Read From Cradle to Grave for Free Online Page B

I’m just a bit . . . disappointed, that’s all. I was so looking forward to our . . . journey.’
    Morgan nodded, but didn’t speak. Part of her wanted to say ‘me too’, and part of her wanted to rail at him for being so unfeeling.
    ‘You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you call me back when you know more,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll sort it out. Maybe we can rebook.’
    Morgan felt as if her heart was frozen. ‘As you said, it could take a long time.’
    Simon was quiet, considering her reply. Finally, he said, ‘Circumstances often change. Let’s just wait and see what happens. Shall we?’
    It was twilight by the time Morgan arrived in the town of West Briar. On previous visits she had walked on the beach, and visited the shops downtown, but she had never had occasion to notice where the police department was. She pulled up beside an elderly man who was walking his dog and asked him for directions. It turned out that the police department was headquartered in a historic building across the street from the firehouse. She probably would have found the place without directions, because of the uproar on the sidewalk outside of the building, where reporters and news vans were clustered. Morgan had to park her car several blocks away and wend her way through the milling representatives of the media to reach the entrance.
    The weathered, cedar-shake façade of the police department building resembled those of its near neighbors – a whaling museum and a pastry shop. But as Morgan pulled open the door, it was immediately obvious that only the outer shell of the building was of a historic vintage. Inside, the building had been renovated to include all the latest equipment, surveillance cameras, humming computers and ergonomic office furniture. The white-haired desk sergeant asked Morgan her business.
    Morgan frowned. ‘I’m here to see . . . Claire Bolton.’
    She did not have to explain who Claire Bolton was. The desk sergeant’s ruddy face turned a shade redder, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Are you another reporter? I already told you people. There will be no interviews with the prisoner.’
    The prisoner. Morgan turned the word over in her mind. How could it be? How could he be talking about Claire? ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not a reporter. I’m her . . .’ She started to say ‘friend’, and then immediately stopped herself. Mere friendship would probably not gain her access to their most notorious prisoner. She was pretty sure of that. ‘I’m her sister,’ she said.
    ‘What’s your name?’ the desk sergeant demanded.
    ‘Morgan Adair.’
    ‘And you’re her sister?’ the sergeant said skeptically.
    Morgan nodded. ‘She called me and asked me to come. I just arrived in town.’
    ‘Just a minute,’ he said. He picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. ‘Yeah, she says she’s the sister. Morgan.’
    The desk sergeant waited, and then nodded. ‘Awright,’ he said. He put the phone down and turned to Morgan. ‘The van for the county jail is on its way to pick her up. You can visit with her until it arrives. But that’s it.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Morgan humbly.
    ‘Hardiman, front and center,’ the sergeant bawled.
    A heavyset female officer came up to the desk. ‘Yessir.’
    ‘Take this lady to see her sister. The Bolton woman.’
    ‘Yessir.’
    ‘Stay down there with her. She can go in the cell, but pat her down before she goes in and again when she comes out. We don’t want any fuck-ups here till we get her moved to county.’
    ‘Yessir,’ said the officer, a square-shaped, acne-scarred woman in her forties. She turned to Morgan solemnly. ‘Come with me.’
    Morgan followed the straight-backed officer through a set of locked doors, which she opened by putting her palm against a scanner. They entered a freshly painted room in which there was a bathroom without doors on either side as you entered, and then four barred cells, two on each side. There did not appear to