I'm locked in a holding cell with a few men whose faces look far too familiar with violence. They glance at me briefly, then go back to their own business, as if I'm just another problem added to a room already full of old ones.
I've been given a change of clothes, and before they brought me in here, they made me clean myself up. The blood is gone now, washed away by water and procedure, but the sensation lingers, like it seeped somewhere deeper than skin.
Even with my body clean, I still feel filthy. Not the kind of dirty you can wash off. The kind that clings to the way I breathe. And beneath that feeling, there's a fear I can't quite name… just sitting there in my chest, unmoving.
When I finally look at my hands again, I notice the scratches along my arms. I don't remember how they got there. And that's the part that unsettles me the most.
I exhale slowly and lean my back against the cold wall of the cell. It feels empty, like it doesn't care whether I exist here or not. I try to remember. Force my mind to dig something up. But the harder I try, the emptier it becomes.There's nothing left. No clear fragments. No sequence. Nothing to hold onto. It's like my own memory refuses to cooperate with me. Even the woman I remember meeting that night… I can't recall her clearly.
Lori? Michelle? Shayla?
The names surface like unfocused shadows, never forming into a complete person.
Damn it, Ray.
I really don't know how I ended up here.
About twelve hours later, Cooper returns. He doesn't look at me right away. He stands outside the cell for a moment, then steps into the empty room beside it. His arms are crossed, his posture calm, like someone who's had this conversation hundreds of times before.
The first five minutes pass in silence.
"Don't you have any family you can call?" he finally asks.
"I don't have anyone here."
He nods slowly, like the answer was already in the file before he even asked. Then he falls silent again, letting the quiet press against the walls.
"Ring any bells, Elena Vance?" he says after a while, flatly. "That's the woman you killed. In case you forgot."
"I told you I didn't—"
"Yeah, yeah." Cooper cuts me off without raising his voice. "You said you didn't kill her. But you were running through the streets covered in her blood, and her head was found in your trunk."
It doesn't even sound like an accusation anymore. More like a report that's already been filed, signed, and sealed before I ever opened my mouth.
"Listen, Raymond. You're in a very bad position here." Cooper leans forward slightly. "We've processed the crime scene. There's a lot of evidence pointing directly at you as Elena Vance's killer."
He pauses for half a second, then continues without changing expression. "Including signs of sexual assault."
My head snaps toward him. The look comes out sharper than I intend. But Cooper doesn't react. He just watches, like he's waiting for something he's already memorized.
"But what's more interesting," he continues, "why the decapitation? I can understand a killing in a moment of rage. But that… that's something else."
"I want a lawyer."
Cooper leans back slightly, a faint smile forming.
"I'd want a lawyer too if I were you," he says, letting out a quiet chuckle, like we're discussing something casual. "Oh, and I did a little digging on you."
His eyes stay on me longer now.
"You served four years for aggravated assault. Andreas Rodriguez. 2014."
I force myself not to react when that bastard's name leaves his mouth.
A moment later, Cooper stands, as if the conversation has reached its end without needing a dramatic conclusion. He straightens his sleeve, a small motion that feels more like habit than preparation, then exhales, not tired… more like someone closing another file in an endless stack.
"Your lawyer's here," he says flatly. "He'll see you shortly."
He glances at me once more, then turns and walks away, leaving the sound of the door closing as the only full stop to the conversation.
A few moments later, a man in a black suit steps in after Cooper disappears. He's in his late forties, light brown hair slicked neatly back. He smiles… almost like a smirk when he sees me. I don't recognize him. He looks too polished to be a public defender.
"Raymond Gilmore?" he asks casually.
I straighten as an officer opens the cell door, letting him in without much fuss.
"Harold Campbell." He extends his hand. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then shake it anyway. His grip is warm. Too relaxed for someone meeting a murder suspect.
"Nice to meet you," he says, like we've just been introduced at dinner.
"I can't say the same," I reply flatly.
He chuckles, not offended at all. "That's fair. If I were you, I wouldn't be very friendly either."
He glances around the cell, then looks back at me.
"I'm from Campbell & Rowe, Criminal Defense Attorneys. You probably haven't heard of us. That's fine. We spend more time in court than in TV ads."
I cross my arms, still trying to read him. "What are you doing here?"
"This morning," he continues casually, "I read your case file. Honestly… interesting." His smile shifts, no longer just polite, but like someone who's found a puzzle worth solving. "Too clean for something supposedly spontaneous. Too messy for something fully planned."
I don't respond.
"So," he shrugs lightly, "I decided to take it."
I frown. "Take it?"
"Your case," he says. "I volunteered to be your lawyer."
I stare at him for a few seconds.
"So you're not a public defender?"
"No." He smiles again, thinner this time. "I'm not overworked and surviving on three hours of sleep."
"Then why?"
The question slips out faster than I expect. Harold watches me for a moment, like he's deciding how honest he wants to be.
"Because something about your case doesn't make sense," he finally says. "And I don't like things that are too clean… or too messy."
He leans forward slightly.
"And because, Raymond, with the evidence they have right now?" He pauses. "You look very guilty."
I hold my breath.
"But looking guilty," he continues quietly, "doesn't always mean you are."
"I don't have money to pay you," I say, my gaze dropping to the floor.
Harold doesn't answer right away. He just looks at me for a few seconds too long.
Right. Lawyers don't work for free.
"Well," he finally says lightly, "looks like I'll go pro bono."
I look up at him, making sure I didn't mishear. He's already sitting beside me now, way too relaxed for someone offering free help.
"But seriously," he adds, glancing at me, "you really have no money at all?"
I let out a quiet scoff. "My savings are sixty dollars and eight cents."
He pauses for a fraction of a second, then chuckles.
"Damn," he mutters. "You're actually broke."
I don't respond.
"But that's fine," he adds quickly. "I'm already rich. And honestly, I need the reputation."
I stare at him flatly. "By defending a man who might have killed a woman and cut off her head? What kind of reputation is that?"
He smirks, like the question amuses him.
"You know," he says casually, "I like defending guilty people. It's more challenging."
I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to decide if he's joking.
"Oh God," I mutter. "You're weird."
"That's what they say," he replies lightly. "But they usually still win in court."
He pauses, then looks at me seriously for the first time.
"Now," he says, his tone shifting, "I need you to be honest with me, Raymond. Because I don't care whether you're guilty or not…" He leans slightly closer. "…I just need to know what actually happened."
"I didn't kill Elena," I say quietly, but clearly. "I don't know what happened. I don't even remember if I actually met her that night."
Harold doesn't interrupt. He just watches and waits.
"The last thing I remember," I continue, "I left my house, got into my car, and was on my way to meet her at Silver Oak Bistro. After that… nothing. I don't remember if I even got there."
"And then?" he asks calmly.
"I woke up." My breath catches slightly. "I was in the apartment. Her body was on the floor. No head." I swallow. "I panicked. So I ran."
Harold leans back, arms crossed, but his eyes stay sharp.
"Alright," he finally says. "Let's break this down."
I nod slightly, even though I'm not sure what can be broken down from nothing.
"Do you remember your last message with Elena?" he asks.
I frown, trying to recall. "Not clearly. Maybe we confirmed the time. That's it."
"No signs she was acting strange? Scared? Urgent?"
"No."
"And you?" he continues. "Did you drink before leaving? Drugs? Anything?"
"No. I was completely sober."
He nods slowly, filing it away.
"Your car," he says. "Do you remember where you parked when you got there?"
I shake my head. "I don't even remember getting there."
"Interesting," he mutters.
He leans forward slightly.
"Raymond, listen to me carefully," he says, more serious now. "There are two possibilities here. Either you truly don't remember… or something is preventing you from remembering."
I look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Blackout," he says shortly. "Or… someone made sure you wouldn't remember."
I go quiet.
"Now the next question," he continues, his tone sharper, "when you woke up, did you touch the body?"
I exhale slowly. "I… don't know."
"That's not a good answer."
"I panicked."
"Everyone panics," he shoots back. "But people who panic don't decapitate someone and store the head in their trunk."
I look at him sharply. "I didn't do that."
He doesn't answer immediately. Just watches me, measuring, like he's waiting for something to crack.
"Alright," he finally says. "I'll take that as true. For now."
"For now?" I repeat.
"Yeah." He shrugs lightly. "My job isn't to believe you. My job is to make sure they can't prove you're guilty."
I go quiet.
Then he stands, adjusting his suit.
"But if you're hiding something from me," he adds, looking at me once more, "it'll kill both of us in that courtroom."
He stops near the door.
"Oh, and one more thing," he says without turning. "From now on, you don't talk to anyone without me."
I nod slowly.
"So what am I supposed to do here?" I ask, my voice lower than I expect.
Harold doesn't answer right away. He fixes his jacket, then looks at me briefly.
"Not much," he says. "You stay quiet. Don't talk to anyone. And you'll probably be transferred to a county jail or detention center while waiting for trial."
I let out a quiet scoff. "You're serious?"
"Very." His tone is flat now, no trace of humor. "This isn't a movie. They won't keep you here long."
I shake my head slowly, disbelief mixing with something heavier.
"And the trial?"
"Arraignment first. After that… we'll see how bad this is." He pauses. "And trust me, it's already bad."
I look down, trying to process everything, but it feels like trying to hold water in my hands.
"Remember," he adds, his voice firmer now. "You only talk to me. Anyone else—police, inmates, anyone, even your mother—you keep your mouth shut."
I nod slowly.
He watches me for a few more seconds, like he's deciding whether I'll actually listen. Then, without another word, he turns and walks out.