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proud of, defended so stridently to Stanton, reached out, wrapping her in strangling tentacles. She’d defended clients she believed guilty before, had even taken a couple to acquittal, but none of them had been anything like the man waiting for her in the meeting room at the end of the long, narrow hallway.
    None of them scared the life out of her like Jeff Schaefer.

    The walls, painted an institutional beige, pressed in, trying to squeeze the air from Jeff’s lungs. He hated being locked up like this, hated the loss of choices, freedoms, control. Didn’t they get it? Didn’t they know what a cop in jail faced, even under so-called maximum security? He shuddered, rubbing a thumb over the bruises at his wrists.
    He didn’t deserve this, any of it. They couldn’t do this to him.
    What he needed was to find a way out of this hellhole. A way to unlock that door.
    A key.
    Autry Holton would be the key to everything—freedom, vindication, salvation.
    He smiled. Everything. Yeah. Autry could be everything he needed.

    Schaefer waited for her in the small beige room, far removed from the battered, green interrogation rooms seen on so many television cop shows. The walls might have been unimaginative, but were spotless, as was the brown carpet. The inexpensive furniture consisted of a table and two chairs with molded plastic seats. Sheriff Jason Harding ran a clean, no-waste department, and this room, like the others in the jail, reflected that philosophy.
    “Hello, Jeff.” Autry laid her briefcase on the table without a smile for the man sitting across the table. The orange jumpsuit he wore made his skin appear sallow, although it didn’t diminish his clean-cut good looks. His dark hair, neatly trimmed, lay close to his head, and his earnest blue eyes remained steady on her. Watching her. She hated the way he studied everything she did.
    He nodded. “Autry. How are you?”
    “Good, thanks.” She opened her briefcase. His gaze dropped from her face to her throat, then to the point where the table hid her stomach. Autry repressed a shudder and reached for the legal pad lying atop the files. He was already receiving letters in jail, women offering friendship and more. She couldn’t fathom the idea.
    “We need to talk about your trial date. Also, Tom McMillian called yesterday. He’s willing to discuss a plea—”
    “No.” Schaefer shook his head, a short, adamant movement. “No pleas.”
    “Jeff, listen to me.” Autry leaned forward, hands clasped before her. “You’re facing a capital murder charge for Amy Gillabeaux’s death. Tom’s willing to take that off the table if you plead to all of the murders. He’ll drop the two counts of aggravated battery from the incident with Tick and Caitlin—”
    “No, you listen to me.” Intensity deepened Schaefer’s voice, and he bent toward her, stabbing a finger into the table. Autry tried to forget the knife wounds on Amy’s body. Had his muscles tightened and flexed just that way as he swung the knife down? “I’m not pleading out. I didn’t kill those girls and I won’t say I did.”
    He believed it. Or at least, he wanted her to think he believed it. Maybe he’d convinced himself of his own innocence. But what about trying to kill Tick? Caitlin? He’d left witnesses. How could he deny that?
    “Tom intends to put Tick and Cait both on the stand.” She kept her voice soft and level. “That testimony alone will be damning and I’m not sure how we can counteract it.”
    Schaefer’s gaze narrowed, the blue glittering between dark lashes. “I don’t care who he puts on the stand. I’m not the dangerous one here. I can refute anything Calvert or Falconetti says.”
    He believed he could, anyway. Autry blinked and tried another tactic. “We’re talking about a death-penalty case here, Jeff. Surely you don’t want to die.”
    “I’d rather die than confess to something I didn’t do.” The words emerged between clenched teeth and vibrated with