Sure he’d heard the term lifer. Hadn’t known exactly what it meant until it was applied to him—in the way he wouldn’t have known what cancer meant exactly until it was applied to him.

Even then it wasn’t an exact knowledge. The charge had not been homicide, but manslaughter: vehicular manslaughter. Driving while impaired. Violation of a court-ordered injunction. Breaking and entering a residence. The bastards had tried to charge him with abduction of underage children as well, but that charge had been dropped.

To these he’d pleaded guilty. Not in his heart, but in the courtroom before the judge, who was gazing down upon him in scarcely concealed repugnance, as a man might gaze down upon a creature subhuman though standing upright.

Then his mouth twisted. Furious grin, baring ape teeth he’d liked to sink into the fucker’s neck.

And so he was given the sentence twenty-five years to life. Which meant you could not say I will be out of here in ___ years. You could not say This will end for me, I will be released in ___ years. None of this you could say with certainty. For even dignity is denied you in the orange jumpsuit with shackled legs.

He has not seen the young lawyer in a long time. Last time, their exchange had been brief and their consultation had ended abruptly.

Raising his voice, threatening the lawyer provided him by the court.

Fuck the lawyer, what the fuck did he need that asshole for. He did not need him or any lawyer.

Not probation this time, but incarceration. One of the other inmates explained to him that when he applied for parole, which would not be for many years, the ex-wife could exert her influence if she wished, for she would always be consulted as the ex-wife and the mother of the child-victims. If there had been threats to her, these would be duly recorded in the computer and never deleted.

He foresaw: always the woman would poison them against her.

In this way, always they would be married.

Problem is, remorse.

Heartily sorry for my sins. Now and at the hour of my death, Amen.

He did not lack remorse. But he did not exude a remorseful air.

And so, in the courtroom, this was perceived. The judge had perceived. Even the asshole lawyer had perceived. If it was remorse, it was remorse for not having taken the woman instead of the children and murdering the woman when he’d had the chance. The two of them together in the truck hurtling along Strouts Mill Road.

In her bed upstairs. In her bed that had been his bed. His bed from which she’d exiled him. In this way dooming him and the children, and he had not even known it at the time.