Free Daddy's Girl by Lisa Scottoline Page A

selected Pennsylvania, and typed in “Ron Saunders.”
    Twelve listings , read blue letters in the bold boxes. She skimmed them and eliminated the addresses that were too far away. Two were from towns she didn’t recognize, but one was in Pocopson, at 524 Roselawn Lane. She remembered seeing the Pocopson Township sign on the way to the prison. This was probably the C.O.’s house. The listing supplied the home phone number, too.
    Nat eyed the information and imagined what was going on there, right now. Saunders had a wife, maybe children. Family and friends would be coming over to mourn. It would be a house of pain. She had a message to deliver, and for consolation, she could offer only an explanation as to why she couldn’t save the man. She eyed the phone next to her computer, then picked up the receiver.
    Don’t pretty it up.
    She set it back down again.

     

    "Honey? You okay?” Hank burst through the door, his long topcoat flying and Paul right on his heels. He had returned her call at the end of the day, and she had filled him in about the riot, so he’d skipped a business dinner and come straight home. He threw open his arms when he saw her. “A prison riot? ”
    “Hey, babe.” Nat set down her book, rose from the couch, and met him in the middle of the living room, where he put his arms around her and pressed her against his chest, his wool coat reassuringly scratchy, retaining a wintry cold. She sank into the security of his embrace and breathed in the night air, mixed with cigar smoke.
    “What were you doing at a prison? Is this a joke?”
    “I was teaching, and a riot broke out.”
    “YOU MEAN THE PRISON RIOT ON THE NEWS?” Paul planted his hands on his hips, his camelhair coat spread open. He was wearing an Italian suit, a silk print tie, and his most outraged expression, usually reserved for missed pass-interference calls.
    “Since when do you teach in a prison?” Hank held her off and eyed her cheek wound, horrified. She’d unbandaged it as per directions, to let it breathe. “Baby, who hit you? One of the criminals?”
    “It’s a long story.” Nat wasn’t going to tell him about Buford in front of her brother. She released him and tucked her hair behind her ear, so it wouldn’t get stuck in the Neosporin, like lip gloss. “I was going to tell you last night I was going, but I didn’t get a chance.”
    “WHO SENT YOU TO A PRISON, NAT? ARE THEY NUTS?”
    “It’s part of a clinic program. I went with the clinic director, and can you ever lower your voice?”
    “I HAVE A COLD. MY EARS ARE STUFFED.”
    “You always talk loud, Paul.”
    “THAT’S HOW I ROLL. WHAT’S A CLINIC? ISN’T THAT FOR POOR PEOPLE?”
    Nat gave up. “It’s an externship program at school, run by my colleague Angus Holt.”
    “SO WHERE THE HELL WAS HE WHEN MY SISTER WAS GETTING HER HEADLIGHTS PUNCHED OUT? I SHOULD KICK HIS ASS! WHAT KINDA NAME IS ANGUS , ANYWAY?”
    Nat’s head started to throb again. She knew it would go like this if Paul came home with Hank. Her brothers had always been insanely overprotective, evidently saving for themselves the right to beat her up.
    Hank brushed her hair back gently. “Where were the prison guards, babe?”
    There weren’t any? “They were busy. It’s no one’s fault.”
    “OF COURSE IT IS!” Paul waved a finger. “IT’S THIS CLINIC GUY’S FAULT OR WHOEVER RUNS THE PRISON. WE SHOULD SUE THE SCHOOL!”
    Nat suppressed an eye roll. “Good idea, in my tenureship year.”
    “THEY DON’T DESERVE YOU IF THEY SEND YOU THERE. WE DON’T PLAY THAT.” Paul flipped open his cell phone, and Nat read his mind.
    “Don’t call Dad.”
    “WHY NOT?” Paul pressed speed dial. “HE’LL CALL SOMEBODY IN LEGAL.”
    “I am somebody in Legal, and I’m not suing anybody. Please, Paul, hang up.”
    “TOO LATE. HE’S ALREADY FREAKED. HE WANTS YOU HOME.”
    “I am home. I live here now, having reached the age of majority.”
    “Honey, talk to your parents,” Hank said,