She can't do it. Sharon's done it more times than she can count, but she can't do it now. The line's smudged and crooked. She wipes away the eyeliner on her left eye and starts over for the third time. Applying eyeliner, a task she mastered as a teenager, requires very little thought and next to no effort on a normal day. This is not a normal day. This is the day she will sit across from the man who intended to use her as a prop in his sick, twisted fantasies. The man who spied on her in her most private moments. Thinking about what he'd been thinking about as he watched her makes drawing a straight line across her eyelid impossible.
At this rate, she knows she'll be late. This is not the day to be late. This is the day she'll study her abductor through grimy glass while he studies her. They'll talk on a phone system that will record every word spoken. She will attempt to use Evans to shine a light in the dark corners of the lives of Craig and Lydia Cope and their associates. People who helped to supply Phillip Stroh with a new face, a new identity, a new life. People who provided shelter, cash, cars, guns, and equipment to a monster. People who don't know the monster is dead. Stroh is no longer a threat. Mark Evans is no longer a threat. He's imprisoned and will stay that way, but there are others who also need to be behind bars. Sharon is determined to make that happen.
Giving up on creating a smooth, straight line, she puts the eyeliner away before brushing mascara on her eyelashes. Carefully placing her glasses on her nose without smudging the mascara, she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She can still remember the eye doctor telling her she needed glasses when she was in the fifth grade. Happy at the prospect of no longer having to squint at the chalkboard, she was excited to pick out frames from the dozens of possibilities. It took her almost an hour to decide which glasses she wanted, but her mom was patient with her and approved of her final choice. It was her mother who hugged her when Sharon cried in her arms, and told her about the blonde boy, Kent Hill, who had called her "Four Eyes" and laughed at her on the first day she'd worn her new glasses to school.
Kent Hill eventually stopped laughing at her. By the time they were high school sophomores, he had asked her for a date at least a dozen times. Her parents finally relented and allowed her to go to the homecoming dance with the blonde boy she'd had a crush on for years, but her mother was adamant about no makeup. In a display that would've made Rusty proud, had he been alive at the time, Sharon whined, begged, and pouted for days before her mother finally gave in and allowed her to wear a hint of makeup. It's her mother she sees staring back at her in the mirror. Sharon has her mother's nose, cheeks, and hair. Marjorie O' Dwyer has been dead five years, but she's still very much alive in her daughter's mind and heart.
In her teens, applying makeup wasn't a chore for Sharon; it was fun. That was a long time ago. Applying makeup hasn't been fun for her in years. It's just something she does—just like she puts on perfume—just like she wears jewelry—just like she styles her hair. Mark Evans watched her do those things. Without taking her eyes off her own reflection, she reaches for the hairbrush. Her fingers land on the handle; she squeezes it, reassured by the knowledge it's where it's supposed to be. No one has touched it but her. No one is watching or recording her. She feels safe, but she wonders if she'll ever be free of the discomfiture that lingers at the edge of her subconscious because of the man she will soon see for the first time since fleeing from him.
None of her normal morning routine is for the benefit of Evans; yet, she knows he'll derive pleasure from her appearance. It was her appearance, in the picture Jack kept on his desk, that first fueled Evans' obsession with her.
Mark Evans had over sixty pictures of her on the bedroom wall of her neighbor's condo. The bedroom he slept in when not watching her living her life with no knowledge of his eyes on her. She shudders at the memory of walking into that bedroom to be confronted with so many intimate images of herself. It would have been bad enough if she'd been alone at the time; however, surrounded by subordinates looking at pictures taken of her in embarrassing, vulnerable, passionate, goofy, tender moments was too much. Her mind had gone blank until she felt Andy's hands on her shoulders bringing her back to reality. It seemed like a year had passed since that day, but it had only been a few weeks.
Sharon was already seated when a guard led Mark Evans into the room on the other side of the thick glass partition. Her crutches were out of sight on the floor near her seat. She lifts the phone to her ear. He does the same. He stares at her for several seconds. She returns his gaze. "I love your new look," he says. "Your eyes are even more beautiful without all that dark makeup."
Glaring at him, she says, "Let me be very clear. I'm not here to talk about me. I'm here to talk about you and what you know about Stroh's associates."
"Sharon, you're a lot of things, but you're not stupid. You're going to have to give a little to get a little."
"I'm not playing games with you.
"Then this isn't going to be much fun," he replies. "I tell you what, I'll answer your questions if you'll answer mine."
They stare at each other again. Finally, Evans turns and motions for the guard. "I'm bored. Take me back to my cell."
As Evans reaches out to hang up the phone, Sharon says, "I can make this worth your time."
"I'm listening."
"I'll see that you get a transfer to the prison of your choice."
"I'm right where I want to be. My friends are happy to have me back."
"Your friends are rapists and murderers."
"Nobody is perfect . . . as you well know. You love to love losers."
The corners of her mouth turn up slightly in a small smile. She refuses to show this piece of human garbage her frustration and mounting irritation. "That's not true. I could never love you," she says.
"Touché." He smiles, sits up straighter in the hard, metal chair bolted to the concrete, and props both elbows on the counter. He's starting to enjoy himself. Leaning closer to the glass, he asks, "Did you enjoy the gifts I sent you?"
"I gave them away," she answers. "Now, it's my turn. Who were the people helping Stroh?"
"I was helping Stroh. Did you know Rusty raids your refrigerator when you're at work, Blanca never vacuums under the couch, and the creepy building manager likes to try on your clothes?" Evans notices the incredulous look on her face before continuing, "He actually doesn't look half bad in that green and black blouse I love on you."
Schooling her features, she says, "Other than you, who was Stroh involved with?"
"Wait. You didn't answer my question, so I'm not answering yours."
Holding up a picture of Craig and Lydia Cope, she says, "Tell me about these people."
"First, you tell me about Chief Stewart."
"Who?"
"Don't be coy. You know who I'm talking about. Chief Keith Stewart, the man who has a thing for you."
Setting the picture of the Copes down, she pauses to absorb what Evans said. After taking a deep breath, she says, "Chief Stewart is my colleague and that is all."
"I don't believe you. Why does the chief get nervous every single time I mention your name?"
Ignoring the question, she holds up the picture again. "What can you tell me about these people?"
"You did it again. You're not very good at this. It's quid pro quo, Sharon. Why does the chief get nervous?"
"I'm sure that's your imagination."
"I'm sure it's not. Anyway, I don't know that old coot in the picture or the bimbo next to him. Why did you reject me all those years ago?" Before she can formulate a response, he continues, "Do you have any idea how great we could've been together? I would've made you forget Jack in a heartbeat."
She watched and listened as he grew louder and more agitated, not even waiting for her to answer his questions.
"Seriously Sharon, like I said you aren't a stupid person. Why do you make such dumb decisions? Are you screwing Stewart and Andy Flynn?"
Lowering the picture in her hand, she doesn't say a word. She just looks at him. He has saliva in the corner of his mouth. His forehead glistens with sweat.
"Answer me," he shouts before slamming the phone on the counter. The noise hits her as if it had been his fist. She flinches, pulling the phone away from her ear. The guard on the other side of the glass swings into action restraining Evans who stands and leers at her, his face pressed to the glass. The guard handcuffs Evans with his hands behind his back. Sharon watches in shock. Evans looks at her, smiles, and kisses the glass.