"Me? Like, why would you want to write that? I'm nobody interesting."
"Oh, I think you are. I wanted to write about somebody who's been hurt by something bad. How they were beforehand, how they are after. How their life changes--and how things might've gone without the crime."
"No, my aunt didn't tell me any of that."
"Does she know you're here?"
"Yeah, I told her. She drove me here. She won't let me have a driver's license."
She glanced up at the guard, then back to Nagle. "They didn't want me to talk to you either, the police here. But there was nothing they could do about it."
"Why did you come to see me, Theresa?" he asked.
"That policewoman you mentioned?"
Nagle was astonished. "You mean, it's all right if she comes to see you?"
"No," the girl said adamantly, shaking her head.
Nagle couldn't blame her. "I understand. But--"
"I want to go see her."
The writer wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "You want to what?"
"I want to go down to Monterey. Meet her in person."
"Oh, you don't have to do that."
She nodded firmly. "Like, yeah, I do."
"Why?"
"Because."
Which Nagle thought was as good a response as any.
"I'll have my aunt drive me down there now."
"She'll do that?"
"Or I'll take the bus. Or hitchhike. You can come with us."
"Well, there's one problem," Nagle said.
The girl frowned.
He chuckled. "I'm in jail."
She looked toward the guard, surprise in her eyes. "Didn't you tell him?"
The guard shook his head.
Theresa said, "I bailed you out."
"You?"
"My father was worth a lot of money." She now gave a laugh, a small one, but genuine and from her heart. "I'm a rich girl."