Not being able to touch him would be torture, but at least she would be able to see for herself that he was okay.

Only a few more minutes.

Jane glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. In the hour since their initial meeting, Elton had spoken both with the D.A. a.s.signed to try the case against Ian and to the police. He had learned that the grand jury was hearing the charges against Ian that afternoon. The prosecutor had promised Elton the indictment today. Other than expressing confidence in his case, the man had said little else.

Jane shivered, though not from the cold. She was both terrified and hopeful, angry and resigned. How could the prosecutor be confident when Ian was innocent? She kept telling herself that Elton Crane was the best, that he would blow the state's case apart- maybe even before they went to trial. She even dared to hope that the real killer would be found in the meantime and Ian would be set free.

But the police weren't looking for the real killer-they thought they had him already.

Pacing, she rehea.r.s.ed what she would say when she saw her husband, how she would act. She had to maintain her composure, couldn't fall apart. He needed her to be strong. Confident. She wouldn't mention

the clipping and its ominous message. It would only make him worry, only increase his feelings of helplessness and frustration.

She had decided to cancel her show. The timing was wrong. She needed to devote all her energy to Ian.

And their baby.

"Jane?"

She stopped, turned. Elton stood in the doorway. He motioned her inside.

"How is he?" she asked when she reached him.

"Good," Elton a.s.sured her. "Anxious to see you."

"You told him everything?"

"Yes." He touched her elbow, steering her toward the desk officer. He told the man who she was here to

see and she signed in. They made their way through the metal detector, her handbag through the Xray.

The lawyer touched her arm. "I'll make some calls while you're in with Ian. The indictment might be in."

She followed the guard. He led her to the visitation area, a bank of open cubicles, similar to teller

windows at a bank, only sealed with Plexiglas. A single wooden chair sat on either side of each cubicle.

"Wait here," he said, indicating the one marked "6."

She sat. Seconds ticked by, seeming like hours. She found it difficult to breathe past the tightness in her

chest. Past the thundering of her heart. She clasped her hands together; her palms were damp.

Then she saw him. A cry slipping past her lips, she jumped to her feet. She didn't know what she had

expected, but certainly not this drawn, beaten-looking man in an orange jumpsuit. He looked like he had aged five years in the past twenty-four hours.

She picked up the phone. He did the same. The guard who had escorted Ian in took a place behind him,

hand on his gun.

As if uncomfortable with the other man's presence, Ian angled away from him. As he did, she got a better view of the right side of his face. An ugly bruise marred the right side of his jaw.

"My G.o.d," she said, alarmed. "What happened?"

"It's not what you think. I fell." He leaned toward the gla.s.s, expression naked with yearning. "I couldn't stop thinking about you last night. Worrying. About how you were doing. What you were thinking. About the baby."

"We're fine. I'm fine." She held the phone tightly to her ear as if it would bring him closer. "Don't worry about us."

"No, I need to. Thinking about you is the only thing that keeps me sane. I miss you so much. I miss...us." Jane fought to get a hold of her runaway despair. "It's going to be okay. Elton is supposed to be the best. Whit said so. He'll get you out of here."

A cloud moved over Ian's expression. "He laid it all out for me. What they're saying. I didn't do it, Jane."

"I know you didn't."

"I couldn't hurt anyone," he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. "The last time I saw Marsha was that night

when she left work. I was home the night Elle was murdered."

She laid her hand on the Plexiglas, aching to hold him. To comfort him. "I know," she said. "I believe you." He fitted his palm against hers; though separated by the gla.s.s, she found comfort in it. "I don't deserve you."

"Don't say that."

"I never cheated on you, Jane. I love you. I love our baby." His voice broke. "You believe me, don't

you?"

"Yes." The word came out a choked whisper. "Of course I do."

"Without you, I won't make it through this."

"We will make it, Ian. I promise you that. I'll prove you're innocent. I don't know how, but I will."

"Thank you." He moved his fingers against the Plexiglas in a kind of caress.

"I'm canceling my show."

"I knew you were going to say that. But I'm not going to let you do it, Jane. You've worked too hard."

"It means nothing to me now. Without you, none of it matters. Besides, I have to devote my full attention

to getting you out of here. No distractions."

"If you cancel because of me, I'll never forgive myself. Promise me you won't."

She tried to argue. He refused to allow it. In the end, she promised not to, though her heart wasn't in it.

How could she devote her thoughts or enthusiasm to anything right now? How could she move through her life pretending it wasn't falling apart?

Elton was waiting outside for her. "I have news," he said. "The indictment's in."

Jane braced herself. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry, Jane. He's being charged with capital murder with special circ.u.mstances. The State plans to

ask for the death penalty."

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Thursday, October 23, 2003

11:05 p.m.

The jangle of the phone dragged Jane from deep sleep. Her eyes snapped open. In that moment, all was right with her world. Ian slept beside her. She was pregnant with their first child; life was good. Then reality crashed down on her. The murders. Ian's arrest. The clipping with its boldly scrawled message.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams.

The phone jangled again. The portable receiver lay on the bed stand; she grabbed it. "h.e.l.lo?" she

managed, voice froggy with sleep.

"Mrs. Westbrook?"

"Yes?"

"Trish Daniels from the Dallas Morning News. I wondered if I could get a statement from you about your

husband's arrest?"

Jane came fully awake. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"I apologize for the timing, Mrs. Westbrook, but-"

"No." Her voice rose. "If you want a statement, call my husband's attorney, Elton Crane."

"We understand Terry Stockton's asking for the death penalty. A statement would-"

Jane hung up on the woman and in a burst of anger threw the receiver across the room. It hit the dresser

and broke open, its battery pack spilling out. Elton had warned her this might happen. The double homicide was big news; her and Ian's involvement made it s.e.xy-the handsome plastic surgeon and his quasi famous artist wife, a hometown girl who had fought her way back from tragedy to find fame and true love. The police version of the story had all the elements the press loved to print and the public lapped up: s.e.x, betrayal, greed and murder. It made her sick to think of it. At least they didn't know about her pregnancy. Yet. No doubt they would find out. When they did they would exploit it.

Jane sat up, pushed her hair away from her face. The attorney had advised her that the press could be merciless, that she should expect them to lay in wait for her and to call at all hours.

He had advised her to say nothing, simply refer them to him. He had stressed the importance of her maintaining silence. For now. The less in the media, the better. When the time was right, they would plant the information they wanted disseminated.

She had thought him exaggerating. She had been certain maintaining her cool would be easy.

She had been wrong on both counts. Reporters had been waiting for her when she arrived home earlier that afternoon. The phone had rung all afternoon and evening. With each call, each "No comment," the urge to give the caller a piece of her mind had become stronger, the compulsion to jump to Ian's defense more urgent.