(2001) When Gail takes a client on Death Row, Anthony tells her she’s in too deep.

       It was the first good luck in weeks. A rain after a dry spell, a portent of better days. The home owners had signed the listing agreement.
        The papers lay like sheets of hammered gold in her portfolio on the seat beside her.
        Louise hadn’t expected this. She’d driven way the hell out in the boondocks, almost as far as Lake Okeechobee, because the head of the agency didn’t want to spoil his Saturday night. He found Louise at O’Haney’s Pub around the corner from the office, finishing her second gin-and-tonic. She told him she would be happy to go, of course, no problem. Her job was hanging by a thread.
        She put some gas in her Buick sedan, bought some coffee and breath mints, and headed west. Suburbs fell away, and flat fields of sugar cane blurred past her windows, the sun red as blood on the horizon, dropping out of sight as Louise finally, after several wrong turns, reached a scrubby, two-acre plot of land with a concrete block ranch house that might bring eighty thousand dollars, if they were lucky. The Jamisons were a husband and wife and their two little girls. They kept a Bible on the coffee table in the living room, and they brought Louise some iced tea and apple pie. She had expected them to ask for an estimate of how much the property was worth, then show her the door. But they wanted her to sell it for them. Louise had a listing.
        She thought of stopping back by Haney’s to see who might be there she could tell, somebody from the office, but just as quickly she put the idea aside. At this hour the bar would be too full of smoke and loud laughter, and men who’d want to buy her a drink. Louise decided to go back to her apartment, tidy the place up, do her nails, and get to bed early. Tomorrow she would be at her desk by nine o’clock to catch the early customers.
       Things were about to change for her, she could feel it. The Jamisons had brought good luck. They’d signed the listing. It was a sign.
       At the end of the long gravel road Louise turned on the dome light and checked her hand-drawn map. Go left. The tires spun, then caught. Her headlights illuminated a narrow county road, strands of barbed wire, and an occasional pine tree or sabal palm. West Palm Beach was a glow on the horizon.
       She thought of the pint of Bombay Gin in the glove compartment. One eye on the road, she unfastened her seat belt and reached across the car. The little door fell down, and Louise felt for the bottle, then pulled it out. The amber lights on the dashboard showed the level: half gone. She couldn’t remember when she had last opened it. Two weeks at least. The remembered taste of it suddenly sickened her. She punched the button to lower her window, intending to fling the damned bottle

into the weeds. Goodbye, good riddance. The wind whipped her hair around her head. She veered left, tires rumbling on the rough pavement.
        Her eyes went to the rearview mirror. Someone was behind her, headlights on high beam, closing in. A Palm Beach County deputy? Her heart leaped, and she swerved back to her lane and glanced at the speedometer. Sixty-five miles per hour. She slowed to the speed limit, fifty-five. One more DUI, they would send her to jail and take away her license. But she wasn’t drunk, she reminded herself. Her last drink had been hours ago.
        Louise shoved the bottle under her seat. Her hands were shaking. She raised the window and looked into the mirror for the tell-tale silhouette of a light bar, seeing only the glare of headlights. There was nothing to illuminate the vehicle behind her. No moon, no other traffic on this desolate road.
        Slowing to fifty, Louise expected the other driver to go around, but he kept a steady distance of four or five car lengths behind. The light in her eyes was an annoyance. She angled the mirror. Who was it back there? Migrant workers in an old car too wheezy to accelerate around her. Or kids out joyriding. They could be drunk, using the red beacons of her tail lights to guide them back toward the coast. Louise had done that, focusing on someone else’s tail lights, hanging onto the wheel with both hands, praying to make it home.
        She had gotten away with it a couple of times, but that had been in Martin County, where her husband was a captain in the sheriff’s office. The deputies had known who she was. Here, she was on her own. She couldn’t call Garlan for help. He was already using her last DUI as an excuse not to let the children get into her car. She had to visit them at the house. She had to knock on the door and wait for Garlan to open it, then go in and have to look at everything that used to be hers. He would let her take Alex and Jackie for walks or go upstairs to their rooms. The door to the master bedroom would always be closed. Garlan had set the terms, and she had been too weak to fight him. Her failures. Her guilt.
        I can’t forgive you for this, Louise.
        But it wasn’t his forgiveness she was after. It was her own. She knew that now.
        “To hell with you, Garlan.”
        She would call the children tonight. That’s what she would do. Garlan didn’t want her calling too late, but she’d be home by nine o’clock, that wasn’t late. She hadn’t called them in almost a week. Hadn’t seen them in . . . longer than that. Why?
        She’d been afraid. Ashamed.
        A longing for her children—to hold them, to kiss their faces, to say she loved them—suddenly overtook her, settling into her heart, which ached with both regret and hope. She would call them. Alex was only nine. He would speak to her. Jackie might not. She was twelve years old and angry. Her father’s daughter. Oh, baby. I left you too, didn’t I? What have I done?
        The lights in the rearview mirror grew brighter, and Louise heard the throb of a powerful engine. She eased her car to the right, but the other vehicle remained behind her. For the first time, she felt a prickling of fear. They had to know she was a woman. They must have seen her shoulder-length blond hair.
        It wasn’t a small car, she could tell that much. Perhaps a pickup truck. They were popular out here, so many farmers. Louise wondered where she could turn off that wouldn’t lead to a dead end.
        “Jackass.” She tilted her pump on its heel, pressing down on the accelerator. The lights fell back, then closed in again. The speedometer said seventy, eighty. The broken white line came faster. Tick tick tick tick—
        She kept her eyes on the rearview mirror, watching to see what the other car would do. Gravel clattered under her right front tire, and she quickly pulled the wheel left. She’d almost gone off the road.
        “Be careful!”
        She dried her damp palms on her skirt and took her foot off the gas. Her heart hammered in her throat. Let the other car follow. So what? A few more miles, they would get to a main road. She stared into the darkness. There were no houses nearby, nothing, only the tantalizing glow to the east.
        He was coming closer. Lights filled the interior of her car. He struck her from behind, and Louise’s head jerked. Then another tap, and his bumper settled against hers. She felt the sudden increase in speed. He was pushing her, shoving her car faster and faster. Her speedometer rose past seventy.
        She tried braking, but it did no good. A burning smell reached her nostrils.
        “Stop it! Stop!”
        She stamped on the accelerator once more. The lights dropped back suddenly, very fast. And then Louise noticed the yellow sign, the sharp, left-turning arrow. It flew past her. The white line on the side of the road veered sharply. Louise slammed on her brakes, and the car swerved, fishtailed, and jolted over gravel and weeds.
        She screamed and hung on, but the world swung wildly around her. Trees flew toward the windshield. Her jagged scream ended in an explosion of noise and tearing of metal.
        Then nothing.
        She became gradually aware of pain so intense it shocked her with its ferocity. Each breath sent fire through her flesh. Her bones flamed. Her eyes were filled with sticky warmth. She blinked. Saw a shattered windshield. A tree lying across it. A starburst of cracks. One headlight still on.
        Blood in her mouth, flowing down her chin. Her jaw wouldn’t work. “Ehh. Ehhh.” The words screamed in her mind. Help! Somebody. Please help. Help me.
        Then her door came open, and her arm flopped out. The interior lights came on. She couldn’t turn her head to see. Someone turned off the headlight.
        His fist closed on the front of her jacket, and he pulled. She slid into the white-hot steel cogs of an immense machine of pain.
        He stood over her, black sky behind him. Stars exploded into blue and fiery orange sparks. Her throat gurgled with a laugh.
        It’s you. I should have known.
        He was wrapping a cloth around a metal bar. Raising it high. It came toward her, and the cogs of the machine bit into her skull. Don't. Not yet. It isn’t fair.
        There was a slow, ringing noise. A telephone. On her night stand. She couldn’t wake up. So sleepy. Fumbled for the handset, knocked her glass over. Heard it shatter. Warm liquid flowing over her.
        Her daughter’s voice. Mama?
        Jackie. It that you? The ringing stopped. Wait. Please don’t hang up.
        Water rushed in slow waves through a deep chasm, echoing, growing fainter. Shush. Shush. Shush.
        The card. She’d bought it two days ago at the mall. A funny card with a cat holding a flower. Still on her dresser. She’d meant to send it today. Honestly had meant to. I’m so sorry. Oh, my babies. So sorry.
        The pain was gone now. She floated.
        Forgive me.