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laughingly called it. They listened to music, drank wine and taught Claire how to
play rummy. She taught them how to curtsy to a queen. As the hour grew late and
they lounged on pillows strewn across the living room, their conversations grew
personal.
Claire couldn't help mentioning Tyce and the funny, touching things he'd said
or done.
"You seem to care about him," Brianna noted.
"I do," she whispered, her love for him welling up inside of her until she felt
sure it must glow from her eyes.
"He seems to care about you, too," remarked Noreen. "I've never seen him act
or talk the way he did with you. I thought about checking him for fever!"
"Women in town have been chasing him for years," Brianna put in. "He hasn't
let anyone, male or female, get close enough to know him well. He holds us all at a
distance."
Bothered by this insight, Claire chewed her lip for a moment. "He holds me at a
distance, too," she confided. "Maybe not a physical one, but…"
They pondered the enigma of Tyce Walker in silence.
"I think it has to do with Joe," Noreen finally pronounced.
"Joe?" repeated Claire. "Who's Joe?"
"I don't know the whole story, but I gathered some of it from his letters. You
see, Brianna and I have been helping Tyce in his effort to get justice for his kids.
You know, street kids who were thrown into jail unjustly. We keep in touch with
them through letters while Tyce gathers evidence on their behalf. There's only
one prisoner writing to us who's an adult. Joe."
"But what can he have to do with Tyce personally?"
"They were kids together in a foster home." Noreen's voice grew solemn.
"Things got bad, and they ran away. Lived on the streets of L.A. One night, some
thugs jumped them with pipes and chains. One of the thugs died, and Joe … well,
he was sent to prison as an adult. The cops called it murder."
"Murder!" exclaimed Claire. "It sounds more like self-defense."
"He was given life without parole."
Claire grew heartsick just thinking about it. It could have been Tyce, she
realized.
"Tyce gets real intense whenever Joe's name is mentioned," Noreen said softly.
"I think he blames himself. The thugs were after Tyce for some reason. Joe just
happened to be there."
"Do you have any letters from Joe and the other kids?" Claire asked.
"Sure. I have a stack of them in my car that I brought to divvy up with Brianna."
"Could I help read and answer them?"
"I don't see why not. We can use the help."
Claire retired to Tyce's bed with a stack of letters. One was from Joe. His
handwriting was nearly illegible, his spelling atrocious and the letter started off
with, "Yo! How goes it, ladies?" He talked about trivialities—oatmeal cookies that
someone named "Hattie" had sent him, a television cop show he liked, and a fight
going on in the next cell. His humor made Claire smile, and though he didn't
actually thank anybody for anything, his appreciation that someone cared came
through so loud and clear that her throat tightened. He finished with, "Remind
Tyce that my team beat his last Sunday. Ha, ha."
She wanted very much to help Joe. And for some reason, she loved Tyce all the
more.
As she set the letter aside, she felt vaguely ashamed of her childhood belief that
poor children led happier lives than she. Her wealth had kept her isolated, but it
had also kept her safe.
She also realized that she was still under guard, still virtually imprisoned, but
now had no desire to run away. She felt needed, and strong, and hopeful that she
could find a way to tear down the walls Tyce had built around his heart.
Early the next morning, while her two guests were still sleeping, a guard from
somewhere on the property called on a walkie-talkie. "Sorry to disturb you, Ms.
Jones, but a lady by the name of Hattie Pitts brought a package for Mr. Walker.
She says it's urgent that he gets it immediately."
"Hattie? Did you say Hattie?" Claire remembered the name from Joe's letter.
Could it be the same woman?
"Yes, ma'am. I have orders from Mr. Walker to keep everyone out, so I sent her
on her way. But she left this package. I opened it to be sure there were no
electronic devices in it. It looks like a letter and photographs. I'd forward it to Mr.
Walker, but he told me this morning that he'll be back tonight."
"Tonight?" Anticipation lightened her heart. "Just bring the package to the
house, then. I'll be sure he gets it."
Within moments, a square-faced, burly man in a security uniform met her at
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