Thirty Two
“He’s not really my uncle, of course.” — Francesca BoyleBailey looked impatiently across the table. “You said it was important.”
It was the same prison interview room as before. The same old wooden table; the same steel door behind her; the same matching steel door across the room in front of her, again flanked on either side by guards. Different guards this time — neither portly nor muscular, neither old nor young, unmemorable in every way, just boring guys, looking bored, doing a boring job.
And, just like last time, across the table from her was Lucas Henriksen, still looking comfortable and incongruously well-presented in his prison overalls. Unlike last time, his lawyer Owen Walker was sat next to him. Unkempt as always, in no rush to get the interview finished, or even
