He points us to an empty table, and we sit. I shift in my seat, trying not to look too uncomfortable. Something about this place just gives me goose bumps. I feel like everyone’s looking at us, though I doubt anyone actually is.

I fidget with the visitor’s pass hanging from a lanyard around my neck. People are talking to their loved ones in soft voices all around us. At the table beside us, a woman who looks like the inmate’s mother sobs as she holds his hand across the table.

Annalisa’s leg is rapidly bouncing up and down as her foot taps the floor anxiously.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Peachy,” she replies.

I lift an eyebrow at her and she sighs.

“The last time I saw him, I stormed over a table in the middle of an ice-cream parlor to get away from him. I don’t know how he’ll feel about seeing me.” Yeah, that was when he contacted us and told us that he thought he’d killed Greg but didn’t remember doing it, and begged Annalisa’s forgiveness but she wasn’t having any of it. It feels like forever ago but it’s only been a couple of weeks.

“He put you on his visitation list. He wants to see you.”

She pouts, so I continue, “All he wants in this world is his sister back. He’s going to be so incredibly happy to see you. He’ll be even happier that you want to prove his innocence and get him out of here.”

Her leg is still bouncing.

“He doesn’t even believe his own innocence.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” I reassure her.

Her leg stops bouncing and her intense blue eyes are focused on the other side of the room. Luke’s behind the door opposite to the one we came in from, staring at us as the guards remove his handcuffs.

His expression is a mixture of hopefulness and disbelief, but there’s a weariness there as well. He looks mostly the same as the last time we saw him, but older, if that’s possible. He looks tired, the dark circles under his eyes giving him a haunted look.

The guard moves to the side of the room, and Luke stays standing on the other side of the table, as if unsure whether to embrace Annalisa or not. A guard makes that decision for him by yelling “No touching!” at another group two tables down from us, startling all three of us.

Annalisa gives nothing away, looking him over with a blank face. After a few awkward seconds, he sits down in front of us.

“You look like shit,” Annalisa says, breaking the tension.

“Yeah. Jail does that to you.” He rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

“You still look better than you did when you were using,” she deadpans.

I stay quiet, almost afraid to make a noise and draw attention to myself. Maybe Annalisa should’ve done this without me. I feel like I’m intruding on a private family matter.