Corey scowled at the gray-haired witch and moved to seat himself in one of the chairs offered earlier. He heard the click of the door as it closed behind the witch, a click that sounded a lot like the automatic lock on his prison cell. How appropriate, he thought. The tough old woman would have made a good yard boss.

"Do you still take cream and sugar in your coffee?" asked Tiffany.

"No."

"Black it is then," she said as she handed him his cup. "Would you like a tea cake? Mrs. Stewart makes them fresh every Sunday. They're really very good."

"No." He was disappointed when she took her previous seat behind the oversized desk. Why it mattered he didn't know, and he sure wasn't going to dig around to find out.

"You've changed, Corey. Not in looks, but you carry an intense..."

"Cut the niceties. Say what you mean. I know how I look. Prison has its way of giving a man a new look. Does the convict persona make you nervous, Mrs. Covington? I suppose it's not the look you're used to, but that's too bad because it's permanent."

She didn't wince; it was going to take more than a surly attitude to shatter her icy veneer. Because of her hands, he knew it was a veneer. She had always clasped her hands together when she was anxious. When she had been his girl, he used to soothe that anxiety by opening her fingers one at a time, kissing them, then kissing a trail up her arm. That was no longer an option. Another fact that shouldn't have mattered, but did.

"I was going to say, that you carry an intensity you didn't have growing up. You were always so reckless and carefree. I suppose, after this length of time, it is not surprising that we are little more than strangers."

How could she sit there and call him a stranger? If she wanted to forget the true nature of their relationship, he was just the man to remind her. "Princess, you can never be a stranger to me. You want to know why?"

Feminine neck muscles tightened as she tossed her head back, and her shoulders trembled with the effort to control tiny, ragged breaths. Maybe it made him a bully, but watching her veneer visibly crack evened the scales of justice a little in his mind.

"There is no reason to be rude, Corey."

"You haven't begun to see rude, Mrs. Covington. If I don't get some satisfactory answers, what you've termed rude is going to sound like your mama's prayers."

She froze as if she'd just walked on a rattlesnake. Good, he thought. He wanted her unnerved. Maybe then, she could better understand what a boy of eighteen felt when they shuffled him into the adult population of a Texas prison.

"Look, Corey. Could we please talk like civilized people? You must want to know about Joey. As to the rest, if you'll let me explain, we can get this all behind us today and move forward. I'm sure you're ready to get on with your life without a lot of useless anger."

"Anger can be a very useful tool. It gives a man a reason to survive."

"I'm sorry about what you've been through, Corey. I want to make up for what my family and I have done to you. But you've got to give me that chance."

"Let's get one thing clear; I don't have to give you anything, least of all, a chance to clear your conscience."

"I know that. But I'm asking anyway."

The sincerity in her eyes was unexpected. It even managed to rattle the bars surrounding his heart. He didn't let it in, but he didn't push it away either.

"You want us to talk?" he asked.

"Yes, I do."

"You should remember then, that I never liked barriers. That desk you're hiding behind is as good as a brick wall. Remove it...then we'll talk."

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