Amelia’s mind was gone. She was locked away in a padded cell, a killer who would never see the light of day again. His father, or the man he’d thought was his father, was dead. He was alone for the first time in his life and at a crossroads. He was Boden Jensen. Clean slate. His own man.
He started the car, listening to the purr of the engine, breathing in the new-car smell. He was normal, not the son of a devil. He’d been corrupted, but he could change and grow and become new. Niles Jensen, his real father, had wanted him, looked for him. He’d missed out on knowing him, having that love, and he couldn’t get that back, but maybe there was family somewhere? Cousins, a grandmother, connections? He’d start there. He’d find his family.
He put the car in gear and drove away without looking back.
CHAPTER 83
Silva walked down the hall of the prison’s psychiatric wing on her way to room 333-A. Locked ward. The place for the hardened psychotics, the dangerous ones, the ones who, if given half a chance, would gouge your eyes out with a ballpoint pen and smile about it afterward. She wanted to see the woman who’d tried to kill her. For a moment, she stopped in the hall to press her fingers into the tender flesh at her side. It still hurt. She still had to turn a special way and breathe a little differently, or she’d feel the tug, the strain of what the knife had left behind. But after many months, she was healing. She had a reason to look on the bright side of things. Twins. Bodie and Amelia Morgan.
Silva stood in front of the metal door of 333-A and slid back the small door used for observation purposes. This wasn’t Westhaven; Amelia was too sick, too dangerous, too unrepentant for that. It had taken Silva every ounce of pull she still possessed to gain access to her prize, here, behind locked doors. But she had needed to see Amelia again. Face her.
Inside the small, barren room sat Amelia dressed in a pink prison jumpsuit, her hair a mess of tangles. She sat on the narrow bed, rocking, staring out of the slit of a window at a piece of sky. Medication had stabilized her to some extent, Silva had been told, but her psychosis was severe, her mental injury profound and likely irreversible.
“Hello, Dr. Silva,” Amelia said, though she hadn’t turned when the little door opened. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Silva smiled, a thrill of triumph snaking up her spine. “Hello, Amelia. We have so much to talk about.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to my village of lifter-uppers and kick-in-the pantsers who keep me pushing forward when the weeds get deep. That village includes my writing family in Crime Writers of Color, Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime who prove that though writers write alone, they don’t have to struggle alone. Together we’re better! A profound thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall, and to my new Thomas & Mercer peeps, editors Liz Pearsons and Clarence Haynes, as well as to the entire T&M team. I hope we’ll do great things together. To the wonderful folks at Dana Kaye Publicity—Dana herself, awesome, and my fantastic publicist, Julia Borcherts—who are as passionate about my work as I am, thank you. For technical assistance, I give my thanks to Detective Gregory Auguste and retired Detective Keith Calloway, Chicago Police Department. I hope I got most of the police things right. I asked a lot of questions, but I’ll likely ask more for the next book, too, so also thank you in advance.
The writing life is difficult. You’re never really sure you’re doing it right. Luckily, at every point along my journey there seemed to be someone there who kept me writing, kept my eyes on the prize. To all those angels who turned back and stuck a hand out or offered sage advice and words of wisdom, or even just an encouraging smile, thank you. I honor your kindness and your time by paying it forward.
And a special thank you to my mother for instilling in me the joy of reading. I wouldn’t be here without that. And no one could have exhibited better humor at having to read Green Eggs and Ham more than a million times to me at bedtime. I think I absorbed the sound of sentences from Dr. Seuss. Rhythm. Symmetry. The flow of the words. Thanks, Mom! All my love.