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“Whatever’s needed. If you can confirm Lea is being held against her will, then the authorities will have to take action. This will work. I wouldn’t have spent so much time and energy hunting you down if I thought otherwise.”
I have a sick feeling in my stomach. This is not my area of expertise. I don’t like violence or blood; there’s a reason I work missing persons and not murder cases.
But at the same time, if what Keahi says is true, if her sister really is being held against her will by a vicious and powerful man… how do I walk away from that?
“You’ll do this,” Keahi states.
“Oh, shut up.” I am so done with requests from serial killers.
“You’ll do this,” she repeats firmly. “You help people who are forgotten. My sister is forgotten. But even more importantly, she’s alive. I have proof she’s alive. And when was the last time your search ended with finding the living? Forget about me, you need this win.”
“I fucking hate you right now.”
Keahi grins again, that slow, feral smile that was probably the same one she wore right before slitting the throats of each of her victims. She’s got my number and she knows it.
“Excellent. Then it’s all set. Victoria will get your ticket to Hawaii. You will save Lea. And three weeks from now, when I finally arrive in hell, I’ll dance in the flames knowing my baby sister is safe and sound.”
CHAPTER 3
I WANT TO SEE THIS LETTER.” I’m walking so fast, Twanow can barely keep up. I don’t care. I need out of this prison, right now.
“Of course. I have a copy.”
“You really think her sister is alive?” I pause just long enough to peer intently at the lawyer, then have to get moving again. Honest to God, the walls are closing in.
We arrive at the front, what, reception area? I don’t know the correct penitentiary lingo and don’t want to learn now.
Twanow grabs my arm long enough to get me to sign out, then I’m off again. The first wave of fresh air against my face feels like a celebration. I stop just to savor it. Of course, there’s still heavy fencing, coiled razor wire, and watchtowers marring the horizon. Fuck it, I’m back to moving.
“I have to think about this,” I inform Twanow as I bustle along. I also need to shower, sleep, and eat something other than a candy bar. I feel simultaneously exhausted and wired.
“I stay at a local hotel when I’m in the area.” Twanow scrambles to catch up. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and clean. I took the liberty of reserving a second room for you.”
I halt abruptly. “What is she to you? Why are you doing all this on behalf of a woman who didn’t just murder eighteen men but genuinely enjoyed it?”
“I have no illusions about who Keahi Pierson truly is,” Twanow says quietly. “She’s a cold-blooded killer.”
“But?”
“She still shouldn’t be put to death. Study after study has shown pervasive racial bias when it comes to the death penalty. Just look at Keahi, who’s half Native Hawaiian. Most death row inmates spend decades awaiting execution, while her sentence will be carried out in a matter of years. Have you ever heard of such a thing—”
“Because she pled guilty, waived all appeals.”
“Because she believes she is a monster. And why is that? Would you like me to quote you more statistics on the cycle of violence and lack of social services for marginalized populations? Keahi blames her father for who she is, but I blame society. We failed her, her mother, her sister, and countless others. They were born into a perfect storm of abuse, alcoholism, and poverty. And even knowing what the results of such a childhood will most likely be—another generation mired in abuse, alcoholism, and poverty—we did nothing. Now the state cares about Keahi Pierson. Now the state wants to step in to protect future victims. I say, where was the state thirty years ago, when she needed that same kind of attention herself?”
“Fine.” I resume my beeline toward the parking lot.
“It’s not fine! None of this is fine. It’s tragic. It’s awful. It’s not fine!”
“It’s fucking tragic. Better?”
“Can you just slow down for a minute?”
“No! I need out. And that hotel room you offered. Because I don’t disagree with you. This whole thing… it’s fucking awful.” I feel like I should have something more profound to offer than that, but my mind is too fried for intelligent responses. “Food. Is there a drive-thru near here? I need a cheeseburger. And a milkshake. Chocolate. No, strawberry. No, definitely chocolate. Yeah, take me for food, and maybe I’ll survive long enough for you and your death row client to kill me.”
“I can do that. My car is just over there. You’re going to do this, then? Right? Because it’s going to take most of the day to get to Hawaii, and we don’t have much time left.”
“What kind of name is Sanders MacManus?” I mutter. “Anyone with the first name Sanders has gotta be a douche.”
