Liam Jamison. Joel’s half brother. He was the person responsible for her loss, and he had never even been questioned regarding the murder of her entire family. Repeatedly, she had told her story to the police officers. Over and over that fateful Sunday when she had returned from San Maribel. She had begged, pleaded, and finally, she had screamed with such rage, crazed with unparalleled grief, that they’d actually listened to her. She told her story again, over and over, repeatedly, or at least she thought she had because years later, when she had tried to recall the events that had led up to her arrest, she had no clear memory of exactly what she had said to the police that day or any other day aside from her absolute, unwavering conviction that Liam had killed her entire family. Over and over, she had implored them to locate Liam, telling the police she knew he was responsible because he had been molesting her daughters, and that was the reason she had traveled to San Maribel. To arrange a place to hide her girls from the media, which would exploit the horrid act that had changed their lives forever. It didn’t seem to matter what she had said; they would not listen. She recalled being whisked from room to room and questioned until she simply stopped talking.
Literally.
She had told the officers on the scene what she knew to be true. When the detectives had taken her downtown to police headquarters, where she was questioned for hours, so long, that her memory of that day, or it might have been days, was still hazy more than ten years later.
Liam was never investigated; in fact, he was never even located. Sure that Rachelle, her mother-in-law, had whisked him out of the country, never to be found again, Tessa had simply given up on locating him. Rachelle had done a damn good job because Tessa’s attorney said he’d hired the best private detectives in the business, and they had failed to locate him. The one thing that they did know was that he had not been in Japan as she had thought when she flew off to San Maribel. He seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth.
The police investigation, what little of it there had been, centered completely on her.
Her trial was short, taking almost no time at all and occurring scant weeks after the deaths of her loved ones, making headlines across the country. While the case went to the jury after only fourteen days of testimony, she listened to the talking heads discuss her life, what her motive had been: a 50-million-dollar life insurance policy and Jamison Pharmaceuticals. Virtually everyone agreed that she should get the death penalty for her greed.
The talk of her weekend “getaway” had been the subject of a great deal of speculation. A secret lover in San Maribel. A sudden hate for her children. Revenge for an unfaithful husband. On and on the murders made headlines across the country, and there wasn’t a single ounce of truth to any of them.
She had truly lived through a nightmare.
And that nightmare would never end unless she dictated its ending herself. For years now, she had been contemplating how she would go about committing the act that would put an end to her suffering, yet each day, she somehow found another reason to go on. A new book in the library, a rare kind word from a guard, or just the knowledge that it was morally wrong to have acted on such thoughts.
Tomorrow I will rethink my options. She had this thought at least once each day.
The guards were especially watchful on visiting days, their eyes everywhere, never missing the slightest hint of defiance. It could be as simple as one trying to hold the hand of a loved one, a quick sleight of hand in an attempt to pass a joint, whatever the latest craze happened to be in the world of narcotics, or a small weapon. It amazed her how hawkeyed they could be on visiting day, considering how lackadaisical they usually were.
In a different world, she would understand, but she was now a part of this institution that synchronized every minute of her existence with military precision. When she ate, what she ate, when she showered, when she slept, where she slept, what she wore. On and on it went. The only variation to her days were her precious radio, which allowed her to stay informed on the outside world, her books, and the few snacks she was allowed to purchase from the commissary, something she seldom did, again because she did not want to draw any undue attention to herself.
She dampened a much-treasured washcloth and ran it over her face, neck, and arms. Showers were every other day, and she had learned to make do with the small sink in her cell. While she wasn’t going to strip off for a full body wash, which she only did when it was lights out, for now, she settled for a quick once-over, then settled down on her bunk with her book while the other inmates prepared for visitors.
At first, it had bothered her when no one came to visit, other than Randall, of course, whom she never considered a real visitor, but now, she was content for the short span of quiet time these weekend visiting days provided her. While her days working in the prison’s library were cherished, it wasn’t always as quiet as one might think it would be in a library.
So immersed was she in her novel that the whack
