I grip the edge of the table, and the room swirls around me. I feel his sour breath on the back of my neck, the pain from thick strong fingers, pinching, shoving me into the dirt of the cellar floor. The burn of the knife on my flesh. The guard coughs, and I’m back to the present. My eyes settle on Keith’s hands, locked together by the handcuffs at his wrists. They’re not the same. They are thin and knotted, as if arthritis has rendered them useless. I take a deep breath and look him in the eyes.

“Tell all the lies you want,” I say quietly. “No one will believe you, and no one will ever hear you.”

He leans back slightly. “Someday, Melinda.”

My breath catches again, and I clear my throat. “My husband is dead, Keith, so any thoughts you had about speaking to him, being in his book, that’s all gone. He’ll never write to you again. He’ll never speak to you.” My voice is rising, and the guard gives me a look. I settle back into my chair. “You can’t hurt me anymore. You took away my childhood, Keith. You hurt me down to my soul, but I’m here to tell you that you’ve . . . lost. I’ve won. I’m not only surviving, but I’m flourishing. I’m living a good life.” Maybe not yet, not completely, but I will. When I walk out of here. I will live a good life. I clench my hands into fists.

“You’re a nothing, Keith Russell. You’re in here behind these walls for life, and I’m going to walk away. I’m going to get into my car and drive back to my wonderful life.”

He shrugs and glances at the guard. “But the past can never be changed, Melinda. And I might just write a book about those three days. I can’t profit off it, that’s the law, but I can write it. Tell the truth.”

My heartbeat kicks up again, and I fight to catch my breath. “My husband won’t help you!” The guard makes a move toward the table, but I sit back, fold my hands, and he retreats.

Keith shakes his head. “What husband? I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about.”

I blink my eyes. “He wrote to you. My husband. He’s writing a book, and you said you’d talk to him.”

“You’re crazy, Melinda. You know that?” His lips curl, and he leans forward. “You come in here, all high and mighty, but you’re still a little girl who likes to tell tales.” His sour breath wafts over me.

“You wrote to him! I read the letter.”