standing on the threshold.

Groucho.

The mannequin seemed to scorch her hands.

But Groucho’s eyes weren’t on the plastic doll. He jerked his chin in the direction of the corridor.

‘Let’s go. You got a visitor.’

5 (#ulink_7b731eb2-ca29-5218-ac1f-5daba6325445)

‘If it’s my lawyer, I don’t want to see him.’

Jodie trudged down the corridor after Groucho. From behind, he looked bulky with protective gear, his heavy leather duty belt creaking with every step. He spoke over his shoulder.

‘This guy’s no lawyer. He’s a real live human being.’

Jodie frowned. ‘But I didn’t sign any visitation form. I didn’t ask to see anyone.’

‘Got the paperwork upstairs, your signature’s on it.’

‘That can’t be right.’

‘You saying it’s a fake?’

Jodie’s step faltered. Visitors had to be approved by inmates in advance, with a signed form submitted to the Department of Corrections. She hadn’t signed one, but the niggling in her gut told her she knew who had.

She trotted to keep up. ‘This visitor, is it a guy called Novak?’

‘You should know, you put his name down on the form.’

‘Is it him?’

Groucho relented. ‘Yeah, it’s him.’

Shit. Matt Novak. The reporter who’d written to her, asking for an interview; the guy Dixie kept urging her to see. Dixie, who was locked up for falsifying cheques and counterfeiting identification documents; who could copy a signature after seeing it only once, in Jodie’s case probably from the painting Mrs Tate had brought in to show the class.

Groucho swung round to face her, his belt clinking with keys and cuffs. ‘Do we have a problem here? You saying the paperwork’s not legit?’

Jodie took in the grumpy lines of his face, the pouches under his eyes. The guy had a tough job. The first to unlock the inmates in the mornings, he usually took the brunt of everyone’s resentment. Jodie let him do his job, never gave him any lip. In exchange, he wasn’t above bending the rules, often letting her stay longer in the art room than she should. But rumour had it he was close to retirement now, and Jodie guessed he wasn’t about to risk his pension by breaching major rules.

She dropped her gaze, then made herself shrug, sidestepping the fuss that would only get Dixie into trouble.

‘The paperwork’s fine. I guess I just forgot.’

He gave her a long, penetrating look. Then, with a quick glance around, he stepped up closer and pointed a finger at her face.