Martin Misunderstood

She had a point on that last one, he had to admit. Martin was on death row. People didn't mess with him nearly as much anymore (unsurprisingly, no one wanted to have sex with him in prison, either).

Evie pressed, 'You've carved out a nice little niche for yourself. It's much more than you would have if you were still living with me.'

He shook his head, coming to his senses. 'I think it's pretty obvious who's really benefiting. We have televisions here, Mother. I saw you on Entertainment Tonight drinking champagne at George Clooney's villa.'

She smoothed down her skirt, picking an invisible piece of fluff off the cashmere. 'Don't sit there and pretend you're not exploiting your own situation.'

'I'm at least doing some good,' Martin insisted. Some of the crimes he had taken credit for had been unsolved for years. He had read in People magazine that the mother of one of his 'victims' had actually said, on her death bed, 'At least now I know.' Was Martin to be blamed for not killing and raping the woman's daughter? Was it his fault that he hadn't committed the crime? Was it his fault that he would say anything to keep his beloved Anther coming to see him?

Aye, there's the rub.

'Martin?' Evie snapped her fingers in front of his face. She had packed up her legal pad and pen. 'I have to go. I'm meeting with the producers about your movie.'

Martin scowled. He had not approved of casting Philip Seymour Hoffman in the lead.

'Oh, knock that look off your face. Phil's a lovely boy.' She stood up, pronouncing loudly, 'Now, give your mother a kiss goodbye.'

He puckered up and she put first one cheek, then the other, near enough to his lips to pass for affection.

'I'll see you next month.' She wagged her finger at him. 'And you'd better have some good stories for me. Dark fantasies. Uncontrollable thoughts. Seething hatred. You get the idea.'

Martin rolled his eyes. Bob, one of his favorite guards, came over. Martin held out his hands for cuffing, but the man told him, 'You've got a private visitor.'

'An's here?' Martin felt his heart flutter in his chest. 'She didn't tell me she was coming.'

'They've found another body,' Bob said. 'Thirty-year-old prostitute with a meth habit.'

'Oh, I see,' Martin murmured. He specialized in confessing to prostitute deaths – he'd found early on that this particular type of victim tended to have had very little recent contact with their families, which made it easier for Martin to fabricate a nice backstory. He asked, 'Was this on Madola Road?'

'Abernathy,' Bob provided. 'What were you thinking, man?'

Martin shook his head. 'I just can't help myself, Bob. I get these urges.'

'Why the rope?'

Martin struggled for an explanation. 'My father liked to tie knots.'

Bob sighed at the depravity. Martin knew he was working on his own book deal (it was amazing how many people wanted to be writers). The relationship was not altogether one-sided, though. Bob owned a police scanner and was somewhat of a gossip. Most of the details Martin used in his confessions came from the man.

'Let's go.' Bob took Martin's arm and led him out of the room. As they walked down the corridor toward the private rooms used for interviews between lawyers and their clients – and comely police detectives! – Martin felt his pulse quicken. His breath caught as the door opened and he saw Anther sitting at the table. She wore a bright yellow dress and her hair was swept up into a sexy bun.

Martin noted her pretty yellow dress and tried to impress her with his Dutch. 'Het meisje draagt een geile jurk!'

She stared at him, and he felt the skin on his face, wondering if his mother had somehow transferred lipstick on to his cheek without actually touching him.

An said, 'Sit down, Mr Reed.'

He sat.

'We found a body.'

'A prostitute,' Martin supplied. 'A meth addict.'

'She was buried off of-'

'Abernathy Road,' he supplied. 'Have you done something different with your hair?'

She patted the bun self-consciously. 'We found a-'

'Rope,' he said. Why did they always have to go through the motions? 'Tell me about your day.'

'My day?' she echoed, her hand dropping to the table. Martin wanted to reach out and touch her, to caress her gentle hand in his, but the one time he'd tried, An had threatened to Tase him.

Martin spoke openly – prison had made him brazen. 'You know that I am in love with you.'

She gave a sad chuckle. 'Love doesn't pay the rent.'

'Ik wil de hoer graag betalen,' he offered, thrilled at the way the Dutch tickled his tongue.

She sighed again. 'Mr Reed-'

'I'd pay your rent every day!' he repeated, this time in English (he had trouble with Dutch tenses). 'Oh, An, you must know that I adore you.'

She colored slightly. There was an awkward moment between them. Then another, then another, so that it was more like an awkward five minutes before she asked, 'Did you read that book I gave you?'

'The Danielle Steel?' Martin had never enjoyed flowery romances, and prison was hardly the place to show your feminine side. 'Well, yes, of course I read it. You know I would do anything you asked me to.'

'She married a prison inmate, you know.'

Martin did not recall that from the plot at all. He gently corrected, 'Actually, Marie-Ange was already married to the Comte de Beauchamp when she suspected him of murdering-'

'No, Mr Reed. Danielle Steel the author. She married a prison inmate. Two, actually.' An shuffled her folders, her eyes avoiding his. 'Danny Zugelder was the first, and then the day after she divorced him, she married William George Toth.'

'Well, that's kind of strange,' Martin said, wondering how the jet-setting Steel would even meet criminals in the first place. 'I bet her mother didn't approve.'

'Maybe she did,' An said, smoothing down the hair at the nape of her neck. 'Maybe her mother said something like, 'I just want you to be happy.''

Martin had heard his own mother say the same phrase often enough, but in his experience what she really meant was, 'Do what I fucking say you retarded twat.'

An said, 'I imagine her mother was probably happy to hear that her daughter was in love.'

'I imagine,' Martin answered, though he did not buy it for a minute. He certainly would not mind Evie hooking up with a homicidal maniac, but if it was someone he truly cared about – Anther, for instance – he would certainly have a great deal to say about…

Martin cleared his throat, straightened his prison coveralls. 'Married, you say?'

An nodded, flipping through her file folders again. He saw a photo of a decapitated woman in a trench and quickly looked away. (The crimescene photos were still the worst part of his confessions.)

Martin asked, 'How exactly does that work, I wonder?'

'Well, I suppose that they had the prison chaplain perform the ceremony.'

'I suppose,' Martin agreed, even as he pictured the scene in his mind. An would look lovely in a white dress. Maybe they could get some rice from the kitchen – or better yet, perhaps An could bring some from home. The Latino gang running the kitchen was very stingy, in Martin's opinion. God forbid you should want an extra roll. He imagined asking for rice would cause some kind of riot. Shivs at dawn!

'Martin?'

He let the word hang between them for a few seconds. An seldom used his first name, and Martin tried to savor every time as if it was precious. Because it was. Because, as vile and hateful as his mother could be, she was right about one thing: the life Martin had in prison was much better than the one he had when he was living under her roof. He was a murderer in here, which actually earned him a modicum of respect. He had his books. He had a job. And now… was it possible? Was the dream complete… did he actually have Anther?

'I'll never get out of here,' Martin reminded her.