Sorry about the delay, Willie,” Angus said. He introduced Nat and set down his accordion file on a white Formica table, one of six built into the painted cinderblock wall. The tables stuck out in a line, and at each were plastic bucket chairs on either side, more fast-food restaurant than prison except for the uniformed C.O. standing against the far wall.

“’S’all right,” Willie answered, nodding. He sat behind a wrinkled manila folder. “How’s your lip, Angus?”

“Fine. Where were you during the riot?”

“Hiding under my desk.”

They laughed, and Angus turned to Nat. “Willie works in the processing room, which used to be across the aisle.”

Willie added, “They got us down the hall now, trying to hook up all the computers. It’s crazy. All those wires, like spaghetti.”

“Why they stripping you out, Willie?” Angus asked, as he opened the folder, went through the papers, and pulled out an affidavit.

“My cellie’s having some problems with the Mexicans.”

Angus turned again to Nat. “A strip-out is when they take all the inmate’s belongings out of his cell, either to search for contraband or move him. I think I told you they move the inmates around, to cut down on gang rivalries. No chance for a fight, but no chance for a friendship, either.”

“I’m my own friend,” Willie said. “That’s the best policy.”

“I hear you. Okay, we don’t have much time. I prepared this affidavit along the lines we discussed. It’s what you told me last week. Why don’t you read it and sign it?” Angus slid the paper to Willie, addressing Nat again. “Willie was picked up for his second DUI and is just about to finish up his stint.”

Willie looked up. “I got eleven days left.”

“He completed the alcohol rehab program here and now he teaches it. He’s been clean and sober for how long now, pal?”

“Six hundred and eight days.”

“Congratulations,” Nat said, wondering what it was like to count your life in days. Days of sobriety. She was lucky, addicted only to books.

“We’re filing an appeal for Willie on Friday, to get him pardoned, so his record won’t show his DUI conviction. His experience in the office qualifies him for a number of jobs on the outside, but he needs to get his driver’s license back so he can drive.”

“This looks great, Angus. You got a pen?”

“Hold on.” Angus rose and said to Nat, “Excuse me. Be right back. They’re not allowed to have pens, and neither are we.”

“Sure.” Nat shifted as he left, then realized she was sitting alone with a prison inmate. Two days ago, this would have scared her, but after the riot, it didn’t. Ironic. “So, you must be so thrilled to go.”

“I can’t wait. See my wife and kid, my grandmom.” Willie beamed. “But I got no regrets. This place did a lot of good for me, and so did Angus. He helped me get the job in the office. I learned Microsoft Word and Excel, too.”

“What do you do there?”

“I keep all the records, so they know when everybody’s bit is up, and also infirmary visits, dental, write-ups, what have you.”

Write-ups. Where had she heard that term? Then she remembered. Graf had said that just before the riot, he and Ron Saunders had had the inmate in to talk about his write-up. “What’s a write-up?”

“When we get disciplined, say. They write us up.”

“Do you, in the office, get a copy of a write-up each time an inmate is disciplined?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Nat. How does that work?”

“The C.O. fills out a form and gives it to me through the window in the processing office. I log it in, and that’s it.” Willie shrugged his shoulders, knobby in his thin T-shirt.

“Then the C.O. tells the inmate?”

“No, the other way around. The inmate gets the write-up first, before the C.O. gives me the other two copies. I log it in and file one in the disciplinary file and the other in his inmate file.”

Nat tried to remember what Graf had said. “Then does the C.O. talk to the inmate about it?”

“Sometimes. They bring him to the security office, make sure he understands what the deal is.”

Hmm. “Do you remember seeing a write-up for an inmate who was killed during the riot?” Nat had forgotten his name. She’d been so focused on Saunders, no other death mattered.

“Ramirez?”

“No.”

“Upchurch?”

“Yes. Did you get a write-up for Upchurch, maybe the same day of the riot or the day before?”

“I don’t think so, off the top of my head.”

“Do you usually remember the write-ups that come in?”

“Mostly. This ain’t that big a place. No gangstas except in RHU.”

Nat remembered something Graf had said. “Did Upchurch ever get written up for marijuana?”

“Upchurch, a write-up for weed?” Willie squinted, confused. “I don’t remember that. He got written up for insubordination, runnin’ his mouth.”

Why would Graf have lied about that? “Did he get written up for insubordination right before the riot?”

“I don’t remember, not off the top of my head.”

“Did he get written up a lot for insubordination?” Nat thought back. Graf had said Upchurch was a troublemaker.

“All the time.”

“By Ron Saunders?”

“No.” Willie glanced behind him, but the C.O. stood well out of earshot, against the wall in the corridor. “Upchurch had no problem with Saunders. It was Graf used to write him up. Graf was always in his grille.”

Whoa. “More than the other C.O.s?”

“Oh, yeah. Picked on him.”

“How do you know that? Did you know Upchurch?”

“No, he wasn’t in my pod. I knew his name on account of his write-ups, from Graf.”

“How do you know that Graf picked on him, and not the other way around?”

“Most of these C.O.s, they’re all right.” Willie checked over his shoulder, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “But if Graf was the one got killed, nobody woulda shed a tear.”

“So why would Upchurch kill Saunders and not Graf?” Nat whispered, but just then Angus returned with Tanisa and a male C.O., interrupting the conversation.

Angus handed Willie the pen. “You got a minute to sign. They need you at your cell.”

Rats! Nat bit her tongue. Angus had the worst timing in legal history.

“Okay.” Willie accepted the pen and signed his name.

“Do you have any questions?”

“You think it’ll work?” Willie stood up and handed the affidavit to Angus, who took it and slipped it back in the folder.

“We’re doing everything we can, pal.”

Tanisa said, “Willie, John will take you back. I gotta get rid of these lawyers.”

“Okay.” Willie left without a look back, as Tanisa escorted Angus and a preoccupied Nat to the exit door by the new wall. They waited while Tanisa unlocked the door. The C.O. fell unusually silent, the only sound the clinking of the crude keys.

“Thanks, Tanisa.” Angus touched her arm.

“Yes, thanks,” Nat added. “I owe you that jacket.”

“Forget it.” Tanisa kept her eyes downcast as she unlocked the second barred door and held it open for them to leave. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

“It was nothing,” Nat said, getting her meaning. She retrieved her coat, and she and Angus walked down the corridor, through the sally ports, and out the door. They stepped out into the brutal cold. Nat looked up beyond the razorwire to the sky above, which had darkened to a charcoal wash. Spiky evergreens, burdened with snow, cut a jagged horizon, and a vast white field surrounded them like a chilly embrace.

“So they walled off the room.” Angus shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t get it.”

“I think they’re hiding something,” Nat said. They walked down the driveway and waved to the marshal, who was on a cell in his car. “I learned a lot of juicy stuff from Willie.”

“What’d I miss?”

“Tell you in the car.” Nat shot him a wink.

“Having fun?”

And Nat had to admit, to her own surprise, that she was.

They sat in traffic, going nowhere on the road that wound back through the Brandywine countryside. Cars were lined up ahead as far as Nat could see, their taillights burning red and their exhausts exhaling plumes of white smoke. She used the time to call Barb Saunders and succeeded only in leaving a please-call-back message. She fidgeted in her long coat and checked the darkening sky. At this rate, she’d be late getting home, which would necessitate an explanation to Hank. She didn’t remember what happened when Nancy Drew explained things to Ned. She hoped it was a happy ending.

“This traffic is crazy,” Angus said. “Must be an accident. It gums up the whole works.”

“It’s the single lane that’s the problem.”

“I’ll get off this road as soon as I can. I-95 isn’t that far. Or, how about we stop and get some dinner, then try after it’s cleared.” Angus looked over. “That’s not an ask-out.”

“Still, not a good idea. I have to get home.”

“I hear you.” Angus shifted into second. No hand bumped into her knee, which was cold even in stockings. He said, “Let’s review. Graf told us that he and Saunders had written up Upchurch for weed, but Willie says that didn’t happen. I believe Willie. He’s smart.”

“Okay, so why do you think Graf lied about the write-up? Or do you think he just misspoke?”

“No, he didn’t misspeak. He lied because he didn’t want us to know he had bad blood with Upchurch.”

“Agree, and that makes me suspicious.” Nat turned it over in her mind. “Plus, it doesn’t make sense that Upchurch would attack Saunders, if he had an issue with Graf.”

“No, it doesn’t. It looks bad.” Angus shook his head, his eyes focused on traffic. “I hate what I’m thinking.”

“What?” Nat asked, but she knew.

“That Upchurch’s murder didn’t happen the way Graf says it did.” Angus’s tone was grave. “Machik must know that, and that’s why they’re hiding what went on in that room. They’ve destroyed the crime scene, so there’s no way even the blood spatter can be preserved. They must have done an autopsy on Upchurch—they do in every homicide—and I wonder what it shows.”

“What do you mean?”

“An autopsy can tell a lot about the way a knife fight actually went down. You know, like the angle of the knife wounds, even which wounds came first, almost reconstruct it.”

Nat turned it over in her mind. “Graf told us that Upchurch attacked Saunders and then attacked him, and that he, Graf, was able to save himself by turning the knife on Upchurch.”

“Right, but that doesn’t make sense, according to what Willie told you. If Upchurch was going to stab anybody, it would have been Graf. You know, I’ve dealt with plenty of prison brutality cases and excessive force cases, in my time.”

“And?”

“What if Upchurch pulled the knife on Graf, and then Saunders defended Graf? Maybe Saunders even stepped in front of Graf to save him. Then Graf saw his friend cut down and simply executed Upchurch, in the heat of battle. C.O.s are human beings, like soldiers. Think Haditha or My Lai.”

Nat considered it as the Beetle rolled an inch or two and the sky got darker.

“It’s entirely possible that Upchurch was no threat to Graf at the time he was killed,” Angus continued, sounding intrigued. “For all we know, Upchurch could have been on his knees, begging for his life. That’s the kind of thing an autopsy would show. The angle of the knife would be different, depending on whether the blow was struck from above or from the same level.”

“Why stop there, if you’re spinning hypos?” Nat asked, her thoughts clicking ahead. “What if there was no attack by Upchurch at all? What if Graf murdered Upchurch in cold blood? Planned the whole thing. Even planted the knife on him, after the fact?”

“What?” Angus looked over, his blue eyes widening. “Why would Graf have done that?”

“I don’t know. For the same reason he bullied Upchurch. There was animosity between them.”

“That’s a stretch, Natalie. We don’t know enough to go there.”

“But what if?”

Angus thought a minute. “Then how does Saunders end up dead?”

“He’s a casualty, like you said, of war. Graf sacrifices him. He’s just there to provide the story that Upchurch attacked him and he acted in self-defense.”

“Graf kills Saunders?” Angus’s lips parted. “That’s crazy! They were best friends. You heard him.”

“We’ve established that he’s a liar.”

“And a jerk and a bigot. But that’s not the same as a cold-blooded killer. That’s not how C.O.s work, anyway. They’re tight, like cops. Like soldiers, too, come to think of it. Loyal to each other.” Angus’s car traveled another inch on the clogged road. “You know, we’re forgetting something. There’s one sure way to find out what really happened in that room.”

“How?”

“They have video surveillance all over the prison. Did you see those silver orbs on the ceilings, with the mirrors? There’re cameras inside them.”

Nat hadn’t noticed.

“I know they have videotapes of the riot. The troopers told me they turned them over to the Chester County D.A., as evidence. So they must have videotapes of that room, too.”

Nat straightened in her seat, imagining a videotape of a brutal double murder and of her trying to save Saunders’s life. Did she want to see it? Could she even watch?

“Which room was it, exactly?”

“I don’t know. One of the staff rooms.” Then Nat remembered. “Willie said they take inmates into the security office to discuss their write-ups.”

“Good,” Angus said, nodding. “That’s what we need to do. Get those tapes, from the security office.” The Beetle finally reached the corner, then Angus took a right off onto another road. Traffic flowed freer, and Nat felt her own gears rev up.

“So how would we do that? They’ll never give them up voluntarily.”

“If I didn’t owe Graf my life, I’d subpoena them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d file a suit on behalf of the inmate who was killed, Upchurch, for deprivation of civil rights and unreasonable use of force, along the lines of my theory that Graf killed Upchurch needlessly, in return for Upchurch’s killing Saunders.”

“Upchurch’s estate would be the plaintiff, right? And his family?”

“Yes, I’d have to find them.”

“So this would be one of those lawsuits where the burglar sues the homeowner. The kind that endears lawyers to the populace.”

“Thank you.” Angus’s eyes glittered with mischief. The Beetle zoomed ahead, and Nat’s spirits lifted when she spotted a sign for I-95. She had a shot at keeping her hunky boyfriend, which was a good thing. Angus said, “In my younger days, I’d be all over it, but I’m so corporate now. I need a good relationship with that prison, for the clinic.”

“But I don’t. I can sue the prison, for admitting Buford and Donnell to your class. For failing to adequately safeguard the other inmates, and us. They’d raise an immunity defense but it would be a first strike.”

“Not bad.” Angus nodded. “That’s what Machik is worried about, and he deserves it.”

“So we tell him we’re going to file, then we give him my settlement demand.” Nat shifted forward as a plan began to form in her mind. “We ask for a copy of the videotapes in return for my complete, signed release. Essentially, we offer him a free settlement. If he says no, we know something’s very, very wrong. Who turns down a free settlement? And if nothing incriminating is on the tape, he’ll make the deal.”

“That’s a great idea! It blocks him in.” Angus thought a minute. “But why will we say you want the tapes? What do we give as a reason?”

“We say it’ll help me process the trauma of the event.” Nat wasn’t half kidding, but Angus laughed.

“You’re an evil genius. Do you intend world domination?”

“Not at all. Tenure, merely.”

“Done and done.” They took off, and the Beetle hit the ramp for I-95. They reached the highway, three lanes of flat road headed north into Philly, and the traffic moved fast. The reflected light of cars, houses, and buildings muddied the sky. It was almost nightfall. They whizzed past billboards of pretty people, their supersize smiles illuminated by spotlights from beneath. The Beetle switched into the fast lane, and Nat figured that now she might even get home before Hank.

“Now we’re moving,” she said happily. She checked her cell phone, but there were no messages from Barb Saunders.

“This is way better.” Angus looked annoyed in the rearview. “Except the dude behind me is a tailgater.”

“Ignore him. He’ll pass.”

“How nonviolent of you.”

“It’s this talk of knife fights.” Nat shuddered.

Angus accelerated, but the car behind them blasted the Beetle’s interior with light. Nat turned around and squinted into headlights, which were higher than usual, above a large chrome grille.

“It’s tall, like an SUV,” she said.

“I think it’s a pickup. He’s been weaving through traffic. Must be a drunk. I can’t believe Willie ever did stuff like this.” Angus accelerated again. White reflective lines on the highway flashed by as one. Road salt made tick tick noises as it hit the Beetle.

“Slow down.” Nat gripped the stiff rubber hand strap. “Make him go around you.”

“Get off my ass, pal!” Angus shouted at the rearview, and the Beetle’s interior finally went dark. The lane to their right opened up, and the pickup darted into the empty spot.

“Good.” Nat relaxed. “I’ll give him a dirty look.”

“Nobody messes with Professor Greco.”

Nat looked over and saw it was a black pickup, its F-250 letters and a Calvin decal in view. The Beetle and the truck sped side by side through the twilight. The asphalt glistened in the headlights. A veneer of black ice on the road winked darkly. In the split second before the accident happened, Nat saw it like déjà vu. The pickup hit the ice. She screamed. The pickup sideswiped the Beetle in a dark flash of metal, sending both vehicles skidding into the guardrail, spraying sparks and making a hideous scraping noise.

PHOOM! The Beetle’s airbags exploded. A hot plastic cushion burst into Nat’s face and pressed her back into her seat. The car slid forward, out of control. She kept screaming, praying for the Beetle to stop. She couldn’t see anything but plastic. She couldn’t hear anything but her own yelling. Everything was heat and fear and a funny smell.

Finally, the Beetle came to a slow, jerky stop. Angus must have engaged the ABS brakes. Nat’s face plowed into the pillow. Her shoulder collided with the passenger window. Powder was everywhere. Then the accident ended as soon as it had begun. Nat’s airbag began to deflate, and she looked over.

Angus was slumped against his collapsing air bag, motionless.