Page 43 of Darkwater Lane

“No wonder they arrested Sam.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, thanks to your podcast. Episode two blaming Sam for killing Leo at Stillhouse Lake really helped. Half the world already thought Sam murdered him.”

She flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t help,” I snap.

She stares down at her lap. I cross my arms, acutely aware once again that I’m not carrying my firearm.

After a moment, she says, “I didn’t kill Leo. And I didn’t lure you out of your house so someone else could kill him. If you recall,you’rethe one who reached out tome. Yes, I’m the one whosuggested we meet, but how in the world could I have ever planned for this? Why would it ever occur to me that you would call me out of the blue like that?”

She has a point. The probability that she was involved in Leo’s death is low, but I’m used to ending up on the shit side of statistics. What’s the probability that you end up married to a serial killer? That he’s able to escape from jail and hunt you down?

“I get that you don’t think very highly of me,” she finally says.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I tell her.

“I’m not a bad person.”

I shrug. She’s still young. Maybe she hasn’t realized yet that there’s really no such thing as good people and bad people. We’re all capable of being both.

Madison shifts, looking up at me. Her face is cast in shadows from the police station, softening the edges of her features. “I can help you.”

I scoff. “I don’t need your kind of help.”

“You do, though,” she says.

I shake my head and turn to leave.

“Adnan Syed,” she says.

I start walking, and she jumps up and chases after me. “James Reyos. Curtis Flowers. Dennis Perry.”

I keep walking.

She scurries around me to block my path. “All men whose convictions were overturned because of the publicity generated by a podcast. I can do the same for Sam. Create a new podcast focused on you, him, and your family. Get people on his side. Make them believe he’s innocent.”

“Samisinnocent,” I say through clenched teeth.

“When has actual innocence mattered? Not in the court of public opinion. So, sure, let’s say he’s not convicted by a jury. So what? You were acquitted, and look how Melvin’s crimes still followyou. The same will happen to Sam. Everyone will just assume he did it and got off on some sort of technicality.”

“We’ll be fine,” I tell her dismissively.

“Yeah, but what about your kids?” she says to my back.

A flash of rage sears through me that she would bring up my kids. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

“What’s it going to be like for Lanny when she goes to college and everyone whispers behind her back? What’s parents’ weekend going to be like for her? And what about Connor?”

I turn and slice my hand through the air between us. “Donotbring my kids into this.”

“That’s not realistic, Gwen. You have to know that. You’re not going to be able to protect them from the fallout from this.”

A part of me recognizes the grain of truth in her statement, but I’m unwilling to acknowledge it. I can’t. Not right now.

“Look,” she says, her tone softening. “Publicity matters in high-profile cases. It shouldn’t, but it does. A podcast can frame how people see the case and think about Sam.”

That’s awfully rich, coming from her. “Even if I agreed with you, why in the world would I choose to work with you of all people?”

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