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"That's why we have trials," said Quinn. He started moving again, pressing his way through the crowd, ignoring the rest of their shouted questions.

More DNA evidence. What had he gotten himself into? And why had he made it a go-to-the-mat issue with his firm?

Maybe I'm the one who's insane.

45

Ironically, Tasha Moorehouse's alleged crime-lying on a firearms transaction record as the straw purchaser of guns for the black market-was considered a nonviolent offense, making her eligible for the work duty the luckier inmates performed each Wednesday. As a third-time drug offender, Holly could join the crew as well. But not Catherine. Alleged serial killers were not qualified to pick up trash along local highways and endure the scorn of passing motorists. In theory, they posed too big of a flight risk, too much danger to others. Violent offenders were not entitled to see the sun.

When the other inmates returned from work duty late in the afternoon, Tasha was not among them. "One of the male guards tried to take one of the Widows into the woods along North Landing Road," a gang member explained. "When Tasha jumped in and started cursin' him out and makin' a big scene, she ended up in solitary."

While Cat was fretting about spending the night alone with Holly, more trouble showed up, this time in the form of a television newscast. DNA testing on the paper towels found in Cat's neighbor's trash revealed traces of Paul Donaldson's blood and contained a match from Cat's saliva. On hearing the news, Cat stepped from the pod into her cell so she could brood alone.

By now, she was almost immune to the avalanche of incriminating evidence. Though she still believed in her own innocence, it no longer surprised her when seemingly rock-solid scientific evidence pointed straight at her. Somebody was setting her up. And that somebody was doing a very good job.

The noise from the pod and the general chaos that now defined Cat's life made it hard to think rationally. But one question kept haunting her: how had the police even known to look in the neighbor's trash? And a corollary question: how would the person setting her up know that the police would look there?

The more she thought about it, the more she realized there was only one logical conclusion: Cat was being set up by somebody on the police force or in the prosecutor's office. Somebody who could guarantee police would find this evidence. But also-and this was the part that freaked Cat out-somebody who had access to Paul Donaldson's blood even though the body had not yet been found. Could the Avenger of Blood be a cop?

Actually, there was one other possibility, and the very thought of it made Cat want to puke. Multiple personality disorder. Or dissociative identify disorder, whatever you wanted to call it. A demon-possessed Catherine exacting revenge on those who raped and got away with it, then attempting to hide evidence next door. She put her face in her hands and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead.

It couldn't be. For starters, there was just no possible way that Catherine could harm innocent babies like the Carver twins and Rayshad Milburn. Sure, she still felt rage boil up when she thought about that night at the frat house. But it was rage directed at Kenny and his frat brothers, not others who Catherine didn't even know. Especially not attorneys like Rex Archibald and Bobby Carver. They were just doing their jobs, detestable as they might be.

There had to be some other explanation. Because if Catherine truly believed she had done these awful acts, Boyd Gates wouldn't have to worry about prosecuting her. There wouldn't be any need for a trial.

She would take her own life first.

46

That evening, Catherine hit rock bottom. Depression reached out to embrace her as the last vestiges of hope faded away. Her visitors were fewer that night, and she saw the first signs of skepticism even among her closest friends. Her sister, Kelsey, always upbeat, couldn't manage a smile. And Cat couldn't blame her; she had her own doubts.

The new evidence seemed to shake even the confidence of Marc Boland, who stopped by to see how Cat was doing. He asked her point-blank questions about the paper towels, but Cat couldn't help. She could think of no way those paper towels, with their incriminating evidence, could have ended up in her neighbor's trash. She still suspected it was a setup, she told Bo, and he tended to agree with her. But tonight, unlike their prior visits, he warned Cat that this would be a tough trial and that nothing was guaranteed. Cat nodded stoically, too numb for any emotional reaction. She wondered if Quinn Newberg would stay on the case.

Cat promised Bo that she would cancel her interview with the Tidewater Times. Cat's editor reacted by sending his own message through a coworker who visited Cat-the paper wouldn't be able to run Cat's journal from jail. They had already done a similar series right after Cat's contempt sentence, the coworker explained. And, to be frank, the public was obsessing over Cat, wondering whether she was a ruthless serial killer. People probably weren't in any mood to read her complaints about jail food or lack of a soft bed.

In other words, thought Cat, my own paper has already convicted me. That troubled Cat the most-that her coworkers and some of her friends had turned so quickly against her.

That night in the cell, Cat did her best to ignore Holly's mindless rants. Holly, of course, had heard about the new evidence against Cat and prowled around the cell, complaining about being cellmates with a serial killer. Holly would recite the evidence over and over and tell Cat to face it, she was going to get the needle.

Cat shook her head in disgust. "Take your medication."

"Mind your own business, Barbie."

Minutes dragged by, and eventually Holly settled down. When the lights went out for lockdown, Cat sat in her bed with her back to the wall, staring into the dark void of the cell. Before long, Holly's rhythmic breathing and occasional snorting indicated she had fallen asleep. It gave Cat time to think and process the emotions she had been holding at bay through most of the day.

More than anything, Cat was struck by the realization that she needed help. She had always been strong, savvy, and self-sufficient. But now, she was merely Catherine O'Rourke, inmate number 08-317. She needed help from the Widows to survive prison. She needed Marc Boland and Quinn Newberg to help her survive the trial. She needed family and friends for emotional support.

And for the first time in her life, she realized how much she needed professional psychiatric help. Cat could repress her emotions and avoid issues with the best of them. But actually dealing with her emotions required vulnerability. Until she had nothing left to lose, she just wasn't willing to be quite that vulnerable.

The stigma of seeking psychiatric help no longer mattered. Who cares about such things when most of the world thinks you're a serial killer?

She would check out what types of services were available first thing in the morning. In the meantime, she lay on her side and curled up on the mattress. She wouldn't go to sleep, she promised herself, but she could at least lie down in a more comfortable position.

As she relaxed, her swirling thoughts seemed to calm, like the still waters of a river following a section of harrowing whitewater. She tucked her hands up under her pillow and closed her eyes. She drifted in and out for a few minutes, mindful of the danger lurking in her own cell but exhausted to the bone.

Ten minutes later, Cat fell into a fitful sleep.

47

Quinn squirmed in his seat at the Mirage high-stakes table, realizing that this was the moment. He had played methodically throughout the night, netting nearly fifteen thousand dollars. Not bad, considering he was playing everything straight by the book-no signals, no allies, just Quinn and his carefully calculated risks.