Nat glanced at her carton of milk. Without hesitation she handed it over.

It was not just the light that kept Nat awake and alert. It was fear of the present and the future; confusion about the past. She sat on the cold floor, nibbling the bland cheese sandwich, willing herself to remember. What had she done after she left that nightclub? She remembered stumbling toward a cab. And then . . . nothing. Blank. Somehow, she had gotten home, had passed out on her apartment floor. But what had she done in between?

Eventually, her cellmates succumbed to exhaustion, lying on the bench, curling up on the floor—no pillows or blankets were offered. But Nat had been in a heavy, drugged sleep for days. She would not join them, could not relax. The words she had told her father rang in her head: I could never kill anyone. It was true. She had never been violent before. But she’d never experienced the intense feelings she had for Gabe. Love and hate were two sides of the same coin. She had been willing to use Gabe’s daughter to destroy his family. Was shooting him that much worse?

Without the sun, a watch, or her phone, the only indication she had that it was morning was when the guards arrived with small boxes of cornflakes, more cartons of milk, and bananas. The inmates were not given spoons, so Nat filled her mouth with the crunchy flakes and took a drink of milk. She forced down the banana, though it was bruised and overripe. She didn’t know when the next meal would come, undoubtedly another dry sandwich. Still, she had not used the toilet or sink.

Her companions were being taken out, one by one. Nat waited. Hours passed, though she didn’t know how many. A sandwich arrived, and she surmised it must be around noon (she had no way of knowing that her breakfast had been served at 4:00 A.M.). Two women came in to mop the cell, but they ignored the filthy bathroom area. Sometime later, a second sandwich, a dinner sandwich arrived, and Nat began to panic. How long could they keep her here? If this were a TV program, some ridiculously attractive lawyer would be advocating for her release right now. But this was not TV. Nat had no one to fight for her.

She had just finished her peanut butter and jelly when a guard came to the bars. “Natalie Murphy!” She jumped up, put her hands behind her back as she’d seen her cellmates do, let the stocky guard cuff her. Nat was led back through the concrete maze and deposited in yet another cell. But this one had a small window and no bathroom. That meant a short-term stay. It had only two other women in it. One of them was crying softly; the other sat stoic, hard, jaded. She had been there before.

Nat took a bench. Turning her head, she could see out the window, a glimpse of darkening sky. In the previous dank, windowless cell, she’d felt fear, panic, confusion. But seeing that slash of night brought a painful realization. Outside that window, life was going on as normal. People were living their lives: working, buying groceries, meeting friends for dinner. Nat might never do any of those things again. She might never be free. For the first time since she’d been booked, tears rolled down her cheeks.