last three words turned Pagan’s next smart remark into something like a hiccup. She struggled to keep her face blank. Only immediate family members were allowed to visit “students” at Lighthouse.
“I killed all that was left of my family.” Her voice was thicker than she liked. The smoke smelled like her old life, and she tried not to suck it in with a deep, appreciative breath. “Are you making an exception for second cousins once removed?”
Miss Edwards’s heavy eyelids lowered in a look of self-satisfaction that made Pagan’s hands curl into fists. “These men have Judge Tennison’s permission to see you,” she said. “I sent my request in to him yesterday to reconsider your sentence. Perhaps this has something to do with that. Come.” She pocketed the Zippo and click-clicked down the hallway without looking back.
Pagan followed slowly through the still-open door into what the students called the Haunted Hallway. Its adobe walls stretched thirty feet down then turned right, but through some trick of acoustics if you stood at this end you could hear the slightest whisper taking place around the corner another thirty feet, where the hallway ended near Miss Edwards’s office and the stairway descended to the first floor. If a girl desperately needed to hear word of the outside world, she’d volunteer to mop this hallway to try and catch a sentence or two as it bounced up the stairs, passed the office, and rebounded around the corner.
Pagan hurried after Miss Edwards, using her fingers to comb her dry, overgrown hair into a semblance of neatness, stuffing down a desire to plead for more information. The hallway stretched on forever. The walls around her were scuffed gray, the barred windows allowing in brief glimpses of azure sky, a dusty green palm frond swaying in the breeze. Nine months here had been an eternity. Prison would be infinitely worse.
She tried to swallow, but it was as if the bent bobby pin had lodged in her throat. She’d figured on a beating, bread and water, some solitary at worst. And she’d gotten exactly that.
But what if that was just the beginning of her punishment? The escape attempt had happened Friday night. This was Sunday morning. Surely judges didn’t come in on the weekends to change the terms of a juvenile’s sentence.
But maybe what was about to happen was justice. Pagan had done far worse things than try to escape a reformatory. Maybe she deserved what she was about to get.
Miss Edwards stopped at her office door, her mouth turning ever downward as she laid one hand on the knob.
“Just because I’m allowing this doesn’t mean you’re special,” Miss Edwards said. Her resentful tone set off further warnings in Pagan’s busy brain. Why was the matron frustrated now instead of triumphant? “You’re thinking that you’re better than me, aren’t you? You still think you’re a movie star. You’re famous. You’re somebody.”
“I killed my father and sister.” Pagan’s voice was flat. “So the last thing I could ever feel is that I’m better than anyone. Even you.”
Miss Edwards’s frown deepened. Effort flickered between her painted eyebrows as she tried to figure out how a statement of such humility could come out sounding like an insult. Pagan was good at ambiguity; it was part of what had made her such a good actress. In the past nine months, that skill had proven vital. That and Mercedes’s friendship.
Miss Edwards turned the knob. Pagan squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, the way she always had before auditions, trips down the red carpet, or courtroom entrances. Her mother would have approved. Even if facing your own execution, best to meet it with a serene smile and excellent posture.
The doorknob under Miss Edwards’s hand jerked back. She lost her grip and grabbed the door frame to stop herself from falling. A fresh cloud of gray-blue cigarette smoke wafted over them from the room beyond.
“Do come in.” The low, masculine voice was not one Pagan recognized. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the smoke, blinding her, until a slender young man in an exquisitely cut black suit and narrow tie moved forward. He was tall and wore no hat, his dark hair slicked back, one unruly lock spiking over his forehead. He stood with one hand on the door, as relaxed as if he were welcoming them into his own home.
Only his eyes were turbulent, a dark blue. They swept over Pagan with speculative calculation and something darker she couldn’t identify. Goose bumps ran up her arms.
She was staring at his mouth and pulled her gaze up, shaking off a sudden blankness in her thoughts. It had been nine months since she’d seen a man other than the gatehouse guard, but she couldn’t let that distract her. The crews on her movie sets had called her One-Take Jones in the early days because of her composure and professionalism. That was before she’d started drinking. Now that she was sober, that girl was still inside her, somewhere.
“The notorious Pagan Jones.” The dark-haired young man held out his hand. “My name is Devin Black.”
She slid her hand into his. It was warm, the grip firm. “I’d say it was a pleasure, Mister Black, but I don’t like lying to strangers.”
Amusement curved one corner of his mouth. He kept hold of her and leaned in, his voice soft. “Lies are best saved for those we love.”
Her heart hammered once, twice. At this range his eyes glittered like shards of stained glass shaded from indigo to azure. They locked on to her, taking her in.
He pulled away. The moment might never have happened but for the electricity still prickling over her skin.
He cast his indifferent gaze at Miss Edwards, who was hovering like a storm cloud. “That will be all. Thank you.”
Dismissed from her own office, Miss Edwards puffed out her narrow chest as if about to spew fire. But Devin Black was already ushering Pagan inside. The door clicked shut behind them.
“Here’s a familiar face.” Devin Black pulled out a seat for Pagan facing the small well-dressed man with gray, thinning hair who occupied Miss Edwards’s imposing black leather chair. He was the one generating all the smoke, puffing nervously on a cigarette and tapping the ash into a coffee cup.
Pagan stared and didn’t sit. This was no hearing. She had no idea what this was. “Jerry?”
Jerry Allenberg stood, which didn’t add much to his height, and stubbed out the cigarette with agitated little shoves. “Pagan. It’s been a long time. Please, have a seat. I’ve got something important to talk to you about.”
Pagan lifted her chin to stand taller. “So you’ve come to visit me after all. Tell Satan it’s time to put on the cashmere coat and mittens.”
Jerry stroked his fedora, which sat soft and gray as a cat on the desk. “You’re my client.”
“Former client.” Anger surged as Pagan narrowed her eyes at him. “I got the notice of termination from the agency, Jerry. That was one piece of mail they made sure I received while in custody.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your trial.” Jerry took another cigarette out of a gold case and tapped it on the desk, feeling his pocket for a lighter. “And I’m sorry about that notice. It wasn’t kind.”
“No, but it’s what big Hollywood agents
