“Look, the only reason you are here is to avoid any issues in court as far as the handling and rights of your client. He is going to be transferred to a maximum-security holding facility until the trial and additional charges will be brought against him for escaping.”

“I understand. My client’s behavior was inexcusable in this instance. While we maintain his innocence on the charges related to the murder of Kelly Summers, there is no denying his behavior over the last forty-eight hours.”

They are both speaking as if I am not even in the room. But given the situation, that is probably for the best.

“Fine, duly noted,” says the sheriff. “I will leave you with your client now. You have ten minutes, and then we are transferring him to Sussex State Prison. You can schedule all future visits with them.” Sheriff Stevens leaves, but not before giving me a look that says, You’re going down, asshole.

Sarah turns back to me once the door is closed. “What the fuck could you have possibly been thinking?”

“Sarah, I can explain—”

She holds up a finger to stop me. She begins to rub her temples with her eyes closed, her head bowed. I can only imagine what is going through her mind.

“Do you have any idea how much you just fucked everything up? Thanks to you, even if by some miracle I get you off on the murder charges, you are still going to serve jail time for escaping police custody and evading the authorities. We are talking years in prison. Do you even get that?”

“Sarah, you don’t understand—”

“No, Adam! You don’t fucking understand! Let’s just look at the facts for once. Fact: you escaped from jail. Fact: you are on trial for murder. Fact: you went to the house of that reporter, who you don’t even know.”

“I do know her. She’s helping me,” I argue.

Sarah sets her bag down and draws a folder from it. She slides it across the table. “No, you don’t know her.”

I look down at the folder, but with my hands cuffed to the table, my attempt to open it is laughable. Seeing me struggle, Sarah leans over and does it for me. There’s a picture of Rebecca clipped to the left side and on the right side, there’s some sort of a report.

“What’s this?”

“That’s Rebecca Sanford. Only she’s not a reporter, she’s a private investigator—and she was hired by Scott Summers.”

“What? That’s ridiculous! Why would he do that?” I try to throw my hands up, forgetting I’m handcuffed.

Sarah slams her fist on the table. “Listen to me, Adam. She was never actually helping you. Scott didn’t trust the narrative any more than you did. What don’t you get about that?”