Page 25 of The Chain House

Hey, thanks for listening last night. Please know that wasn’t the reason I came over. What happened was the LAST thing I would have expected, but I guess we both needed it in a way. You know? To talk. To listen. Who would have thought there’d be that many tears? And I promise, I’ll keep everything you told me in confidence. I know you were worried. You can trust me. Hope you don’t remember this as an awkward evening, as I think it might have done us both some good? As long as we aren’t too hungover—Ha! I’ll see you around and hopefully we can catch up again sometime? Best of luck to your son tomorrow … actually today! Look at the time! Anyway, your love for Sam was so apparent in everything you said that I often felt jealous last night, of that kind of love. It gives me hope that someone who endured all you did could turn out so loving and put-together. You are a good man, Trevor Harper. And by all I can tell, an even better father. P.S. You did get sick on your shirt and pants near the end of the night. So I tossed them in the washer for you and ran it through. Might want to run it again when you wake up. Talk soon, Lizzie.

Trevor lowered his arm but continued clutching the note. At least that explained why he’d awakened nearly naked, with the scent of her perfume in his nostrils. She must have helped him into bed. He could still smell the scented shampoo in her hair.

But what had he told her last night?

He had a vault full of secrets and now feared he’d willingly opened it to a virtual stranger.

Could he trust her?

He looked at her note again and the line, please know that wasn’t the reason I came over, jumped at him. And then he recalled what had been the reason she’d come over.

Sam.

He’d been all over the national news, and she’d come over to ask him about it. The alarm clock on his bedside table read 9:55 in the morning, and the interview was set to start at 10:00.

Head throbbing, Trevor unsteadily made his way into the living room, using walls for support, swearing he’d never drink again. The first Mallard Malone novel he’d tossed aside last night was back atop the stack next to his recliner. He turned on the TV to WDRB, which showed a large crowd outside the Twisted Tree prison and his son, escorted by two prison guards, making his way through the throng of eager reporters. He at first thought it was live, but then a female voice sounded over the visual, This was the scene moments ago as young Sam Harper entered the prison … Trevor’s eyes grew large when he noticed the young woman beside Sam: Jennifer Daley. What was she doing there? How had she involved herself in this? The news anchor’s voice continued over the scene … We now know that the young woman by his side is Jennifer Daley, who aside from apparently being his partner on a true crime documentary on Sal Batise, is also one of the four children found locked inside the closet of Batise’s bedroom on his cult ranch twenty years ago …

Trevor scooted up to the edge of his recliner as he watched his son move closer to the prison gates. The crowd pinched in on them. Trevor said softly, “Stay back, vultures.” And to the security guards: “Do your job. Do your job.” On the screen, a balding man in glasses reached from the crowd, almost desperate to get closer to Sam, and even managed to grasp his shirt sleeve before the guards eased the man away. Trevor breathed, “Get off my son.” He stood from the recliner and approached the TV. “Get the fuck off my son.”

And just as the man in the glasses made eye contact with Sam, the news anchor’s voice-over continued: You can see there, the gentleman who just briefly touched Sam Harper, we now know to be Harold Martin, the author of the bestselling true crime novel Mastermind, based on the life of Sal Batise and the forming of his cult … The picture froze. The voiceover continued … looks like we’re ready inside the prison and we’ll be taking you there momentarily.… Hold on, wait, okay, we’re taking you there right now …

The picture changed to the interior view of a windowless room somewhere inside the prison. Trevor’s heart lurched when he saw Sam sitting next to Jennifer Daley. They were surrounded by lights and a camera crew, and across from them was an empty folding chair he assumed would soon hold Sal Batise.

A door opened.

On camera, Sam looked toward an off-screen door and shifted in his seat.

Jennifer’s hand touched his forearm as if to calm him, and Trevor wanted to hug her like he had when she was a little girl.

The voiceover: And here we see Sal Batise entering the room, escorted by three guards, and here we are, handing it over, going live with our very own Shaffer Swanson …

The camera zoomed, and instantly the scene became more intimate. Sal Batise, wearing his red death row fatigues, sat casually in the empty chair, folded his tattooed hands on his lap, and instead of first looking at Sam, his interviewer, he peered directly into the camera and smiled as if reunited with a long-lost friend.

Trevor flinched—he knew it wasn’t the case, but it seemed that Batise had just somehow spotted him.

CHAPTER11

OLIVER CROWN LEANED forward in his folding chair, turned up the volume on the television sitting atop the cart he’d rolled inside the garage moments ago. He listened as the young upstart, Sam Harper, on screen, nervously introduced himself and his partner, Jennifer Daley, to Sal Batise, who eyed them both like he was a jackal and they were about to become his prey.

Oliver grinned, because this was a reunion of sorts.

And much of what was said during this interview would determine his next course of action. What to ultimately do with the bitch sitting in the shadows behind him.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Can you hear?”

“Go to hell,” Beth Hawthorne hissed, yanking at the chain that tethered her to the homemade anchor back in the shadows.

He turned up the volume so loud the governor’s wife had to cover her ears.

Once he assumed she got the message—nobody can hear us out here—he returned his focus back on the television, on Sam Harper, thinking, Oh, how much you’ve grown.

CHAPTER12

SAM HATED WHEN athletes on TV during post-championship interviews said the word surreal, telling himself that if he was ever in that situation, he’d pick a different word.

But surreal was exactly how it felt the moment Sal Batise entered the room and took his seat in the chair across from him. Sam felt like it wasn’t real. Like he was in the middle of a dream. Sal Batise was barely five foot ten, and slender, but his presence loomed larger than life, and even though this was Sam’s interview, everyone in the room—the security guards, the warden, and the professional news crews alike—watched Batise like there was no doubt to whom this room now belonged.

Sal’s blue eyes settled hawkishly on Sam and Jennifer.