It wasn't his appearance that unnerved her, unexpected though it was with its neat new track runnelling the middle of his chin, curving through cheek and across the outer corner of his right eye to disappear into the hairline. It wasn't even that they were alike in colouring and delicacy of features.
It was his expression. A mixture of hope and no hope.
He was red-haired, fresh smooth skinned, freckled with a faded tan, 19, and not far from the trial of his life.
For murder.
He sat straight-backed, knees wide, hands hanging, in a hard chair in front of a square metal table and looked at her. Straight at her. What was she going to do for him? What could she do for him? The question was there. In his eyes. And she thought the answer just as probably was in hers. But she said, 'I want to help you.'
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