And her belief that she was a decent, honorable person? That she’d finally done good and freed an innocent man?
Gone.
Everything she believed in was destroyed. Her husband had always known the truth about her faulty overconfidence and ego, but her daughter? It was a shocking revelation. “Was it all about the money?” Rose had wondered. “You set a serial killer free. How many other murderers have you let off so you could wear those shoes?”
Avery glanced at the tan interior of her BMW.
The leather was faded and old. The black dashboard had been removed and updated with her transreceiver, police scanner, and a computer for when she was on stakeouts. The car, bought at the height of her arrogance and fame, now served as a memory of her indulgent past, and a testament to her future.
“You won’t die in vain,” she swore to the memory of Jenna Prince. “I promise.”
The walk to the house felt like forever. The sound of her shoes on the cement, birds, distant cars, and noises all made her more aware of herself, and what she intended to do. “I hate you,” Constance had spit all those years ago. “You’re the devil. You’re worse than the devil.” “Get out of our house!” Donald had cried. “You already killed our daughter. What more do you want? Forgiveness? Who can ever forgive someone as sick and depraved as you?”
Avery walked up the steps.
A phone call would have been inappropriate, even more so than an impromptu visit. They needed to see her face, her desperation. And she needed them.
She rang the doorbell.
A middle-aged female voice cried out: “Who is it?”
Footsteps moved closer.
The door opened.
Constance Prince was white, with an unnatural tan and cropped, bleached-blond hair. Although she rarely left the house except for chores or Mahjong with friends, she had on a mask of heavy make-up: blush, eyeliner, and red lipstick. Wrinkles lined her mouth and eyes. She wore a light sweater and red slacks. Golden bracelets clinked on her wrists. Jewels hung from golden threads on both ears.
A few blinks and she seemed to focus in on Avery. The welcoming air of her posture and appearance quickly faded. A breath was sucked in and she stepped back as if in shock.
Another voice called out.
“Who is it, honey?”
Without a word, Constance tried to shut the door.
“Please,” Avery said. “I just need to ask a favor. I’ll be gone before you know it.”
A sliver of Constance’s face could be seen between the door and frame. Head low, she stood unmoving for a moment.
“Please,” Avery begged. “I need something, but I can’t do it without your approval.”
“What do you want?” Constance whispered.
Avery searched the porch and street before she turned back to the door.
“Have you read the papers?”
“Yes.”
“There’s another killer on the loose. He’s a lot like, the last one,” Avery said without mentioning Howard Randall, “smart and hard to track. Another body was found, today. That makes two so far, but he might work in threes, which means another body isn’t far off. I’m a cop now,” she added. “That life, who I was back then, that’s not who I am now. I’m trying to make amends. I’m trying to be different.”
The door opened.
Donald Prince had replaced his wife. Older, extremely large and out of shape, he had short gray hair, reddish skin, and a look that spoke to his shock and fury. He wore a dirty T-shirt, shorts, and green clogs. A dirt-covered glove was over one of his hands.
“What the hell do you want?” he said. “Why are you here?” He looked down the street. “You’re not welcome in this house. Haven’t you done enough to our family?”
“I came to get your permission,” she said.
“Permission?” he spit and almost laughed. “You don’t need our permission for anything. We want you out of our lives! You killed our daughter. Don’t you understand that?”
“I never killed your daughter.”
His eyes widened.
“You think that excuses what you did?”
“What I did was wrong,” she said, “and I have to live with that – every day. I’m different now. I’m a cop. I try to right these wrongs, not allow them to go free.”
“Well, good for you.” He aggressively nodded. “Too little, too late for us, though. Isn’t it?”
He tried to close the door.
“Wait,” Avery said.
She held a palm on the painted wood.
“There’s a new killer. Just like Howard Randall. Right in our backyard. He’ll kill again. I’m sure of it. And soon. My leads are cold. I need a fresh perspective. I need to go visit Howard, see if he can help. I want your permission.”
A laugh came from inside.
The door opened.
Donald leaned back, impervious.
“You want my permission?” he said. “To talk to the killer of my daughter, so you can stop another killer?”
“That’s right.”
“Sure,” he said with a fake smile. “Good luck.”
Any familiarity left his face, and a dark, murderous glare penetrated Avery.
“I don’t care who you are now. You hear me? You come to my house again? You talk to my wife?” Violence burned in his eyes. His voice turned into a whisper. “I’ll kill you,” he swore. “And that will be justice. True justice.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
South Bay House of Corrections was a tremendous brown complex that spanned over six square blocks in the South End of Boston. The fortress was laid out in the shape of a triangle, with few windows and even fewer ways to enter. Multiple smaller buildings, high walls, and endless gates around the property made its entrance an enigma to the average visitor.
Avery had been to South Bay a few times before, both as an attorney and a cop. Even though it was easy for her to navigate Massachusetts Avenue to the number of side streets that needed to be utilized in order to park on Bradson Street and gain access to the main building, it was always a time-consuming and overly complicated process.
Visitors normally had to give written permission to enter at least a day in advance. If no advanced warning was given, they were usually turned away at the door for security reasons, regardless of their name, position, or excuse. The fact that Avery was a cop meant little to the overseers at South Bay. Prisons were like private islands, states unto themselves where employees were only accountable to their warden and the major.
Avery, however, wasn’t a typical visitor.
A pseudo-celebrity at South Bay, she was known by nearly everyone on staff. The trial where she had Howard Randall acquitted of murder had been televised. What had also been televised was his bloody surrender only days later. During both ordeals, her face had been plastered everywhere, and until her disappearance and eventual reemergence in the Boston PD, her name had become synonymous with corrupt lawyers and a legal system in need of a massive overhaul.
At the metal detector, a guard shouted.
“Hey, Ms. Black. Check it out, Joey! Look who’s here. Avery Black is back.”
“What’s up, Ms. Black?”
Avery offered a limp wave.
“Hi, guys.”
She placed her items on the table and moved through the scanner.
Another guard bowed.
“To what do we owe this honor, Ms. Black?”
“I’m here to see Howard Randall.”
“Oh!” a bunch of guards cooed.
“Wish I was a fly on that wall,” someone said. “Careful, Black. Randall got moved to B-Block two months ago. He carved up an inmate pretty-bad. That old man can move!”
After the metal detectors, she was frisked and allowed to move into the visitors’ room.