Page 23 of I’ll Be Watching You

“Liz, whatever she saw or said, maybe someone thought . . . maybe they did something.”

“That’s not a full thought, Mom.”

“I don’t have a full thought in my head!” Her voice cracked. “I’m sick with worry. About your father, about you, about holding this family together.”

I glanced at her. “We’re okay. Except for Dad being in prison.”

She was hiding something. The secrets and half-truths were making me mad.

I bit back the angry words running through my mind when I saw the pain in her eyes.

What the hell was going on?

Ten minutes from the prison, she asked, “Are you bringing Cal to the wedding?”

As calm as anything, as if we didn’t just argue.

“If we’re still together when I get the invite, sure.”

“I thought you liked him.”

Clearly, Mom wasn’t completely listening, because my tone should have told her I was joking. “I do. I already told him to save the date.”

“Oh. Good. I like Cal. You deserve someone who appreciates you. Jack’s lucky to have Laura. She’s been so good for him.”

“She’s great,” I said, hating this conversation. This was Mom’s coping strategy: focus on the future to avoid the present.

When we arrived at Eyman, we showed our IDs at the guard gate and I parked as close as I could get to the visitor entrance. I checked my firearm with the guard because Mom didn’t have a lockbox in her car, and I wasn’t about to leave it unsecured under the seat.

“Morning, Mrs. Angelhart. Margo,” he said. “Visiting hours haven’t started yet, but I’ll see if we can get you in early.”

“Thank you, Bob,” Mom said with a tight smile.

The guards all knew Mom used to be a prosecutor, and my dad was a model prisoner. Generally, if you followed the rules and were polite, the guards were happy to bend the rules a bit. We were always nice to the guards—even the ones who were jerks.

We moved through a set of locked doors into the sterile waiting area. Metal chairs lined the walls. A corner held toys and worn children’s books. Two very young boys played quietly, their mother watching with hollow eyes. A man sat alone, staring blankly ahead. A couple sat near each other, holding hands like lifelines.

Weekends were busier. On a weekday morning, the quiet usually relaxed me. But not today.

The door opened. Everyone turned.

“Visiting starts in ten minutes,” a tall, broad-shouldered guard I recognized said. Tony Zanutti. He was almost always here when I came to visit. To us, he said, “Mrs. Angelhart? The warden would like to speak with you.”

Mom froze. She was shaking.

“Mom?” I touched her elbow, urging her to stand.

“Tony?” Her voice cracked. “What happened? Is Cooper okay?”

She rose, but looked like she might collapse, so I held her arm.

“Let’s talk to the warden,” I said gently, guiding her toward the door, even though every muscle in my body was tense and ready to snap. I tried to assess Tony’s expression. He looked . . . concerned. Worried. Or maybe I was projecting.

We followed Tony through a long corridor, each locked door opening ahead of us, then closing with a sharp click before the next door opened. At the final hallway, Tony used a key to unlock a door into the administrative wing where he led us straight into Warden Alvarez’s office. Past the admin’s desk. She gave us a somber look. Or maybe I imagined it. Then Tony knocked once and opened the door after a curt “Enter” from inside.

The warden’s office was modest in size with sparse but comfortable furnishings, a state-of-the-art computer system, and a window that looked out to a green field beyond the fence. Eyman had been built in the middle of a vast agricultural area.

David Alvarez was in his early fifties with neatly trimmed gray hair and steely eyes. He was physically fit and wore a suit, though the jacket hung on a coatrack inside the door. I’d met Alvarez a few times.