“I’m fine, Sean, honestly. I didn’t sleep much because I was doing some research, that’s al .”
“Research on what?”
“On Jerome Pierce. The sheriff. You seemed to think that Prosper might be afraid of him. I guess I wanted to learn more about the guy.”
It was true that she’d been doing a little research, though she was, of course, lying about her motivation. The question in Hannah’s mind was whether Pierce, like her, knew more about Dandridge than was admissible in court. Was he someone she could approach? Could he be an al y?
“Yes. Don’t forget that he beat a confession out of Dandridge. He was definitely motivated. Three weeks had gone by with no arrest and no suspect. The local papers were ful of it. Sarah Fitzhugh— wel , she was this nice young mom. And the fact that she was raped and murdered in her own home while her kids were there. God.
Everyone was scared and everyone wanted something done.”
“So you’re completely convinced that Pierce set up Dandridge?”
Hannah asked quietly. “You don’t think there’s any chance at al that he kil ed Sarah?” She thought she knew what Sean was going to say, but he surprised her.
He frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t say that I absolutely one hundred percent believe that Dandridge is innocent. What I believe is that there is no evidence that he did it. So either he didn’t do it and was set up by a police force that needed a scapegoat—and Lord knows we’ve seen that before—or he did do it and somehow the police found out but by some magical method they can’t share it with any of the rest of us. Right now I personal y think it’s much more likely that he didn’t do it and that’s he’s entirely innocent.”
“Okay.”
There was a silence for a moment before Sean broke it.
“So what did you find out?”
“Sorry?”
“About Jerome Pierce. Your research,” Sean said.
“Oh,” Hannah let out a shaky laugh. “Nothing. Social media stuff.
Jerome Pierce, former high school footbal player. Married to Mindy Rawlings, former high school cheerleader. They had three children, al of whom are grown up now. Jerome is a member of a bowling league. Mindy has a popular hair salon. They go to church on Sunday. Just lovely, upstanding people. At least . . . at first glance.”
Sean gave her a half-smile of sympathy. “Wel , I guess we’l just have to try to unpick that a bit, won’t we?”
“Right.”
Sean kept talking, but Hannah couldn’t find the words to maintain her side of the conversation and eventual y they lapsed into silence.
She stared out of the window and watched the countryside fly by, bringing her closer and closer to the Greensvil e prison and her meeting with the man who had everyone fooled.
LAURA
DIARY ENTRY #10
Wednesday, November 16, 1994, 10:30 p.m.
It’s getting dark when the taxi pul s up outside Tom’s family home. I can’t see the house from the road. There’s a six-foot-high wal made from cut limestone, and a gated entrance. Through the gate I can see a driveway winding its way around ornamental trees. The gate is closed. I think about walking away then and there, but I’ve come too far, I’m too desperate and angry and determined to let my fear stop me now. Stil , when I step out of the car my legs feel weak. The taxi pul s away as I press the intercom button and I wish I could cal it back. The intercom has a camera built in—you can see the lens. The sun has dipped below the horizon and it’s almost dark, but a security light comes on as I wait, and I’m sure that whoever is in the house can see me clearly.
“Can I help you?” It’s a woman’s voice. Clipped. No southern drawl here. I take a breath.
“My name is Laura Rokeby. I’d like to speak to Mr. and Mrs.
Spencer, please.” I don’t know who I’m talking to. If it’s a housekeeper she might ask me if I have an appointment or what my business is, and if she does I’m planning on saying that I’m a friend of Tom’s and I have something important to discuss. It might be Tom’s mother. For al I know she might already be cal ing the police.
There’s silence for a long, long time. Too long. Then there’s a buzz and the gate swings open.
Just walking the driveway takes ten minutes. The house is enormous. I don’t take much of it in. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on getting where I’m going. There are steps up to the front door and I count them as I climb. She opens the door before I have a chance to ring the bel or knock or anything. She’s very beautiful, blond, patrician looking, elegantly dressed in loose tailored pants with a high waist and a silk blouse. She’s clearly not the housekeeper. She looks me up and down and I feel like she has the kind of laser focus that can see right through me. She doesn’t hesitate.