By the time I get out of bed, Nolan and Abby are gone. She had gone to school, and then she’ll go to the museum for work. Nolan is at the office today. He’s left the key to my car, along with the one that opens the elevator to his place, on the island in the kitchen. I asked if he would take care of my car while I was in Italy. The note he left behind says he brought it over yesterday because he knew I would stay the night—then he drew a smiley face with a wink. I smile at that. Nolan drawing a smiley face—now that’s different. He’s different. Not so intense. Falling in love with Abby has changed him for the happier.

Nolan also left me a garage door opener. I’m not sure if I should drive today. I’m in a pretty bad state. The skin under my eyes is puffy and purple, and I’m as pale as Casper the Friendly Ghost. However, I don’t have to worry about falling asleep while driving because I can’t get to sleep.

I put on another coat of eye makeup to make myself look a little fresher. Since it’s mid-August and eighty-four degrees, I wear a comfortable tan dress and bring a sweater just in case it’s cold in the correctional facility, which is almost an hour away.

Before I leave, I vacillate between bringing my luggage so I can sleep at my own house tonight and leaving it at Nolan's house. It’s not that I’m not used to being there alone—John often left me at home alone—but there’s just so much unhappy energy in that house. I’m not sure if I want to surround myself with it.

I leave my luggage in the guest room for now. It’s ten o’clock and I’m supposed to visit John at noon, so I take my car keys, the key to the elevator, the garage door opener, and I also make sure I have the key to my house. Then I head to prison.

This drive makes me feel as if I’m in another universe. It’s a far cry from the seaport town of Bari. Wider highways have replaced steep stone cliffs with narrow roads. I drive through a never-ending bevy of green trees and grass, which flank the north and southbound sides of the highway. It’s a struggle to stay alert, however I’m still battling a strong case of insomnia, so there’s no threat of my eyes closing. So many thoughts are battling for space in my head.

I’m overwhelmed, and all I’m thankful for at the moment is that Aiden isn’t around to soak up this energy I’m dishing out. I’m a basket case. Part of me wants to follow Nolan’s advice and take the next exit, turn around, and return to the city. However, deep down inside, I understand that I must face my demon, and his name is John Sharpe.

I want to search through our past and really figure out where I went wrong. At what point did I blatantly ignore what was right in front of my face? The night I walked out on Salvatore at the restaurant, I made a decision to live in the here and now. And so I saw everything. The hostess he made moves on right in front of me—it was as if I didn’t even matter to him. The way he tried to dominate me as if he expected me to swallow his shit. He had no sympathy for the pain I felt about hearing that my ex-husband had been accused of killing my father; he just tried to placate me long enough to ask for money.

At least John deceived himself before he came for my family’s dough. He played along with my idea of a happy life that included kids and a white picket fence. Perhaps somewhere deep inside, he wanted the same things. Or perhaps he was willing to play along until he smelled blood. My dad was in poor health, and if Bill died, then I would get my inheritance and John could finally divorce me and take half.

I have been playing all of this over in my head for a long time, and there’s one aspect that I know is true. John didn’t just want a portion of the purse that was willed to me—he wanted it all. That snake! He killed my father to get rich, and I’m sure he would’ve had no problem murdering me in order to take it all. I owe my life to Nolan, this I know for sure.

So why do I have this driving need to look the monster in the eyes? I don’t have the answer. Perhaps it will come to me when I see him.

I arrive at the correctional facility that looks like a colony of block structures with no windows. It has to be one of the most depressing sights on earth. The dread hasn’t left my body. It won’t take much for me to start the engine, back out of my parking space, and head home.

I look through my rearview mirror at a woman dragging her three children toward the entrance. She’s fussing at them nonstop. Another woman passes me and grimaces at me watching her. This is going to be a long day.

I open the door to my car, grab my purse, and step out into the daylight. I look at the sky, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. The air is heavy, which makes it feel like a hundred-degree shower. When I make it to the door, the intense cold air from inside the building blows over me. I welcome the cooling sensation but not the guards’ scowls.

“Get in line. Take off your belts and all jewelry,” the guards yell over and over.

Thank goodness I was too tired to put on any jewelry. I take off my watch and wait behind the dozens of other women and their jewelry.

Every now and then, the metal detectors beep and a guard and a woman get into some sort of shouting match. It’s all so disconcerting. It’s as if neither side sees the humanity in the other. Finally, I put my watch and purse in a plastic bin.

“Hold up,” the guard says before I walk through the metal detector.

I stop, and he studies me as though I’m the star in a freak show. I can already see it in his eyes. I’m not the sort of individual they normally see go through this process.

“Next,” he says.

I avoid saying thank you or smiling. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I want to join the other women in this humiliating process. After all, my ex-husband is here because he was convicted of committing first-degree murder. He will be sentenced in two days, then transferred to a maximum-security prison. I don’t want the guard to look at me as if I don’t belong. I belong. I married a monster through and through.

I clear two more security points. I’m even asked if I have drugs or any weapons of any sort. Of course I say no. Next I have to stand in another long line to show another sour-looking guard my ID and give him the name of the inmate I’m visiting.

“John Sharpe,” I say when it’s my turn. Just saying his name makes my lips clench.

His frown intensifies. I’m pretty sure he recognizes my name. Nolan told me the media has sensationalized the murder of our father. The case involves all the trappings of a bad Lifetime movie.

That was another reason why we thought it best for me to remain in Italy. Nolan wanted to make sure he was the only one the press had access too. My mom wasn’t around for comment since she had moved to Eugene, Oregon, permanently. I haven’t spoken to her since I left for Italy, but according to the rumor mill, she’s involved with another man—a not-so-rich one. She doesn’t need another man with money since she has the three hundred million my dad left her.

The guard gives me back my ID. “Listen for your name.” Then he tells the next woman in line to step up to the counter.

The waiting room is a massive space full of chairs. Children run around—apparently they’re the only ones who can keep themselves amused. A recording loops, telling visitors not to turn on their cell phones or their phones will be confiscated.

A woman plops down next to me and folds her arms. I scoot over some to give us room. She’s wearing long braids and a very short skirt. Her scowl picks apart the entire room as though her eyes are doing a demolition.

“Look at all these bitches,” she says.

I’m not sure if she’s talking to me, so I look on the other side of her. No one’s sitting there. My heart races, and I have no idea what to say.

“Ever been to a women’s jail?” This time she’s staring me in the eyes.

I gulp. “Um, no.”

“Do you think the waiting room is filled with this many fucking men?”

I don’t have to give the answer to that one much thought. I shake my head. “No.”

“You’re right. It’s disgusting how loyal we are. My brother is in this shithole,” she snarls. “I should just leave and tell him to go to fucking hell.”

My lips part. I still don’t know what to say.

The woman abruptly changes position in her seat. “I mean, really… would he do this for me?”

I think about Nolan. “I’m sure he would.”

She scoffs and again crosses her arms. “You look like the type who would say that.”

I feel my eyebrows furrow. “Why would you say that?”

She tips her head to the side. “I don’t know. You just look like it.”

“Well, I’m here to see my ex-husband. He’s the kind of fucker who would let me rot in a place like this without a single visit.”

She tilts her head to the other side. “Then why are you here?”

“Because…”

She’s waiting.

“I don’t know.”

“Then you should get the fuck out. Why would you go through this humiliating process if you don’t know why you’re here in the first place?”

I furrow my eyebrows, then release them. “I think it’s because I need a dose of reality.”

She studies my expression for a moment. “I get it.” She shifts abruptly again and rests her elbows on her knees.

The speakers pop, and a voice tells those of us whose names he calls to line up along the wall. We both listen.

Once the list is complete, she sits back. “Geneva Banks. That’s me.”

I remember he called that name. She glares at the line and takes two deep breaths. I watch as one by one, the women line up. Jeez, she’s right. So many women, no men.

Are women loyal to a fault? You never hear of any men marrying hardened criminals while they’re in jail. Even Manson found a loon willing to marry him. I’ve read that the Menendez Brothers, the guys who killed their parents for money, found women who married them while they were in prison. Even that guy who killed the girl while she was on vacation in Aruba, Joran van der Sloot, found a woman to marry him even after he was convicted of killing a second woman.

Suddenly Geneva hops to her feet. “Nice talking to you.”

She turns in the opposite direction, and I watch her until she’s out of sight. Funny—it’s easier to get out than in. Perhaps that’s a metaphor for life.

I consider following in Geneva Banks’s footsteps. However, I cannot ignore that tiny voice that tells me I need to see him. So I sit still. My name is called an hour and a half later, and I get up and join the line.

The humiliation doesn’t stop. We pass another security check. They call some women out of line to undergo private security checks with female guards. Thank goodness I’m not one of them.

Next we’re put into a small room with a glass wall that feels like a prison cell. I can hardly breathe in here. I’m happy that I’ll never choose to do this again.

The door opens, and my name is called. My chest is heavy, my breaths are labored, and I’m dizzy. Suddenly I remember that I haven’t gotten more than two hours of sleep in the last two days. As if I’m on the outside and watching myself, I stand and walk down the hallway into a room full of booths. Each has a chair facing a bulletproof window.

“You’re window number eight,” the guard says to me as I pass him.

I grab my chest and nod.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asks.

I hadn’t realized I’d stopped walking. I take a deep breath. “Sure.”

I sit in front of window eight. Once we’re all seated, there’s a loud beep, and the men file in on the other side, wearing washed out gray uniforms. I catch sight of John in line. He sees me and smiles as though we’re best buddies.

John sits down and lifts the phone. He points at the receiver on my side, signaling me to do the same. I can’t move a muscle. I was expecting Godzilla, but all I see is the same old John. He’s in a prison uniform and has dark rings around his eyes, but nothing else about him has changed.

The guard reminds us that we have fifteen minutes. I feel as if I left most of my resolve back in the big waiting room. I take another deep breath and work like hell to quiet my head.

John throws his hand up as if to ask what in the world is the matter with me. Here he is behind bars for murdering my father, and he has the nerve to be impatient with me.

I snatch the receiver off the hook. “Why?”

“Why what?” he asks, looking thoroughly confused.

“Why did you kill my father?” I know why, but I want to hear him say it.

He glances over his shoulder and leans closer to the window. “I didn’t kill Bill. That bitch set me up.”

My back stiffens. Did I expect him to come right out and tell the truth? No.

“My lawyers are already appealing. I have a strong case.” John rubs his jaw as he studies me.

“If I had never married you, my dad would still be alive,” I say.

He sits up straight. “That’s not true because I didn’t kill him.”

I laugh bitterly. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, but it’s not going to save you.”

John snarls, then glances to the left. When he’s facing me again, he’s smiling. “Listen, Liza, I need a favor.”

I feel myself frown, then smirk with amusement.

“If you could leave five hundred dollars on my card…”

I chuckle. It starts slowly, but the more I think of what’s probably happening, the harder I laugh. A big bad inmate is probably pressing him for money.

“Jeez, I must’ve been gullible,” I say.

He frowns. “What?”

“Rot in hell,” I say and hang up the receiver.

I’m out of the seat and on my way toward the exit when I hear banging and women gasping and exclaiming. I stop and turn around. John is banging on the glass, snarling and yelling words I cannot hear. It takes two guards to pull him—kicking, screaming, and spitting—away from the window.

I shake my head. What a joker. Not even Aiden behaves in that manner. Thank goodness he gave our son to me. He’s not fit to be a father. I turn my back on his antics and stride toward the exit. I have no idea what just happened, but whatever my soul was looking for, I think she’s gotten it.