Reba Lafferty stood on the pavement in prison-issue tennis shoes, blue jeans, and a plain white T-shirt without benefit of a brassiere. All inmates are obliged to surrender their personal clothing on arrival at the prison, but I was surprised her father hadn't sent her something of her own to wear home. I knew she'd been compelled to purchase the outfit she wore since the articles were considered government property. She'd apparently declined the prison-issue bra, which was probably about as flattering as an orthopedic brace. Inmates are also | required to leave prison without anything in hand, except their two hundred bucks in cash. Startled, I saw that she looked exactly like the I' photo. Given Nord Lafferty's advanced age, I'd pictured Reba in her fifties. This girl was barely thirty.

Her hair was now cropped short and looked damp from a shower. During her incarceration, the blond had grown out and the natural dark strands were spikey, as though she'd stiffened them with mousse. I expected her to be heavy, but she was trim almost to the point of looking frail. I could see the bony hollows of her collarbones beneath the cheap fabric of her T-shirt. Her complexion was clear but faintly sallow, and her eyes were smudged with dark shadows. There was something sensual about her; a defiance in her posture, a touch of swagger in her walk.

I lifted my hand in greeting and she crossed the road, moving in my direction.

"You here for me?"

"That's right. I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said.

"Great. I'm Reba Lafferty. Let's hit the friggin' road," she said as we shook hands.

We walked to the car and for the next hour, that was the extent of our conversation.

I prefer silence to small talk so the lack of chitchat wasn't awkward.

I varied my route, catching Highway 5 south until it intersected the 101. A couple of times I thought of asking her a question, but I didn't think the ones that came to mind were any of my business. Why'd you steal the money and How'd you screw it up and get caught being foremost.

It was Reba who finally broke the silence. "Pop told you why I was in?"

"He said you took money, but that's all," I said. I noticed that I'd bypassed the word 'embezzlement,' as though it might be rude to name the crime that resulted in her prison term.

She rested her head against the back of the seat. "He's a love. He deserves a lot better than me."

"May I ask how old you are?"

"Thirty-two."

"No offense, but you look about twelve. How old was your dad when you were born?"

"Fifty-six. My mother was twenty-one. There's a match made in heaven. No telling what her deal was. She dropped me like a litter of kittens and hit the road."

"Does she keep in touch?"