“I looked up Joe. There are visiting hours today. If we leave now, we can make it down to the prison and back before the dance.”

“You still want to go with me to the dance?”

“Of course. Do you want to go with me?”

“Yes, but…I skipped the funeral today for a reason. I shouldn’t go to the dance, either.”

“Why? Because a few people are mad at you? Because they’ll talk? Fuck ’em. We’ll get dressed up, I’ll sneak in a flask, we’ll dance our asses off, and seriously, fuck ’em.”

Ben’s enthusiasm is contagious. He grabs me by the hand, twirls me; I spin around and around, giggling. Then I stop. Backtrack.

“Why would we go visit Joe Bedecki in prison?”

“Why not? Could be good closure. I know that on the face of it, you’ve wanted to solve Natalie’s murder. But we both know this is more than that. Distraction by way of unhealthy obsession. This is taking it to the next level. Going in deep. And, honestly, I’ve grown up hearing tales about this guy like he’s the boogeyman. I wanna meet him. It’ll be a wacky adventure we’ll tell our kids about someday.”

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? Don’t go asking me to marry you.”

With one hand, Ben grasps at his shirt, above his heart. The other pats over his pants pocket. “Oh shit, are engagement rings exchangeable? I was going to propose at the dance.”

I laugh in spite of myself, hopping off the kitchen barstool to retrieve two travel mugs, now that the coffee has stopped sputtering. “Let’s go on a road trip to prison.”

Over the next three hours, two-lane highways turn to wine country turn to rolling suburbia, until we pass through a neighborhood of squat ranches, down a palm-tree-lined drive leading to the state prison. The complex is a sprawl of white buildings fenced in, the perimeter dotted with security towers. I expect a big, bad prison like from the movies, but reality is disappointingly municipal. We walk into a beige-on-beige lobby that could be a school district office or a bank.

A bored-looking woman sits behind a plexiglass cubicle cut into the cinder-block walls.

“Are you on the list?” Her eyes narrow, and my heart leaps into my throat. Of course we’re not on the list. Shit!

“It’s under Ellis and Vann,” Ben answers smoothly. “I sent in the questionnaire yesterday.”