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      In loving memory of

      Robert (Bob) Shoemaker

      (1922-1998)

      whose perfect good continues to inspire.

      Author’s Note

      This is a work of fiction;

       however, I’d like to extend my heartfelt

       sympathy to any parent who has ever lost a

       child to a senseless act of violence.

      I owe my deepest gratitude and appreciation

      to all those whose support and expertise made

       this fantastic journey possible.

      Special thanks to:

      Philip Spitzer, my agent, who enthusiastically offered to represent this book, then made it his personal mission to see it published. Philip, you are my hero.

      Patricia Sierra, fellow author, for generously sharing her wisdom, her wit and her friendship.

      Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, for her tenacity, her keen insights and her ability to make the editing process painless and rewarding.

      Dianne Moggy and all the professionals at MIRA^® Books for their efforts and resolve to make this book a success.

      Ellen Jacobs for always saying the right thing at just the right time.

      Sharon Car, my writing cohort, for all those lunches spent commiserating with and encouraging me.

      LaDonna Tworek, who helped me keep my perspective and encouraged me early on to hang in there.

      Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, who listened over all those free, delicious dinners they fed me.

      Bob Kava for patiently answering all my questions about firearms.

      Mac Payne, who gave me something to prove.

      My parents, Edward and Patricia Kava, especially my mum for lighting all those candles of hope.

      Writing, for the most part, is a solitary act, but certainly wouldn’t be possible for me without the loving support of my family and friends. Thanks also must go to Patti El-Kachouti, Marlene Haney, Nicole Keller, Kenny and Connie Kava, Natalie Cummings, Sandy Rockwood and Margaret Shoemaker.

      Finally, thanks to Bob Shoemaker. This would’t have been the type of book Bob would even have read, but that would not have stopped him from being proud of me and telling everyone he met about it.

       PROLOGUE

       Nebraska State Penitentiary Lincoln, Nebraska Wednesday, July 17

      “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Ronald Jeffreys’ raspy monotone made the phrase a challenge rather than a confession.

      Father Stephen Francis stared at Jeffreys’ hands, mesmerized by the large knuckles and stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick. The fingers twisted—no, strangled—the corner of his blue government-issue shirt. The old priest imagined those same fingers &twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson.

      “Is that how we start?”

      Jeffreys’ voice startled the priest. “That’s fine,” he answered quickly.

      His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prison’s deathwatch chamber didn’t have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys’ last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda. A fly buzzed over crumbs that were once cheesecake.

      “What’s next?” Jeffreys asked, waiting for instructions.

      Father Francis couldn’t think, not with Jeffreys’ unflinching stare. Not with the noise of the crowd outside the prison, down below in the parking lot. The chants grew louder with the approach of midnight and the full effect of alcohol. It was a raucous celebration, a morbid excuse for an outdoor frat party. “Fry, Jeffreys, fry,” over and over again, like a childhood rhyme or a pep-rally song, melodic and contagious, sick and frightening.

      Jeffreys, however, appeared immune to the sound. “I’m not sure I remember how this works. What’s next?”

      Yes, what came next? Father Francis’ mind was completely blank. Fifty years of hearing confessions, and his mind was blank. “Your sins,” he blurted out over the tightness in his throat. “Tell me your sins.”

      Now, Jeffreys hesitated. He unraveled the hem of his shirt, wrapping the thread around his index finger, pulling it so tight that the tip bulged red. The priest stole a long glance at the man slumped in the straight-backed chair. This wasn’t the same man from the grainy newspaper photos or the quick television shots. With his head and beard shaved, Jeffreys looked exposed, almost impish and younger than his twenty-six years. He had gained bulk in his six years on death row, but he still possessed a boyishness. Suddenly, it struck Father Francis as sad that this boyish face would never wear wrinkles or laugh lines. Until Jeffreys looked up at him. Cold blue eyes held his. Ice-blue like glass—sharp glass—vacant and transparent. Yes, this was what evil looked like. The priest blinked and turned his head.

      “Tell me your sins,” Father Francis repeated, this time disappointed in the tremor in his voice. He couldn’t breathe. Had Jeffreys sucked all the air out of the room on purpose? He cleared his throat, then said, “Those sins for which you are truly sorry.”

      Jeffreys stared at him. Then without warning, he barked out a laugh. Father Francis jumped, and Jeffreys laughed even louder. The priest gripped his Bible with unsteady fingers while watching Jeffreys’ hands. Why had he insisted the guard remove the handcuffs? Even God couldn’t rescue the stupid. Drops of perspiration slid down the priest’s back. He thought about fleeing, escaping before Jeffreys realized one last murder would cost him nothing more. Then he remembered the door was locked from the outside.

      The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Silence.

      “You’re just like the rest of them.” The low guttural accusation came from somewhere deep and dead. Yet, Jeffreys smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth, the incisors longer than the rest. “You’re waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t do.” His hands ripped the bottom of his shirt, thin strips, a slow grating sound.

      “I don’t understand what you mean.” Father Francis reached to loosen his collar, dismayed to find the tremor now in his hands. “I was under the impression you had asked for a priest. That you wanted to offer up your confession.”

      “Yes … yes, I do.” The monotone was back. Jeffreys hesitated but only for a moment. “I killed Bobby Wilson,” he said as calmly as if ordering takeout. “I put my hands … my fingers

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