Slammer

“I need to talk to you.”

There was no need to beat around the bush. I needed to know if he was innocent. I needed to know that I wasn’t sick for being so attracted to a man who was capable of slaughter. I’d gone to bed so many nights hating myself for the way I felt just thinking of his dark skin and blue eyes. It was lust—raw and unadulterated—and it was so wrong considering our circumstances.

“Then talk.” He lifted a confused brow, his eyes becoming suspicious.

“Did you kill Carlos?”

He didn’t even think about it. “No,” he said right away.

I stood, moving closer to the side of his bed. Reaching out, I took his free hand in mine, his much warmer than my own. He didn’t try to stop me as I inspected his hands. They were rough. Scars and scrapes covered his knuckles, bearing witness to the many fights he’d been in.

When I flipped them over, my eyes moved over his palms. They were smooth, except on his fingertips, which were calloused and spoke of hard work. With the flick of his middle finger, he skimmed it across my own palm, sending goose bumps up my arm into my shoulder.

He watched me intently for my reaction to his touch, and I knew he could see the red blush that was spreading across my cheeks. Closing my eyes, I swallowed hard and continued my inspection.

I traced every inch of his palms, the natural lines dug into his skin from left to right, but there were no signs of scarring. I tried to picture how young and innocent he could’ve been, but all I could see were his bulging muscles and deadly expression. Had Scoop been right? Was Christopher set up?

The weight of all the accusation came crashing down on me, weakening my knees.

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out with his free hand to hold me steady.

“I’m okay.” Stepping away, I looked him over from his shaved head, which was slowly growing back in, to his thick lips. “Christopher, I need to ask you some things. I need you to let me in, and I need you to be honest with me. Okay?”

His eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you remember the night you killed those people?”

I was normally one to beat around the bush, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before the COs were tapping at the door and coming in.

His shoulders stiffened and his eyes slid away from me. He didn’t want to answer.

Reaching out, I placed my hand against his cheek and turned his head my way. Instead of opening his eyes, he pressed his cheek further into my palm and sighed.

“It’s important,” I whispered, afraid to break the strange spell that had begun to shift between us. “Please tell me what happened.”

Finally, his eyes met mine, but it wasn’t the X I was used to seeing. His mask had slipped once again and instead of the usual hard stare, fear moved in. Suddenly, I could see the nineteen-year-old boy he used to be. I could imagine how afraid he was in that moment.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice cracking in aggravation.

“Please, Christopher, I need to know,” I begged.

He looked at the ceiling as if trying to find the answers, blowing out a hard breath. “You don’t understand; I can’t remember doing it.” His eyes searched mine beseechingly. After a minute, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Try,” I rasped. “Just try.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” He exploded, making me jump back.

I looked at the door, sure the COs would come bursting in, but nothing happened.

“I’m sorry, Lyla. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” He reached up, running his fingers down my arm softly. “It’s all a blur. I went to my girlfriend’s house for dinner. That’s all I remember. She’s all I remember—her long blonde hair and red lips.”

“So you don’t remember anything about the murders, yet you confessed?”

He looked at me, sadness overtaking his face, turning it dark. “I killed them. Their blood was all over my hands. I can still smell it. I feel the guilt of their murders every day, and I will for the rest of my life.”

He gawked at his hands, as if he still couldn’t believe he’d actually done such a thing. Taking his face between my palms, I gazed deep into his eyes. He looked so helpless, lying there with so many questions and confusion in his eyes. He was almost childlike.

“You didn’t do this, Christopher,” I said, trying to convince myself as well. “You’re too good. You couldn’t have done those things.”

He clenched his eyes closed tightly and shook his head. “No. I did. I know I did.”