won’t be forgotten.’”
“He sounds as if he knows. I wonder if he’s lost someone.” Taylor studied the picture, looking for shadows behind that enigmatic smile. She couldn’t tell anything from the glossy photograph.
“The article doesn’t say anything like that about him, but it’s possible.” Kate returned to the stove to drain the pasta. For a few moments the kitchen was silent except for Belle’s snuffly breathing and the sauce burbling on the stove.
“You know,” Kate said suddenly, “maybe you’ve been going about this the wrong way with McKinnon.”
“How?”
“You want to keep him from interviewing Hunter. But maybe you should be thanking your lucky stars he’s interested in the case.”
Taylor stared at her. “You’re crazy. Hunter doesn’t need more negative publicity. He’s had enough to last a lifetime.”
“What if it’s not negative? McKinnon’s books are extensively researched. He has a reputation for writing genuine, accurate stories, even in cases where the cops messed up. If you show him the evidence you’ve gathered since Hunter’s conviction, he can’t help but see that your brother is innocent.”
“You’re the one who read that quote. He writes for the victims and their families. Not for the accused killers.”
“We both know Hunter is no killer. You just have to convince Wyatt McKinnon. Imagine what it would do for Hunter’s appeal if McKinnon wrote a book questioning whether an innocent man is on death row!”
“He sat through the trial and heard the state’s case. As far as he’s concerned, Hunter killed Dru and her mother and her unborn baby. Just like the rest of the world, I’m sure he thinks Hunter deserves what’s coming to him.”
“You just have to prove that he and the rest of the world are wrong.”
Taylor gave a short laugh. “Sure. And while I’m at it, I’ll solve world hunger and in my spare time maybe I’ll find a cure for cancer.”
“Who else will speak up for Hunter? You and I are just about the only people on the planet who believe he’s innocent. But imagine if he had someone as influential and well-known as Wyatt McKinnon in his corner. He would be bound to win an appeal.”
Kate was right. If she could somehow convince Wyatt to help her prove her brother didn’t murder anyone, it would undoubtedly help Hunter’s appeal. But how could she face him again? Just the idea of another encounter made her stomach hurt worse than the first time she had to answer a question aloud in her miserable contracts-law class.
She could do it, though. She would. Hunter’s life depended on it.
Chapter 2
Taylor dreaded Tuesday afternoons like she used to hate the dance lessons her father insisted on during her pre-adolescence.
Monday evening at around nine o’clock her stomach would start to ache like a rotten tooth and her shoulders would stiffen with tension. She could pretend everything was fine, could just go on as normal and try her best to concentrate through her Tuesday morning torts class. But by the time she set off on the thirty-minute drive from the University of Utah campus to the Point of the Mountain state prison, at the south end of the vast Salt Lake Valley, she was usually a mass of tangled nerves.
Hunter really didn’t want her there. Each visit he told her not to come again, to contact him by phone if she needed to talk to him. But each Monday evening she girded herself for the ordeal of another visit.
She hated it, but she would keep coming every Tuesday until hell froze over, or until Hunter was free.
As horrible as it was to see her brother under the harsh, dehumanizing conditions at the prison—to watch him harden a little more each week—she knew she would continue to make this trip across the valley, past housing developments and shopping malls and warehouses.
If nothing else, each visit to her brother’s hell renewed her determination to see him out of there.
She drew in a deep breath and fought the urge to press a hand to her knotted stomach as she watched the mile markers slip past.
When she was younger, her father had taken her and Hunter this way a few times on business trips out of the valley to southern Utah or Las Vegas. She had never given it much thought, other than to wonder at this scary huddle of buildings that seemed out in the middle of nowhere.
She found it disconcerting to realize how in eighteen months the Point of the Mountain complex had become so much a part of her life.
The valley’s population had grown dramatically in the past decade and houses had sprung up within a stone’s throw of the prison complex. Draper and Bluffdale were two of the fastest-growing communities in the state. How odd, she thought, that South Mountain, to the east of the prison across the freeway, was actually one of the more desirable slices of real estate in the valley, with sprawling, million-dollar homes and groomed golf courses.
She wondered if Hunter could look across the interstate at all those bright, shiny houses—if the contrast between the world of those who lived in them and his own life seemed as stark and depressing to him as it always did to her.
She took the prison exit and a few moments later passed the first of many security checkpoints. The guard recognized her but checked her driver’s license against his visitor list anyway, before allowing her to enter. Cars weren’t searched entering the prison—only on the way out.
In the visitor parking lot, she sat for a moment behind the wheel, trying to dig deep inside herself for at least the semblance of a positive attitude. For Hunter’s sake, she tried hard to hide how much she hated coming here, how each visit seemed to bleed away more of her hope that her brother would walk free.
Just for practice, she forced a smile for the rearview mirror. Okay, it wasn’t exactly perky but it was better than nothing.
With her non-perky smile firmly in place, she locked her car, pocketed her keys—since purses weren’t allowed inside—and headed into the Uinta maximum security prison for the next round of checkpoints.
The guard waiting inside was the first bright spot in what had been a grim day. He offered her a wide, sunny smile. “Doc Bradshaw. This is a pleasure.”
Her smile felt almost genuine as she greeted Richard Gonzolez. She didn’t bother to correct him that she was several credits shy of ever being a doctor. He had called her Doc Bradshaw as long as she had been coming to see her brother.
Richard was one of her favorite guards in the unit—some of the corrections officers made her feel even more like a piece of meat than did the leering inmates, but Officer Gonzolez always treated her with courtesy and respect and even kindness.
“Great to see you again!” she said. “I’ve missed you these last few months. I thought Tuesdays were your day off.”
“I’m back on for a while. I needed to change my shift so I could have Fridays off instead.”
“How’s Trina?” Taylor asked about his wife.
His ready smile looked a little strained around the edges. “Could be
