Martin Misunderstood

Martin realized the guard had come back. He let go of her hand.

Evie dabbed under her eyes and smiled at the guard until he left. 'I thought you might grow a pair,' she snapped at Martin. 'I thought it might convince you to actually do something with your pathetic, miserable life – but, noooo, all you did was complain. "Wah, wah, somebody scratched my car. Poor me. Nobody loves me." If you had confronted Sandy, we wouldn't be here right now.'

'Are you insane? Confronted her for doing something that you did?'

'Maybe it would've sent her a message that she couldn't get away with teasing you.' Evie made her voice even lower. 'You never understand, Martin.'

Her attacks were starting to sting. 'What don't I understand?'

'Did it ever occur to you that I was doing you a favor by taking her out? It wasn't easy getting her to meet me. I had to pretend that I had found illegal drugs in your sock drawer.'

'Illegal drugs?'

Evie shrugged. 'She had a problem.'

'Really?' Martin frowned. He'd never pegged Sandy for a drug user.

'That's not the point,' Evie snapped. 'I did it for us, Martin, to give us new lives. When I bashed her in the head, I was bashing her for you. I ran over her three times with your car, Martin. One roll for every decade she humiliated you.'

The math added up, but still Martin shook his head. 'It was never about me. You wanted something bad to happen so you could trot yourself out there as the victim. You couldn't make me gay or give me ALS, so you went out and killed somebody. Two somebodys.'

'Martin.'

'The minute I was arrested, you were on the phone with Families and Friends of Violent Criminals.'

'The FFVC has been very kind to me and I don't appreciate your bad-mouthing them,' she quipped. 'And, besides, I could have done something to you – did you ever consider that, genius? I could have poisoned you. I could have stabbed you.' She didn't wait for an answer, which was just as well because he didn't have one. 'I could've whacked you over the head and made you retarded or ran over your legs with a lawnmower.' She was clearly exasperated. 'Don't you see, Martin? Can't you understand that this way is better, because we both get a second chance out of it?'

Martin threw his hands into the air. 'I give up. I really give up.'

'What is your problem?' she whispered, her voice hoarse. 'Why can't you grasp this basic thing?'

'What basic thing?'

'Is it so wrong to want to be around people? To be cared about? Isn't that why you keep making all those false confessions, so An keeps coming back to interview you?'

Martin crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to look out the window.

'You've got it pretty sweet in here, Martin. You get to read all day. You work in the warden's office doing the books. The other boys respect you, for once in your life.'

She had a point on that last one, he had to admit. Martin was on death row. People didn't mess with him nearly as much anymore (unsurprisingly, no one wanted to have sex with him in prison, either).

Evie pressed, 'You've carved out a nice little niche for yourself. It's much more than you would have if you were still living with me.'

He shook his head, coming to his senses. 'I think it's pretty obvious who's really benefiting. We have televisions here, Mother. I saw you on Entertainment Tonight drinking champagne at George Clooney's villa.'

She smoothed down her skirt, picking an invisible piece of fluff off the cashmere. 'Don't sit there and pretend you're not exploiting your own situation.'

'I'm at least doing some good,' Martin insisted. Some of the crimes he had taken credit for had been unsolved for years. He had read in People magazine that the mother of one of his 'victims' had actually said, on her death bed, 'At least now I know.' Was Martin to be blamed for not killing and raping the woman's daughter? Was it his fault that he hadn't committed the crime? Was it his fault that he would say anything to keep his beloved Anther coming to see him?

Aye, there's the rub.

'Martin?' Evie snapped her fingers in front of his face. She had packed up her legal pad and pen. 'I have to go. I'm meeting with the producers about your movie.'

Martin scowled. He had not approved of casting Philip Seymour Hoffman in the lead.

'Oh, knock that look off your face. Phil's a lovely boy.' She stood up, pronouncing loudly, 'Now, give your mother a kiss goodbye.'

He puckered up and she put first one cheek, then the other, near enough to his lips to pass for affection.

'I'll see you next month.' She wagged her finger at him. 'And you'd better have some good stories for me. Dark fantasies. Uncontrollable thoughts. Seething hatred. You get the idea.'

Martin rolled his eyes. Bob, one of his favorite guards, came over. Martin held out his hands for cuffing, but the man told him, 'You've got a private visitor.'

'An's here?' Martin felt his heart flutter in his chest. 'She didn't tell me she was coming.'

'They've found another body,' Bob said. 'Thirty-year-old prostitute with a meth habit.'

'Oh, I see,' Martin murmured. He specialized in confessing to prostitute deaths – he'd found early on that this particular type of victim tended to have had very little recent contact with their families, which made it easier for Martin to fabricate a nice backstory. He asked, 'Was this on Madola Road?'

'Abernathy,' Bob provided. 'What were you thinking, man?'

Martin shook his head. 'I just can't help myself, Bob. I get these urges.'

'Why the rope?'

Martin struggled for an explanation. 'My father liked to tie knots.'

Bob sighed at the depravity. Martin knew he was working on his own book deal (it was amazing how many people wanted to be writers). The relationship was not altogether one-sided, though. Bob owned a police scanner and was somewhat of a gossip. Most of the details Martin used in his confessions came from the man.

'Let's go.' Bob took Martin's arm and led him out of the room. As they walked down the corridor toward the private rooms used for interviews between lawyers and their clients – and comely police detectives! – Martin felt his pulse quicken. His breath caught as the door opened and he saw Anther sitting at the table. She wore a bright yellow dress and her hair was swept up into a sexy bun.

Martin noted her pretty yellow dress and tried to impress her with his Dutch. 'Het meisje draagt een geile jurk!'

She stared at him, and he felt the skin on his face, wondering if his mother had somehow transferred lipstick on to his cheek without actually touching him.

An said, 'Sit down, Mr Reed.'

He sat.

'We found a body.'

'A prostitute,' Martin supplied. 'A meth addict.'

'She was buried off of-'

'Abernathy Road,' he supplied. 'Have you done something different with your hair?'

She patted the bun self-consciously. 'We found a-'

'Rope,' he said. Why did they always have to go through the motions? 'Tell me about your day.'

'My day?' she echoed, her hand dropping to the table. Martin wanted to reach out and touch her, to caress her gentle hand in his, but the one time he'd tried, An had threatened to Tase him.

Martin spoke openly – prison had made him brazen. 'You know that I am in love with you.'

She gave a sad chuckle. 'Love doesn't pay the rent.'

'Ik wil de hoer graag betalen,' he offered, thrilled at the way the Dutch tickled his tongue.

She sighed again. 'Mr Reed-'

'I'd pay your rent every day!' he repeated, this time in English (he had trouble with Dutch tenses). 'Oh, An, you must know that I adore you.'