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She could hardly stomach the thought. She didn’t know what she’d do if she was once again denied the opportunity to speak with the man who’d been seen driving away from her home on the night of her mother’s murder.
If Dawson catches wind of this, she thought, he’ll have no chance but to reprimand me—probably suspend me, too.
The risk, however, was worth the possible reward of solving the decade-old mystery.
She parked her car in the visitor's lot, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the cool air. She smoothed her hair back, adjusted her coat, and pushed open the heavy double doors. The smell of stale coffee and disinfectant filled the air as she approached the reception desk.
"I'm here to see Rayland Bax," she said, her voice steady despite her nervousness.
The woman behind the counter looked up at her, her eyes warily scanning Sheila's face before dropping back down to the computer screen in front of her. "I'll need to see some ID."
Sheila handed over her driver's license, holding her breath as the woman inspected it, then typed something into her computer. After a moment, she looked back up at Sheila, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "You're clear to go in. A guard will escort you."
Relief washed over Sheila as she took back her ID. “Thank you,” she said. Then she turned as a tall man with a buzz cut and cold, steely gaze approached her side.
"Follow me, ma'am," the guard said with an authoritative tone. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and led the way through the maze-like corridors of the prison. Sheila followed, trying to imagine what it must be like to be imprisoned in a prison like Blackridge, which was known for its harsh sentences and even harsher conditions. The sight of the prisoners, clad in standard-issue orange jumpsuits and confined to their tiny cells, was all the more unnerving.
Sheila never had been one for small spaces; she’d always preferred the openness of a kickboxing ring or a horseback ride across a vast, empty field. Now, though, surrounded by walls and men who’d undoubtedly committed terrible acts, she felt a new kind of claustrophobia creeping in.
Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum as they approached a door labeled "Visitation Room." Once inside, the guard gestured at a grimy, glass-separated booth. She sat down on the hard plastic chair, her gaze fixed on the empty seat on the other side of the barrier as the guard left the room.
Seconds passed, each tick of the clock seeming louder than the last, until finally the door on the other side opened. A tall figure appeared, flanked by two guards. Rayland Bax walked toward her with an animal-like swagger, his eyes glinting under the harsh lights. He had a lean face and unkempt hair that swept across his forehead, and his exposed arms were covered with intricate, overlapping tattoos.
As he took his seat on the other side of the glass, he studied her with an openness that bordered on arrogance.
This might be the man who killed my mother, Sheila thought, her mouth going dry. For years, she'd imagined coming face-to-face with her mother's killer, imagined what she would say and do. But sitting here, separated by a mere pane of glass from the man who might very well be responsible for tearing her family apart, she couldn't conjure anything but a dull sense of unease.
Rayland Bax picked up the phone and nodded at her to do the same.
Sheila picked up the receiver, her fingers numb as she brought it to her ear. She cleared her throat, ready to say something—she wasn't sure what—when Bax's scratchy voice filled her ear.
"Sheila Stone," he said, leaning back in his chair. “I was told you wanted to talk to me. I was also told you were under strict orders to stay the hell away from me.”
Heat prickled along Sheila’s throat. “Yeah, well, I’m not so good at taking orders from the FBI.”
Bax’s smile vanished. “Keep your voice down, would you?”
Sheila glanced around, but it didn’t seem anyone else was paying them any mind. Still, she lowered her voice slightly before responding. "I want to know about my mother. You were there the night she was killed."
A flicker of something—surprise? recognition?—passed across Bax's face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
"You're lying."
He snorted. “Even if I did know what you’re talking about, why would I tell you? You think I like helping the police?”
“You sure don’t seem to have a problem helping the Feds.”
“That’s because they’re giving me something in return. Protection in here, a lighter sentence...what can you give me?"
Sheila bit her lip, her gaze flitting around the unfamiliar room before landing back on Bax. His stare was confident, borderline cocky, but there was a shrewdness there too. A hint that he wasn't just a mindless thug who'd ended up behind bars.
“How about the chance to do the right thing?” she said.
He stared at her blankly for a few seconds. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. One of the other prisoners gave him a curious glance.
"The right thing?" he echoed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oh, that's rich. That's just perfect. The right thing," he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Listen to me, Sheila Stone. You're barking up the wrong tree if you think I care about doing the right thing."
Sheila squared her shoulders, meeting his cynical gaze with a steeliness of her own. "Then what do you care about?”
