"No. I just..."
"Expected more security for a woman convicted of horrifically murdering eight people? If it was your father, yes, you'd never get so close to him. But in situations like this, the woman is seen as the lesser threat."
"Bullied and pushed by the real killer. She's the weak partner."
"Weak..." He rolled the word out, tasting it.
"I don't mean--"
"No, I understand. You're correct. The woman is always seen as the follower."
"And is--?" I began.
When I didn't finish, he looked over. "Hmm?"
"Never mind."
He waved me to a chair. "They do still take precautions. She'll be cuffed and allowed no physical contact."
"Good."
I took my seat. Then we waited. He kept looking over at me, and it wasn't in any way a woman likes to be looked at by a man. His gaze was impersonal, yet all too personal, too probing, too intense. I told myself he was just concerned that I'd break down and, God forbid, he might have to deal with it. But it felt as if my every twitch was being studied and evaluated.
It didn't help that there wasn't even a poster I could pretend to read. Just a stark, white room that smelled of chemicals and body odor. Overhead, a fan turned, catching on each revolution. I'm sure I jumped with every click. I'm equally sure Gabriel noticed. I wanted to leap
up and shout, "Yes, I'm nervous. In fact, I'm about five seconds away from hurling my lunch onto the floor, so stop looking at me like that or if I do hurl it, I'll aim for your lap."
That made me smile. He noticed and arched his dark brows. I met his gaze. It wasn't easy, but it gave me something to do. Look him straight in those cold eyes and don't back down until--
The door opened. I jumped. Gabriel stood, partly blocking my view.
A guard entered first. Then a woman. No, not just a woman. Pamela Larsen. My mother.
After hearing how much I looked like her, I was braced to see a face that would ensure I wasn't going to regain my comfort with a mirror anytime soon. She was shorter than me by a couple of inches. Heavier, too, almost plump. Dark, gray-laced hair to her shoulders. Eyes of an indeterminate blue-green shade. Maybe there was a resemblance, but I didn't see a carbon copy of myself.
What did I see?
My mother.
I recognized her. I felt a leap in my gut, the burst of joy that a two-year-old might feel. I felt it, and I disowned it. Looked away and shut down that part of myself, hard and fast.
She hadn't noticed me yet as her gaze fixed on Gabriel. That made it easier.
"Gabriel," she said. "I should have known." She stepped closer. "Are you trying to get your money again? You scammed me, you bastard. You stole my appeal, and you expect me to pay you? The fact I didn't gouge out your eyes with your gold pen should prove I'm innocent."
She turned to the guard. "Take me back. We're done here."
"Oh, I don't think you want to do that, Pamela," Gabriel said. "I brought someone to see you."
"I don't care who--"
Gabriel stepped aside. She stopped. Her cuffed hands flew to her mouth.
"Oh." She inhaled. She rushed toward me, but the second guard yanked her back.
She spun on the woman. "That's my daughter, you heartless bitch. My little girl."
"You know the rules, Pamela."