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reached into the pocket of her jeans. Fingering the worn cloth, she struggled to conjure up a sense of peace. Her grandfather had always been the voice of reason, the calm in her stormy personality. Without his guidance, she struggled to keep an even keel.
    What would she do now?
    Accustomed to being labeled the loose cannon of the department, in the past she’d brushed off disparaging comments about her somewhat irrational behavior. But this was different. She’d never been accused of murder. Especially by a Fed who didn’t know JACK. How dare he assume something that was total and complete BS without so much as batting an eye.
    But she shouldn’t have taken it out on Landry. None of this was his fault. Due to circumstances, he’d been sucked into her mess. Despite their differences, he’d stuck by her even when she’d screwed up in a big way. That didn’t make him sane, but it did, in some weird, twisted way, endear him to her.
    The last time they’d broken up it was because he’d told her he loved her. The weird part was he told her he believed she loved him, too. She told him he was delusional. Needless to say, that conversation hadn’t gone too well. Things had been strained and uncomfortable since then, especially when he kept on insisting her refusal to admit her feelings was somehow tied up in the Ramirez fiasco.
    She’d be a big enough person to admit she’d missed him. The stubborn part of her would say it was all about the great sex. But when she got real, she knew there was more to it.
    When her grandfather died suddenly from a heart attack a couple of years ago, Landry was the person she’d called. He saw her weak and vulnerable and let her cry on his shoulder until she couldn’t cry any more. He stuck with her through the ordeal, a rock at her side. After the funeral, they’d made love for the first time. At first, he resisted, not sure if that was what she really wanted. When he finally gave in, he’d been sweet and tender and held her tight until the next morning.
    But that didn’t mean she loved him. It only meant she shouldn’t be such a bitch to him.
    * * *
    The logical starting point had to be Stateville. Sure, they’d probably stonewall her, but if she could pick up a whiff of something, it’d be worth it. Besides, there was the sympathy factor. While they might put up roadblocks on the phone, they’d be more likely to give an inch or two in person.
    Isabella wondered if they’d let her talk to her dad’s cellmate. It was a long shot, especially if the Feds had the place buttoned down tight, but it was definitely worth a try.
    Besides, it was the only thing she had going right now.
    The road to Stateville Prison wasn’t exactly scenic. First, there was the long drive on the Stevenson Expressway going south, then the stop-and-go traffic for the eight-mile trip down Route 53.
    Unlike a lot of places in and around Chicago that still felt the sting of segregation, the Romeoville area was an ethnic mix of Hispanic, African-American and white, and solidly blue collar. No fancy houses or sprawling estates. And like the rest of the country, the area had felt the pinch of the economy over the last couple of years. Many businesses had gone under leaving building shells. Strip malls were half-filled with stores, and fewer and fewer cars remained in the parking lots buying up goods and services.
    With her mind preoccupied with questions, the fifty-minute trip passed by quicker than she’d anticipated. ‘Do not pick up hitchhikers’ signs dotted the landscape as she got within a half mile or so of Stateville. No doubt, long ago when the prison was built, the area was in the middle of nowhere: a lonely stretch of land that connected the highway to Joliet. Now, as cities had sprawled in all directions, houses sprung up closer and closer to the walled facility.
    On one side, railroad tracks hidden by clumps of