“Um, great,” she said. “He seems really professional, and he’s going to represent all of us.” She took a breath, considering asking him about visiting Nick—her dad would definitely help. But she decided it wasn’t worth pursuing.

“Well, glad to hear it,” Mr. Hastings said. “Hey, if you’re still in the city, want to grab some lunch? I can meet you at Smith and Wollensky.”

Spencer stopped and looked around. She’d forgotten that she was close to her dad’s place on Rittenhouse Square. “Um, I can’t,” she blurted. “I’m already on SEPTA. Sorry!”

Then she hung up as fast as she could. With just her luck, she’d run into her dad on the street right now and be forced to answer questions. And she had no idea how she would explain where she was really going.

She reached into her pocket, looked at the address she’d written on a crumpled Post-it, and then entered it into Google Maps on her phone. It didn’t take her long to get to the building, a pretty white house with molding that looked like birthday-cake frosting. The car parked in front was a British racing green Porsche 911. An American flag hung from the eaves and there was a huge pot of flowers on the porch. Spencer walked up the steps and looked at the name on the mailbox. ANGELA BEADLING. This was it. Spencer was a little surprised—the book had been a bestseller, sure, but she hadn’t expected Angela to live somewhere quite so cushy.

She rang the bell and waited. Behind her, there was a loud slam, and she whirled around, her heart jumping in her throat. The street appeared deserted, so she wasn’t sure who could have made that slam. Someone in the house next door? The wind?

Ali?

No way. Ali wasn’t here. She couldn’t be.

A steely-eyed woman with blond hair, a sharply pointed nose, and thin lips appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a menswear-cut pair of trousers and an oxford shirt. Spencer stared at her. The woman stared back. It was the woman from the book jacket, all right. Except she wasn’t pleasantly smiling like she was in her author photo.

“Are you Spencer?” the woman asked gruffly. She stuck out her hand before Spencer answered. “I’m Angela. It’s three hundred just to come through the door.”

“O-oh.” Spencer fumbled for her purse and handed over a bunch of crumpled bills. Seemingly satisfied, Angela stepped through the doorway and waved Spencer into a huge space decorated with eighteenth-century French furniture. A tapestry depicting a sour-faced king and queen sitting on thrones in a royal court decorated the back wall. The chandelier over their heads held real candles, though none were lit at the moment. Three ceramic Buddhas stared at Spencer from the mantel. They weren’t calming in the least.

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Angela plopped down on the largest leather couch Spencer had ever seen and spread her legs across it so that Spencer couldn’t share the space. Spencer drifted toward an upright chair in the corner. “So,” Spencer began, sitting down. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I really enjoyed your book.”

Angela smirked. “Thanks.”

Spencer leaned down and pulled her laptop from her bag, opening it on her lap. She took a moment to create a new document in Word and titled it Prison. “So I guess we’ll just start from the beginning, right? Like in ‘Chapter One—Getting There.’ Am I really going to be strip-searched?”

Then she heard Angela snickering and looked up. “Honey, this isn’t SAT prep.”

Spencer felt her cheeks blaze but didn’t close the laptop.

Angela lit a Newport Light on a long, gold cigarette holder. “I know who you are and what you did. You’ll probably get medium security, is my guess. I don’t think they’ll do minimum for you, but maybe not maximum, either.”

Spencer’s heart pounded. Medium, she typed. Just hearing the designations made things seem much more real. “Actually, I didn’t do anything,” she corrected Angela. “I’m wrongfully accused.”

“Uh huh. Everyone says that.” Angela tapped the cigarette into a brown ashtray. “All right, we will start at the beginning. This is how it’s going to go down. First, they’re going to strip-search you. Then, you’ll be assigned a bunk, where more than likely your bunkmates will be murderers like yourself—they like to keep similar criminals together. You won’t see your friends, if you’re all convicted. And don’t even try to make other friends, because they’re all backstabbing bitches. Now, with this consultation, I can specialize in either tricks to deal with the guards, how to handle the gangs, or how to manage a relationship while behind bars—you got a boyfriend?”

“N-no,” Spencer stammered. Angela was talking too fast. She hadn’t even had a chance to type.

“Well, then, I suggest we talk about dealing with the girl gangs—just like in chapter ten.” Angela rolled her eyes and took another drag. “If you want to hear about the guards, too, that’ll be an extra one-twenty-five.”

Spencer’s mouth felt dry. “Maybe we could talk about the, um, useful parts of prison? Like the college programs? Work-study initiatives?”

Angela stared at Spencer for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Honey, if anything, they’ll do a GED program. And of course they have a lot of law books in case you want to appeal your case, which everyone does, not that you really get anywhere with that.”

Spencer’s heart beat faster. “What about exercise? Your book didn’t mention it, but I’ve read that correctional facilities value physical fitness and health, so . . .”




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