Edward climbed into the cold leather bench seat of the car and sucked air through his back teeth at the shock to his backside and thighs. Which three prisoners had made the escape? The radio announcement hadn’t given names. There was just one he needed to be worried about. One inmate who’d cause problems for Edward in the world outside the prison walls. Vivian was going to be sore at him when she woke up and found he’d gone to work after all, but she’d get over it. Inmate eleven-three-oh-five was the one he was worried about.

His mouth was set in a grim line as he worried about that one inmate, and prepared for the chaos that would greet him when he walked through the gates. He was already a half hour late due to Vivian’s paranoia. But, as the car rumbled down the road, Edward’s mind went back to the conversation he’d had with his wife before he put her to bed. He chuckled to himself as he recalled her demands. A telephone. Only a woman would want a telephone in the house. All the better to gossip with, my dear!

Chapter 11

Betty Miller wasn’t the biggest gossip in Wooster; Vivian would’ve given that trophy to Bell’s own Ruth Craven. She considered Ruth a friend, just not a friend you tell your secrets to, if you wanted to keep them secret. Betty Miller was not only not a friend, but she had an uncomfortable grip of influence in town. And now, after that telephone call, she had a secret that threatened to destroy Vivian, and Vivian had already felt the destruction begin. She was all alone with the black dread that hung over her thoughts like a death shroud as she walked to work that morning, a faint pink rimming the horizon. It had snowed a little the night before, so her worn ankle boots were making fresh tracks up the sidewalks.

How stupid did you have to be to agree to work an evening shift one day, and then a morning shift the next? Pretty goddamned stupid. The recent turn of events had the black dread extending to Vivian’s self-talk. She was being much harder on herself than was usual. The self-talk sounded like her mother. But, really, she had some seniority now, and needed to remember that when Leona was making the schedule. Leona was getting on in years and needed some reminding. Never mind. She’d still have time to make the spaghetti tonight. For Edward. For Edward. She stomped her boots with the words, and on the second “Edward” hit a patch of hidden ice with her right boot that threw her into a clumsy slide with pocketbook flailing around her head as she struggled to stay upright. Her insides shivered with the threat of the fall, and once she’d found her footing again she huffed and straightened her coat and her Beulah Bechtel hat. Now she felt angry and foolish. At any other time she would’ve laughed at herself. Laughed and said, “Whooopsies!” and been thankful she hadn’t landed on her backside. But today hot tears began to threaten. She shouldn’t have bought the hat. She was being punished for her pride in buying the hat.