“Are you serious?”

“It’s better than going in solo.” He lifts his chin at the guard. “You got bathrooms close?”

“I can’t wear your undershirt!” Emma hisses.

He’s already loosening his cuffs. “It’s a T-shirt, not an undershirt. Gimme one minute.”

The bathrooms are in an adjacent hallway. Bell comes out tucking his tails in at the back, with the T-shirt under his arm. Emma blushes to high heaven. She grabs the shirt and stalks into the women’s room.

Bell’s shirt is worn soft from many washings. It smells unfamiliar and is still warm from him. She stuffs her own T-shirt into the pocket of her jacket, which she’ll be leaving in the locker, it seems.

“All good now?” The guard appears bemused.

“Peachy,” Emma mutters.

“We’re good,” Bell says.

They’re buzzed through.

A series of rolling gates and barred windows, beige-painted cinder block corridors. Emma squeezes her hands into fists.

Another guard unlocks the door to the interview room. The room is not like the general visitation area: It’s private, compact, and there’s a single chair facing two other chairs across a screwed-down metal table. There’s also a one-way mirror on the wall, which Emma doesn’t like.

“McMurtry will think they’re observing his responses.”

“This is all they can give us, I think,” Bell says. “But let me ask.”

He knocks on the door, steps out to speak to the duty guard. For the moment the door is open, Emma hears the buzz of gate releases, the clang of metal, a faraway yelping that sounds more animal than human.

She rubs the cold out of her biceps and searches for balance. Her armpits are damp and the tinnitus in her head has returned. She tries to block it out, to simply recall everything she read about Clarence McMurtry in Cooper’s summary.

Seventeen years old—his birthday was only a month ago. White male, five-six, brown and brown, no identifying marks or tattoos. That might have changed since he entered prison; he’s been incarcerated for nearly a year. His aunt, Joanna McMurtry, visits him at 11:00 AM every other Saturday. The aunt, a sixty-one-year-old widow, is the woman who raised McMurtry after his own mother, Joanna’s sister, broke parole on a variety of drug and solicitation charges eleven years ago and left the state, current whereabouts unknown.

Bell steps back in. “This is what we’ve got. And McMurtry’s on his way.”

“Okay.” Emma nods, sits in one of the chairs, stands up again.

Bell frowns at the door, hands on hips. “You still want to keep this conversational, like we talked about?” He glances at her. Looks more closely. “Lewis?”

“Yes. Maybe.” Emma is aware that her voice sounds detached. “Maybe not.”

Bell angles in front of her. “How’re you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because we can—”

“Just stop talking for a second.” The walls suddenly feel very close and the room seems over-warm. “I need to focus.”

Bell becomes a kind of stillness, like lake water. “Are you gonna be okay? We don’t have to do this.”