Beneath Devil's Bridge(10)

Focus. Don’t show fear. Don’t give anything away, not yet. You’re here to catalog him. Describe him in your mind so you can do so for your listeners later. Concentrate on how you want the first episode to play out. Get a couple of good sound bites. The power dynamic will be set in these first few seconds. Give a strong first impression.

“Trinnnnity Scott,” he says, lingering on the n in my name as his gaze locks with mine. The way he holds the letters of my name inside his mouth feels indecently intimate, as though he’s taking control. “So you came.”

He walks slowly to his chair, his gaze not breaking from mine for a second. Taking his time, he sits. His voice is a quiet rasp, and I wonder if the scar across his throat has something to do with an injury to his vocal cords. Perhaps fellow inmates didn’t like the idea of him sexually assaulting a fourteen-year-old girl and bashing her to death. I try to swallow against the dryness in my mouth.

“Thank you for seeing me.” I swear inwardly as my voice hitches, giving me away.

Seconds tick. The guard waits just inside the doorway as Clayton Jay Pelley seems to swallow me whole, absorbing me. Consuming me. Every last molecule. I feel powerless to stop him. I need to take back control.

“Does the guard need to be in here?” I ask.

He crooks up a brow, glances at the guard. The guard looks at me.

“It’s okay,” I say.

The guard steps out, closes the door, and stands on the other side, where he can watch through the glass.

“You look like your online pictures, Trinity Scott.”

“You have access to internet, then?”

A slow, sly smile. “You’d be surprised what inmates can access.”

His gaze moves to my notebook and the recording device on the table.

“Mr. Pelley, Clayton . . . Can I call you Clayton?”

“Be my guest. Did you have a good trip?”

I’m cognizant of my twenty minutes sifting away.

“Fine. Do you mind?” I nod to the digital recorder. “I’d like to have your voice on air. When you’re ready, of course.”

He moistens his lips, his gaze going to my mouth. “Go right ahead.”

I click the recorder on. The red light glows—a tiny cyclops observing, documenting. I become acutely conscious of my potential audience’s point of view, and of the need to frame my questions to solicit the responses I hope for. I’m alert to different narrative arcs that might present themselves, and how best to run with them. I’m aware of the fact that I am an actor in this production.

I clear my throat. “As I mentioned in my letter, my podcast is—”

“I know about your podcast,” he says in his low, scratchy voice. “I’ve listened. I know about you.”

“I, yes, I . . . wasn’t sure that you could get access to things like that.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know yet, Trinity Scott.” He leans forward suddenly and slaps his palms on the table. I jump.

He grins. Then laughs. A hoarse, whispery sound. “But, young Trinity Scott, I will do my best to educate you.”

Resentment swells in my belly, twisting into anger and then fingering down into something much deeper and darker and more complex. My mind steels.

“Like you ‘educated’ Leena Rai?” I say, my gaze locked on his. “You were her guidance counselor, and you tutored her after school. English literature.”

He runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “I did indeed. A rewarding student. So tell me what you want to know.”

I shift slightly in my chair, pick up my notepad and pencil, and glance at my list of questions because they’ve fled my mind. I’m running out of time already, and I need a quote. I go straight for the big fruit.

“Why now, Clayton? Why’ve you never spoken a word of your crime, and why are you choosing to do so now?” I pause. “And it’s not like you haven’t had plenty of requests over the years, from academics to journalists to writers of true crime. So why me?”

He leans back and hooks his hands behind his head. It shows his muscles. The body language screams dominance. “You mean why this green and pretty little podcaster? Is it because old Clay Pelley wants to look at some fresh, live female, have her come to him, because he’s bored in his prison cell after all these years—because he’s had nothing since fourteen-year-old Leena?”

Heat flares into my cheeks.

He leans forward. “Why do you think?”

Careful now.

“Power,” I say. “Your silence was your last hold on some kind of power, control, over Leena and her parents. You denied them their day in court. You denied the press answers. Your silence was some kind of last bid for control over the community of Twin Falls, over the school, the students. Over the detectives who went after you, arrested you, and locked you up.” I pause. “But over time that power has waned, because no one is coming to you anymore with hat in hand, begging for you to talk. You’ve been forgotten. Lost in the monotony of incarceration. Then suddenly true crime podcasting finds its day in the limelight, and you get my offer. And . . . well, it offers a diversion. It once more promises you a degree of control over something.” I narrow my gaze. “Control over a young woman.”

A smile quirks across his face. He angles his head. “But you also get something in return, no? Tell me, Trinity, what is your goal? Ratings?”