“That man—the one visiting that other inmate—he’s . . .” I swallow, trying to moisten my sore throat. “I think he’s my . . .” How am I supposed to say this? I’m pretty sure that man in the visiting area is my dead husband. Yes, I recognize how that would sound. Rhea sighs heavily. “Spit it out or start moving.” “He looked like my husband.” That gives her a moment of pause. Her somewhat scruffy eyebrows inch upward. “Your husband that you murdered?” “No,” I say quickly. “I . . . I mean, yes, that husband. But I didn’t murder him.” She smirks at my assertion. “He looks a lot like Noel.” I
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