“After all these years.” Linda’s voice choked. “My, I think I’m going to cry.” And she did.

They dropped the embrace but Rebecca continued to hold the other woman’s hands tightly. “It’s good to see you, Linda.”

“Oh, Rebecca…I’ve prayed for you a lot.”

“You’re into that now? You didn’t used to know a cross from a Star of David. Well, thanks for the prayers. Not sure they took.”

“No, no, you’re doing such good things. Really! The church office has a computer. I saw your website. Women starting their own businesses. It’s wonderful. I’m sure it does a lot of good.”

Rebecca seemed surprised that Linda had kept up with her.

Dance pointed out the available bedroom and Rebecca carried her backpack into it, and used the restroom.

“You need me, boss, just holler.” TJ left and Dance locked the door behind him.

Linda picked up her teacup, fiddled with it, not taking a sip. How people love their props in stressful situations, Dance reflected. She’d interrogated suspects who clutched pens, ashtrays, food wrappers and even their shoes to dull the stress.

Rebecca returned and Dance offered her some coffee.

“You bet.”

Dance poured her some and set out milk and sugar. “There’s no public restaurant here, but they have room service. Order whatever you’d like.”

Sipping the coffee, Rebecca said, “I’ve got to say, Linda, you’re looking good.”

A blush. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not in the shape I’d like. You’re glamorous. And thin! I love your hair.”

Rebecca laughed. “Hey, nothing like a couple years in prison to turn you gray, hm? Hey, no ring. You’re not married?”

“Nope.”

“Me either.”

“You’re kidding. You were going to marry some hunky Italian sculptor. I thought for sure you’d be hooked up now.”

“Not easy to find Mr. Right when men hear your boyfriend was Daniel Pell. I read about your father in BusinessWeek. Something about his bank expanding.”

“Really? I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re still not talking?”

Linda shook her head. “My brother doesn’t talk to them either. We’re two poor church mice. But it’s for the best, believe me. You still paint?”

“Some. Not professionally.”

“No? Really?” Linda turned to Dance, her eyes shining. “Oh, Rebecca was so good! You should see her work. I mean, she’s the best.”

“Just sketch for fun now.”

They spent a few minutes catching up. Dance was surprised that though they both lived on the West Coast they hadn’t communicated since the trial.

Rebecca glanced at Dance. “Samantha joining our coffee klatch? Or whatever her name is now?”

“No, just the two of you.”

“Sam was always the timid one.”

“‘Mouse,’ remember?” Linda said.

“That’s right. That’s what Pell called her. ‘My Mouse.’”

They refilled their cups and Dance got down to work, asking Rebecca the same basic questions she’d asked Linda.

“I was the last one to get suckered in by Mr. Pell,” the thin woman said sourly. “It was only…when?” A glance at Linda, who said, “January. Just four months before the Croyton situation.”