I stayed in my car longer than I should have, the engine off, the silence pressing in while the video replayed on my screen for what had to be the tenth time. No, more than that. Two hours, at least. Two hours of watching the same grainy footage, the same man walking into Elena's apartment like he belonged there.
I leaned back against the seat, my eyes still locked on the frozen frame. I knew that face. There was no doubt left in me. That was Raymond. Not a shadow, not a trick of light, not a coincidence. Him. Clear as day.
"You lying little bastard," I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand down my face before finally forcing myself out of the car.
A couple of officers greeted me on the way in, but I barely registered their voices, offering nothing more than a distracted nod as I moved straight toward the private visitation room. My steps were quicker than usual, like I was already halfway into an argument that hadn't started yet. By the time I reached the room, I was done thinking. Now I just wanted answers.
Raymond walked in a minute later, escorted by a guard. He looked worse than before. The bruises had darkened, spreading across his cheekbone and jaw, his lower lip still slightly split. His posture was off too, shoulders tighter, movements more guarded. He didn't look like a man who trusted anyone in this building anymore. Not even me. Especially not me.
He sat down across from me without waiting, his eyes already scanning my face like he was trying to read what kind of conversation this was going to be. Then he spoke first. "Tell me you got me into isolation."
I didn't answer immediately. Not because I didn't hear him, but because, for once, that wasn't the most important thing on the table.
"Before that," I said, keeping my tone even, controlled, "I need to ask you something again."
He frowned slightly, irritation flashing across his face. "Okay…?"
"Did you kill Elena?"
His answer came fast. "No."
"Were you unconscious that night?"
A beat. Then, "Yes. I don't remember anything."
I studied him for a second longer, searching for cracks, for hesitation, for anything that didn't line up. Then I exhaled quietly, reached into my bag, and pulled out my iPad. The screen lit up as I unlocked it, and without another word, I slid it across the table toward him.
The video was already playing. Raymond's eyes dropped to the screen, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then everything did. His body went still. Completely still. His pupils widened, his breathing hitched just slightly, like his body had forgotten its rhythm. The color drained from his face beneath the bruises, tension crawling into every line of his expression.
"That's you," I said quietly, watching him more than the screen.
He didn't respond.
"Raymond."
His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. His gaze stayed locked on the screen, like he was trying to process something that didn't fit into reality.
"That's impossible," he finally muttered, barely above a whisper.
I leaned forward slightly. "Excuse me?"
He shook his head once, slow, almost disoriented. "No… that's—no way."
"Come on," I said, my patience thinning just enough to bleed into my voice. "I'm not here to play games. I don't care if you killed her or not. I care about the truth."
Silence stretched between us. Then he looked up nd something in his eyes had changed. The confusion was still there, but underneath it—something sharper, like a switch had flipped behind them.
"You killed her?" I pressed.
He held my gaze this time, but he idn't look away, didn't even flinch.
"Raymond?"
His jaw tightened slightly, like he was weighing something. Then finally, "Maybe."
"Maybe?" I repeated, the word tasting wrong the second it left my mouth. "What the hell does 'maybe' mean?" I leaned back slightly. "That's not an answer, Raymond. It's either yes or no."
He didn't respond immediately. But something in his posture shifted instead. The tension in his shoulders settled into something colder, more controlled. His expression hardened, like he'd pulled a curtain down behind his eyes.
"I told you what I remember," he said flatly.
"That's not what I asked," I shot back. "Did you kill her?"
A beat.
Then he looked at me, and whatever hesitation had been there before was
gone.
"You keep asking the same question," he said, voice quieter now, but sharper. "Maybe you just don't like the answers."
I stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving breath. "Hey. I'm trying to help you here. I'm doing this for free, remember?"
"I didn't ask you to," he replied without missing a beat. "You volunteered."
There it was.Ungrateful son of a bitch didn't even begin to cover it.
"You're unbelievable," I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "Do you have any idea how bad this looks for you?"
He didn't flinch.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
"Then start acting like it," I snapped. "Because right now, you're making it very hard for me to do anything useful."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes locked on mine, completely unbothered now.
"Here's something useful you can do, Harold Campbell," he said, my name rolling off his tongue like an insult. "Go do your job. Talk to the guards. Get me into isolation."
The shift was so abrupt it almost made me laugh.
Almost.
"Wow," I said under my breath.
"And while you're at it," he continued, standing up like the conversation was already over, "send me your hourly rate."
I frowned. "What?"
"I'll write you a check."
For a second, I just stared at him.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
But he wasn't looking at me anymore.
"Guard," he called out, already stepping toward the door. The officer outside moved immediately, unlocking it and guiding him out before I could even process what just happened.
"Raymond—" I started, but the door shut before I got anything else out.
Silence dropped into the room. I stayed there for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from me, replaying his words in my head.
A check?
He said he'd write me... a check?
I let out a slow breath, confusion settling into something sharper.
"That's funny," I muttered to myself.
Because last time we talked, he said he only had sixty dollars and eight cents to his name. So either he'd suddenly discovered hidden wealth in the last twenty-four hours…
or— I leaned back in my chair, my eyes narrowing slightly—I didn't know who the hell I was defending.
Even with my thoughts still tangled, I didn't waste time. I headed straight for the administrative wing and asked to see the head guard. There were too many things stacking up at once, and whether I liked it or not, Raymond staying alive had just become a priority.
"Mr. Campbell, have a seat."
Jonah Moore looked exactly like the kind of man who had spent years deciding which problems were worth his time and which weren't.
I sat down without bothering with small talk.
"I need Raymond Gilmore moved to protective custody," I said directly. "Isolation."
Jonah didn't react immediately. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers loosely interlocked over his desk.
"That's a strong request," he said. "We don't move inmates like that without solid cause."
"He was assaulted," I replied. "Multiple inmates. Visible injuries. You've seen him."
"We see a lot of injuries in here," Jonah said calmly. "Doesn't mean every inmate gets their own private cell."
I exhaled slowly through my nose, keeping my tone even. "He's a high-profile detainee. Accused of rape and decapitation. You know exactly what that makes him in a place like this."
Jonah's expression didn't change. "He's under supervision."
"Supervision didn't stop him from getting beat half to death," I said.
A pause.
Jonah tapped his fingers lightly against the desk. "He's still alive."
I let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. "That's a low bar, don't you think?"
"We manage risk," he replied. "We don't eliminate it."
Of course he didn't.
I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice just enough to shift the tone of the conversation.
"Let me rephrase this," I said. "My client has already been attacked once. If it happens again—and next time it goes further—you're looking at a liability issue you really don't want."
Jonah's eyes flicked up to mine, just for a second.
"I'm not threatening you," I continued smoothly. "I'm just pointing out reality. High-profile inmate, known charges, prior assault, documented injuries. That's a pattern. And patterns are very easy to explain in court."
Silence stretched between us.
"You're saying we're negligent," Jonah said.
"I'm saying it can be argued," I corrected.
Another pause.
He leaned back again, studying me now, weighing effort versus consequence.
"We're at capacity," he said after a moment. "Protective custody isn't a luxury we hand out because a lawyer asks nicely."
"I'm not asking nicely," I said. "I'm asking before I have to file something that makes this your problem instead of mine."
Jonah exhaled slowly, clearly annoyed now.
"You lawyers," he muttered.
"Occupational hazard."
He drummed his fingers once more against the desk, then gave a small, reluctant nod.
"I'll review his case," he said. "No promises."
"Review quickly," I replied, standing up. "Because if something happens to him tonight, this conversation is going to look very different tomorrow."
Jonah didn't answer, and as I turned to leave, I could feel it, he hadn't agreed. But he was thinking about it. And right now, that was enough.