“Detective White just called,” she says. “The jail got in contact with him, and they want you there.”
“At the jail?” I ask.
“That's all he said,” she tells me. “He said he tried to call you, but you didn't answer.”
I check my pockets for my phone and realize I don't have it. I must have left it at the restaurant.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your bringing me the message.”
Getting in my car, I decide to go back by the restaurant first. I need to have my phone with me. It's on the way to the jail, so it will only be a couple of minutes’ detour. When I get there, I notice the parking lot in front of the restaurant is empty. It had several cars in it when I left, but apparently, everybody has finished lunch at the same time.
I go to the front door of the restaurant and pull on the handle, but the door doesn't move. Confused by the locked door, I check the hours listed on the sign next to it. It should be open, so I try the door again. When it still won't move, I knock. A few seconds later, I hear a click, and the door opens. Lorenzo Tarasco looks out at me and gives a wide smile.
"Agent Griffin. You've come back," he says. "Is there something else you have a taste for?"
"I think I might have forgotten my phone here," I say.
"Oh, well, come in, and we will look," he says.
He steps out of the way so I can walk past him into the restaurant. I glance around and see no one inside. The empty space gives me an uneasy feeling, but before I get to the table, the kitchen door opens, and the staff pours back into the dining room. Realizing I must have caught them during a break, I snatch my phone from where it's sitting on the chair beside the one I was using, show it to Tarasco, and smile.
"Found it. Thank you. Sorry to disturb you."
"You aren't," he reassures me. "Please. Visit anytime."
I leave the restaurant with the strange feeling still tingling on the back of my neck, but I don't have time to dwell on it. Getting to the jail as fast as I can, I hurry inside. The warden meets me right inside the door.
“He wants to speak with you,” he says.
“Detective White?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Xavier Renton. He's been agitated all day and specifically requested you.”
“Do you know what's wrong?” I ask.
“No. He's been muttering to himself and pacing. We brought him paper and coloring pencils, which are usually something he enjoys. He seems particularly on edge.”
“Do you usually bring things like that to people serving time for murder?” I ask.
“This isn't a prison, Agent Griffin. He was brought here to this particular facility during the review of his trial and conviction so he can be more closely monitored.”
“Are you telling me this is a psychiatric unit?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Not officially. But we are better equipped than other facilities to manage more particular needs, like Renton’s.”
“What management are you talking about?" I ask.
The warden offers a vaguely condescending smile.
"Drawing. Therapists, if he wants to take advantage of them. Exercise programs. As I said, Agent, it's not a psychiatric facility," he tells me.
"I should get in there to him," I say.
I go through the process of checking into the facility, and they take me to a different room than the one where I first met Xavier. This one is smaller, more restrictive. There are only two wooden chairs with thin cushions and a table between them. Xavier is walking around the edge of the table under the intensely watchful eye of the officer standing by the door again.
"Xavier?" I say.
He looks up, and when he sees me, he rushes toward me. The officer lunges forward to get between us.
"No touching," he says.
"Take the drawings from the table," Xavier says. "Find them. Find them. Find them. She doesn't call anymore. Not even on Tuesdays. She doesn't call. Find them."
"Find the drawings?" I ask. I walk over to the table and pick up a stack of papers. "These? Is this what you wanted me to find?"
"Find them," Xavier repeats. "I tried to tell her not to. I tried to tell her. They build people from nothing. They make people into nothing. From clay to mud."
"Do you mean ashes to ashes?"
He shakes his head so hard I'm afraid he's going to fall over. "No. Prometheus. Clay. She called. She always called. She said she always would. Find them. I almost did. I almost did."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Xavier suddenly looks exhausted and drops down to sit in one of the chairs. I notice the package of peanuts sitting on the table and wonder if another snack ever chooses him.
"They're all around. Hiding in plain sight," he mutters. "No one knows what they're capable of."
"Who, Xavier?"
"I never found out."
"Did Lakyn?"
It's a guess, but his hand clenching a piece of paper tells me I'm following the breadcrumbs.
“She was going to. She never came back. I told her not to. She wasn't ready.”
“Am I ready?” I ask.
He looks at me as if he's teetering on the edge; all the tight, contained sparks inside him are sizzling and shooting out, bouncing erratically around the room. I crouch down beside the table, softening my voice, so it's just the two of us.
"A ceiling is not a floor; a floor is not a ceiling. There's space between them. Space and air. Andrew knew that. He knew there was air. He knew about the emergency air supply you built into the garage. And if I'm not wrong, he knew the way you built to get out. No one else knew. Only the two of you. He couldn't escape because he was already gone by the time he was put in there. By someone you didn't trust and who didn't know that secret. It wasn't Andrew's turn, and it
