Inevitable Sentences by Tekla Dennison Miller

motioned for Priscilla to do the same. Their heads nearly touched. “I’m gonna help Chad escape on Sunday. Then we’re outta here. We’re headin’ south.” Lizzie beamed as though she had announced she’d won the lotto. “Way south to Mexico.”
    “What?” Priscilla shouted.
    “Be quiet. Damn. Do you want all Marquette to know?” Lizzie slid back again, took a slug of beer, and defiantly crossed her arms over her chest.
    Priscilla assessed the now empty restaurant. “I don’t think there is a chance anyone will hear us. All the smart people have gone home.”
    Both were silent. Priscilla didn’t know what else to say. Or perhaps she was afraid if she opened her mouth she’d get sucked into Lizzie’s scheme, as she had too many times since grade school. But an escape? Chad was in prison for life. He was watched closely.
    Yet he did work with Lizzie in the kitchen. Priscilla drummed her fingers as she thought about it. How closely did Mackey or Jones or the other officers really keep an eye on them? How far did the lovers think they could get before they were found? Where in hell would they live in Mexico?
    There were too many questions that Priscilla bet Lizzie had never bothered to consider.
    “You look like someone stomped on your head.” Lizzie pulled a slice of pizza from the tray and chomped a huge bite. Sauce dripped down her chin. She wiped it away with her hand and chewed enthusiastically.
    “I guess I feel that way.” Should she ask more? No. Let Lizzie give her whatever information she wanted. Priscilla didn’t dare sound too eager or interested.
    “Since you don’t seem to wanna press me for the whole story, I’ll go ahead and tell you.” Lizzie pushed the tray toward Priscilla. “Pizza?”
    Priscilla shook her head. She was no longer hungry. Maybe if she sat perfectly still, Lizzie would leave. She didn’t want any part of Lizzie’s crazy plan.
    “I need your help,” Lizzie repeated, overemphasizing each word.
    “You’re talking about getting a serial killer out of prison.” Priscilla began to hyperventilate. If she got involved, her own life would be over. She’d go to prison herself if—no when—they were caught.
    “Yes. But let’s get this clear.” Lizzie’s eyes turned that dark, cold shade again, the eyes of a person who would stop at nothing. The person facing Priscilla was so unfamiliar it frightened her. “Chad is an alleged serial killer.” Lizzie crunched down on the pizza and flopped back. The vinyl bench crackled under the pressure. She chewed leisurely and defiantly, never diverting her gaze from Priscilla. “Stop breathin’ like some star overactin’ her part.”
    Priscilla took several more shuddering breaths, and said, “What exactly are you asking me to do? I could lose everything I’ve got after—”
    “It’s the before part I want to talk to you about,” Lizzie said. She finished off her beer and signaled Tess for another.
    Priscilla searched the room for the pounding she heard and then it dawned on her. It was her own heartbeat pulsing into her head. She could feel the blood throb in her temples. She lowered her hands and studied Lizzie. “You should talk to Pilar’s mother about Chad before you do this. Maybe she could shed some light on who Chad really is.”
    “You mean talk to the Gross Pointe snob who thought her daughter was too good for Chad? Give me a break.” Lizzie picked up her empty glass and slammed it down when she remembered it held no beer. “Celeste is Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes. She’s almost as clueless as you, thinkin’ you’re goin’ to save those women at the lighthouse.”
    When Lizzie started to drop the “g” from her words, it meant she had either drunk too much or was sliding into her street slang persona. Either way, it would be useless to remind Lizzie in her current state of mind about Celeste’s successes. Moreover, no matter what Priscilla said, she doubted that Lizzie was about to be persuaded to leave Chad