Free Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller by Lynn Hightower

and I sit behind a large, rectangular, faux wood-grain metal table. There is no window in the room. There are scuff marks on the off-white walls.
    I know better than to talk to anyone in law enforcement without an attorney. The reality of my experience in religious counseling is no different from most other professions, in that my university course work could fall under the double heading of
inadequate
and
bad joke
compared to the real life details of the job. I often felt inadequate; I often was. But if nothing else, I was well versed in the axiom that good things happen to bad people, bad things happen to good people, and innocence is no defense against being proven guilty in a court of law.
    One cannot underestimate the importance of a confident attorney with a strong presence, and Smitty Madison is exactly that. He grated on my nerves the first two times that I met him, but his ability to annoy people is just one of many traits that I have learned to treasure.
    He sighs, checks his watch and winks at me. Standard operating procedure, his look seems to say, and he pats my hand, which is trembling. We have done our prep work. Preparation is one of Smitty’s strengths and, obvious as it seems, the majority of attorneys I know tend to wing it. It is the one quality that makes the difference between mediocre and excellent representation.
    We don’t talk. Smitty has warned me in advance to stay quiet in the interrogation room, having learned, in the past, that there might be people listening in, even making recordings. We have discussed the adversarial attitude of the FBI, but Smitty seems to feel it is standard procedure, and assures me that Caroline’s boyfriend in Arkansas is likely getting it worse. My reputation, such as it is, means they will handle me carefully. My ministry funnels significant money to several local causes, including the funding of search and rescue dogs for the Kentucky State Police K-9 Unit. So I am surprised when Smitty leans close and speaks to me in a low tone.
    â€˜I don’t like them keeping us waiting like this. It’s not how you treat family. They’re probably annoyed you brought a lawyer.’
    I used to value Smitty’s honesty but just now I wish he’d shut the hell up.
    I haven’t told Smitty everything. I’ve withheld from him as well as the FBI. I tell myself to stay the course, but part of me wants to turn everything over to the professionals.
    If I give the Dark Man everything he wants, will he return Caroline and Andee? It is foolish to trust a sociopath. And yet … I am the one person still alive who knows that his yearning for redemption is genuine.
    The door opens and the noise startles me, even though I have been expecting it this last twenty minutes. Smitty pats my hand again. I understand for the first time the psychological advantage law enforcement holds, and why the innocent confess.
    Agent Russell Woods surreptitiously checks his fly as he comes through the door. He slaps a thick file down on the table, and I jump. The clack of women’s shoes echoes in the hallway, and Agent Mavis Jones scoots in through the partially open door.
    Mavis Jones is an unexpected vision. Slender in a deep plum pencil skirt that reaches two inches below her knees, proper in a black silk Oxford-styled blouse. She has very good hair – brunette with auburn highlights, brushed back from her wide forehead, cut to hang thickly and just graze her shoulders. Her face is perfectly symmetrical and her skin positively glows. How is this possible in the FBI?
    I remember what Smitty told me – all the gossipy details, divulged to make the agents seem vulnerable and human and me feel strong. Mavis Jones has a slow metabolism and restricts herself to eleven hundred calories a day, except when her work frustrates her – then she gets up in the night and eats bread. If she eats more than three pieces, she is careful to throw it all up. And I already know