I winked at her, savoring the look on her face as I dropped her name.

“I'm a poet and I don't even know it,” I said, leaning closer while she slid into the chair across from me. Here in minimum, you get about a three-second hug, one at each end of your visit. I didn't think Ms. Constatino was going to indulge me in that small favor, but I'd ask her anyway before our time was up.

“William,” she breathed, brown eyes still wide, making her look like a fawn. Last time I saw a deer was the year before, when one happened to pass by our chain-linked rec yard, emerging from the forest and disappearing back into it almost as fast as you could point to her. But I remembered what that deer looked like, and Misty-Lee Constatino looked like a deer. Right down to the heather-colored hair that framed her face in waves, and the slightly darker skin that ringed her eyes.

“Please,” I said. “We're old friends. Call me Rev.”

She winced like I'd reminded her of something awful. Maybe I had.

“Well, no one calls me Misty-Lee anymore,” she said, putting down her manilla folder and spreading her fingers atop it. Her nail polish was chipped. It was beige. Her shirt was black – not too tight. She was wearing tan slacks and looking like she could blend into a crowd without anyone taking notice.

I don't think I'd ever seen a woman who wanted to disappear more than Misty-Lee did.

“What do they call you, then?” I prompted.

“Just Misty,” she replied quietly.

She paused, lips pursed together. The woman had used caramel lipstick too. She was beige all over. All but her cheeks, red as a burlesque dancer’s fan. A dusting of tan freckles covered her slender nose, just the way they always had...

“Misty-Lee Constatino is a long name to have to write on forms,” she explained, trying on a smile. She paused before going on. “I can't believe you remember me.”

“Why not? You clearly remember me.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but it snapped shut pretty quick. Her eyes were wincing. This girl was in some kind of trouble. She was too pretty to be in trouble, I thought. Surely there was some guy taking care of her? I glanced at those splayed-out fingers but there wasn’t a ring. She tried on another smile, but this one didn’t fit much better than the first.

“James Dean look-a-likes make much bigger impressions on teenage girls than the other way around, right?”

So she wasn't totally skittish. Willing, at least, to admit that she once found me attractive. Then again, she might just be trying to butter me up for whatever it was she'd come here for.

“You still live in Sorghum?” I asked. She nodded.

“I do,” she said. “But if you don't mind...we haven't got that much time, so is there any way I can ask you what I've come here to ask you before we skip down memory lane?”

“Shoot,” I said through a grin. “They don't approve of skipping around here, anyway.”

She opened her folder, pulling out a yellow legal pad and some various papers.

“I guess I won't really need to show you this,” she said, and slipped a photo across the table. Damn. It was old man Millions, back when he was young man Thousands. He was standing in front of that car he loved so much. I grinned a little wider in spite of myself.

“Since you remember me, I guess you remember my father.”

“Sure as hell do,” I said. “Millions is a hard man to forget.”

“Yes,” Misty-Lee said, but that strained smile just looked painful.

“How's he kicking? He's at Pinkerton, isn't he?”

“He was,” she said, voice catching, eyes blinking rapidly. Oh, hell. “He passed away. Recently. In...there. Inside.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” I said, meaning it. I looked at the photo a moment longer, committing it to memory. When that picture was taken, he was my age and Misty-Lee was nothing but a twinkle in his eye. Now, she was too old for the name he gave her, and I was...

“He's the reason I'm here,” she said, drawing my attention back to her thin, elegant face. Yeah, just like a deer. Prettier, of course.

“Long way to come just to deliver some bad news,” I said, letting her take the picture back.

“Well, it's more about wanting to know...more...about him. About you and him. You see, I'm writing a book. Not quite a memoir; not quite an autobiography. What I remember about him, and the truth. I didn't know him as Millions. I knew him as Daddy. But you...you knew him the way the rest of the world knew him. So I was hoping...”

“Why me?” I asked. “I wasn't that close with him, you know.”

She bit her lip.

“Well, it's not just you,” she said. “I'm asking lots of people. Just for memories...I have some questions, specific ones...”

“Who else is on your interview list?”

She glanced over her shoulder quickly, like I'd just said the secret word and someone was coming up behind to snap her neck. Maybe I'd been inside for too long, but she was skittish as all hell. She started poking at her own fingernails, chipping the paint.

“Hey,” I said, getting her attention back, nodding my chin to her hands. “Gonna have to fork over another $40 for a manicure if you keep doing that.”

“Oh,” she said, swiftly hiding her hands under the table. I couldn't help but imagine something those hands could do for me under the table. But I blinked it away. I had plenty of time to think about that later. “Well, anyway, just lots of old associates. Um, Slickboy. Tanner. Shark and his crew, they still hang out at the Piper. Tommy. Luis, of course.”

She shrugged.

“Lots of people,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well. Sounds like you have your work cut out for you, but you've got plenty of great source material. Long way to drive for you to ask me the same old questions. Like I said, I wasn't that tight with him.”

“Yeah, but...”

“They don't give us much time, sweetheart,” I said. “And I've got a question or two of my own. Namely, would you let me hug you?”

“What?”

Well, that shocked the determination right out of her.

“A hug, Misty-Lee,” I said. “They let us hug when time's up. And I haven't had a hug in four goddamn years. You know that hugging releases oxytocin? It's very important for human happiness and emotional growth. A three-second hug, princess. Not too much to ask, is it?”

“Um,” Misty-Lee hummed, eyes darting from side to side. “That's...well, can we just talk about my dad a little bit first?”

“Sure,” I said, leaning in, smirking. “If you promise me a hug.”

Now, she scowled. Good. I liked seeing the fight in her coming out.

“Alright, alright,” she said, voice low. “One hug. Now can we get to talking about my old man?”

“Sure,” I said, leaning back now, giving her space while I crossed my arms. “But don't you think you ought to tell me the truth? I can answer your questions better that way.”

“I am telling you the truth,” she spat, cheeks reddening as her anger rose. “I’m writing a book. About my father. Salvador Constatino, better known as Millions.”

“No, you're not,” I said.

“Yes, I am.”

“Baby, I know a lie when I see one, and this one might as well be waving a red cape in my face. You're scared shitless. You're not writing a book, you're writing the words on your tombstone. Now tell me, who's after you, and what's it got to do with your father, and why do you think I can help you?”

Her eyes stilled, fixing on mine. I dropped the smirk, but it took a little effort. I liked the way she looked, more like a deer in the headlights than ever. Curiosity was a stronger instinct, though, and I knew her tongue would be a little looser if I looked serious about the whole thing.

Which, frankly, I wasn't.

But this was a lot more amusing than listening to Rancho wax poetic about the various women waiting for his release, or trying to get Slim up for a game of Hearts, or getting myself into a fight with Ryan just for shits and giggles.

She was a good sight prettier than any of those worn-out cons.

“You're wrong,” she said, and I heard the scrape of her chair before watching her rise from it. “And I don't need to sit around and watch you get off on how clever you think you are. Thanks for nothing, Rev...”

She was making all the about-to-leave preparations, but I knew that leaving wasn't on her mind. She was too scared to walk out without a hint of an answer.

“Alright,” I said with a shrug. “Thanks for the visit. I'll say a little prayer for Millions before I lay me down tonight, how 'bout that? And for you, too, since I don't imagine I'll be seeing you again – alive, at least.”

Her jaw clenched so hard I could almost hear the click, and she collapsed back into the chair.

“Has someone been talking to you?” she hissed, leaning way forward. Damn. She didn't look so much like a deer anymore. Her eyes were narrowed, her features pointed sharp as knives. She looked like some animal you wouldn't want to mess with. But I've never been the smartest chicken in the coop, and messing with her was too fun to give up.

“Just you, baby,” I said. “Though it hasn't been too enlightening.”

She looked around the room again before meeting my eyes.

“What do you know about my father? Tell me, Rev.”

“Maybe I know a lot,” I said. “Maybe too much to tell you in the...three minutes we have left.” I glanced at the clock on the wall to confirm. “But here's the kicker, doll.”

I leaned in real close, until our noses were almost touching; almost too close for the guard's comfort, and I could see ol' Rusty tensing up back there, his beady eyes narrowing.

“Maybe I don't know a god damn thing.”

She could have screamed, and it would have had the same effect. Instead, the chair did the screaming for her as it scraped across the linoleum again.

“Go to hell, Rev,” she spat, turning on a heel.

“How about that hug?” I called before she was three steps away. She stopped, stiffened, and glared at me over her shoulder.

“Dream about it,” she spat.

“Hey,” I called before she could walk out the door, a guard ready to escort her out that long hall back into the outside. “Misty.”

I could see all the fight in her, telling her not to turn around. But she did.

“You come back here and tell me the truth, I'll tell you everything I know,” I said, my tone flat and serious. “Tit for tat, yeah? You tell me your story, and I'll tell you Million's.”

Her jaw worked in a tiny circle, her eyes caught somewhere between hate and hope. And then Rusty was nudging at her elbow and opening the door. Just like that, she was gone, along with my prime entertainment for the day. I looked around the room. Poor Smithy looked like he wanted to kill me for causing a scene when his woman and kids were visiting, and James was just staring at his mother, the same way he stared at everything, his big dumb eyes open but nothing getting through.

“Ready when you are, boss,” I said, turning towards the guard who stood at the door on our side of the room. I had no more reason to be there. I had a lot to think about, and I thought better in my bunk.

Millions’ daughter. Little Misty-Lee. Misty, now. All grown up and too damn pretty to be in the kind of trouble I saw behind those eyes. It was a damn shame. If she died before coming back to me, I'd feel bad about it. But hell, I probably couldn't help her anyway. The wheels keep turning in the world outside these walls. Four years on the inside might as well be twenty years out there. Anything I still knew about Millions might as well be ancient history.

Whatever she was dug into, I didn't think I was the shovel that could get her out. And the fact that she thought of me at all said she'd run through plenty of better options. She was desperate.

It’d be a damn shame to bury a body like that.

A damn, damn shame.