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They were all seated in front of the warden’s immaculate mahogany desk in a room large enough to house the entire HIPP staff. Bars covered the three large windows overlooking the prison yard, but sheer white curtains draped over them softened the effect. A uniformed man stood guard in the corner, silent, although his very presence shouted loudly that they were in a prison facility. The warden looked younger than most, perhaps pushing forty, with dark-brown hair free of graying wisps. His handshake had been strong enough to hurt the beginning arthritis in Dani’s fingers. “So,” Dani continued, “as you know, we’re looking into an appeal for George Calhoun. You were very helpful when we spoke on the phone last week, but I wonder if there’s anything else you can tell us about Mr. Calhoun?”
    “Such as?”
    “Well, you mentioned that he’s always maintained his innocence. How does that come up here?”
    “You have to understand, prisoners on death row are kept separate from the rest of the men. Except for about thirty minutes each day, they’re in their cells alone. They don’t even get much chance to talk to each other.”
    “I’m confused,” Dani said.
    “Well, I’m getting to that. See, everyone needs to talk, whether it’s to the chaplain or often to the guards. Otherwise they’d go crazy. Lots of convicts boast about their misdeeds. Others blather on and on about being railroaded. George never says much one way or the other. But he’s gotten close to one of the guards. George doesn’t talk much about his daughter, but after every visit with his lawyer, he’d storm back to his cell shaking his head and complaining to the guard about his lawyer not believing him. And then he’d say he’d never hurt a hair on his precious daughter’s head, never had and never would. You can take that for what it’s worth, which isn’t much in a prison. But like I told you before, when it comes to killing a man, I like to be sure we got the right person.”
    Dani didn’t know if a warden with a conscience was hard to find or typical nowadays, but whatever the case, Warden Coates had an open mind. “Has George ever had a psych consult here?”
    “Nope. No need to.”
    “So, no evidence of delusional thinking?”
    “Seems lucid every encounter I’ve had with him. In fact, most of the men facing death here seem like coiled snakes, ready to attack. It’s not a stretch to picture them murdering someone. Not so with George. He’s always been calm, almost serene. Whatever he’s done, he’s at peace with it.”
    “As far as you know, has he ever told anyone what happened to his daughter?”
    “Other than those times he’s upset about his lawyer, he never talks about her.”
    There it was again—the one piece of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit anywhere. George had been steadfast that the child found in the woods was not his daughter. Yet with a lethal injection awaiting him in little more than a month, he still hadn’t offered any explanation for Angelina’s disappearance. No matter how powerful a legal argument she could make that he hadn’t received a fair trial, she hoped, for a whole litany of reasons, it would come down to that one question: What happened to Angelina Calhoun? They weren’t going to get that answer today. The warden had informed them when they arrived that George, fighting off a bout of pneumonia, had been removed to the medical wing. It could be a few days before they’d be able to meet with him. Dani figured they’d use that time to meet with Bob Wilson and try to track down the couple whose daughter disappeared around the same time. She couldn’t shake her concern, though. George had reached out to HIPP, so she guessed he wanted to be saved. But did he want it enough to give them answers?
    “I miss you.”
    “Isn’t Gracie a good enough substitute for me?”
    Doug laughed, and the sound of it rushed through Dani’s body, briefly lightening the feeling of apprehension