PROLOGUE #2
‘Yeah. Doyle is used to seeing him in chains. If he walks in there a way she’s never seen him before, she has to think. Thinking is a tell.’
‘Dark is right,’ said Ripley. ‘Do it.’
Dever shook his head, but it wasn’t a no. He turned to the officers and nodded once. There was a small ceremony to Creed’s chains being removed, and once free, Creed shook himself down.
‘Thank you. Shall I go in?’
‘Sit opposite the woman. Take as long as you need to. Signal to us through the glass once you’re finished. Give us a thumbs-up.’
A speaker on the wall above the glass crackled. Dever pressed a button on the console and the sound came through cleaner. The woman’s chair scraped an inch as she adjusted herself. She wasn’t looking at anything. Her eyes were on the table top.
‘Take him in,’ Dever said.
The door to the interview room opened. The officers escorted Creed over the threshold and then took their positions. One of them closed the door.
Ella moved right up to the glass. She couldn’t see all of Creed’s face, just the curve of his ear and one side of his shaved head. Creed waited until Doyle returned his gaze, then he took his seat opposite her.
Creed nodded at her.
It was a small thing. A dip of the chin, half an inch at most. It could have been him acknowledging a stranger across a coffee shop. It could have been a man clearing his sinuses. It could also have been a hello, old friend.
Ella’s ribs tightened, and the pain in her lip flared up.
She zoned in on Doyle’s microexpressions.
Or she would have, if there were any microexpressions to zone in on.
Doyle was as still as a photograph. Creed began to scrutinize her, without subtlety, like she was an optical illusion.
Doyle held his stare, but her expression was a picture of indifference.
Ella had profiled Lindsey Doyle as an obsessive devotee of Austin Creed, and if that were true, Doyle would exhibit some kind of sign in his unexpected presence.
Creed then reached across the table and grabbed Doyle’s hand.
Ella watched. Doyle briefly flinched at his touch. The two guards stepped closer, then retreated. Creed held her hand gently, pushed the sleeve of her jumpsuit up and then rested his thumb on her pulse.
What the hell is he doing?
Ripley nudged Ella. ‘Dark, you getting anything?’
‘No. You?’
‘No. Blink and breathing rate are still baseline. Feet haven’t moved this whole time.’
Creed let go of Doyle’s hand and she snatched it back under the table. Then Creed sat back, waited, and then raised his hand. He gave his audience a thumbs-up.
He was finished.
Dever hit the buzzer. ‘Get him out.’
The officers jumped into action. They escorted Creed from his chair, through the door and back out into the observation room.
One officer stuck the handcuffs back on Creed, then brought him over to Ella, Ripley and Dever.
Creed observed Doyle one more time through the glass, then looked straight at Ella.
‘I’m sorry, Ella,’ Creed said.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her eyes felt like they were made of sandpaper. ‘Sorry for what?’
‘The woman in that room… is not Officer Doyle.’
Ella heard the sentence. She watched the lower half of his mouth as it formed the sentence. He added unnecessary vowels to the word Doyle, as a Louisiana native would. He spoke the whole sentence without taking a breath.
None of it told her whether he was lying.
Dever’s stare went from the agents to the guards to Doyle and finally back to Creed. ‘You’re sure?’
‘One hundred percent. It’s not her.’
The numbers were the numbers. If Creed said the woman was Lindsey Doyle, his sentence converted to life without parole and they put him in a federal facility, possibly with a library.
If he said she wasn’t, the deal collapsed – or it might collapse, depending on what Vernon could be persuaded to do – and Creed went back to Camp F to wait for the state of Louisiana to put a needle in his arm.
A man who wanted to live said yes.
Creed had said no.
Ella ran the math again and got the same answer. She had spent two years inside his head and a fortnight in his presence, and she did not believe that Austin Creed was a man who wanted to die.
Therefore, two options remained.
Either the woman in the room behind her was not Lindsey Doyle, and Creed had told the truth and signed his death warrant out of some principle Ella couldn’t yet identify.
Or the woman in the room was Lindsey Doyle, and Creed was protecting her at a cost that didn’t make sense for any version of him Ella had ever met.
Dever said, ‘I’ll ask you once more, Mr Creed, and I’ll ask you to think before you answer. Was that woman-’
‘It’s not her,’ Creed snapped. ‘Officer Doyle has scar tissue on her wrist. That woman doesn’t.’
‘Scar tissue?’ Ripley asked.
‘Yes. Very bad scar tissue. An inmate at Louisiana Pen attacked her with a blade. I know because I saw it. And yes, that woman in there looks a lot like Officer Doyle, but there are differences. I can’t tell you exactly what’s different, but I saw Doyle every day. That’s not her.’
Ella ran the math one more time and got the same answer.
If the wound was bad enough to leave the scarring Creed was describing, it would be in Lindsey’s file.
Dever could have that information within two phone calls.
Ella tried to pull up a mental picture of Lindsey Doyle’s wrist but didn’t have one.
Her arms had always been covered every time Ella had seen her.
‘Austin,’ Ella said. ‘You’re being honest.’
‘Ella, I’d bet my life on it.’
Creed laughed, but nobody else did.