I squeeze his hand lightly. He smiles at what he probably thinks is a gesture of affection, but it is merely the closing of a countdown that started long ago. Ten of those little squeezes of my hand, each expels one more minute that I have to endure with him. I’ve always been good with timing. It’s how you deliver a perfect opening or closing statement at court. It’s how you hit the perfect pauses during a cross-examination. It’s why I’m so good at my job. It’s all about timing. He squeezes my hand back. I don’t care to be involved with him in even the most germane of romantic interactions, but I’ve endured worse from him… much worse.

“Did you ever find anything more on the case?” he asks with a pleading tone, touched with hope.

“Adam,” I sigh out to him, “why even bring that up? It won’t do you any good.”

“You were never curious enough to look back into it? To try and save me?” His voice begins to rise in tandem with his eyebrows.

“Of course, and I have, but there was never any new evidence—there was no way to get the case reopened. You know that. I went over that with you six months after the trial ended.” I squeeze his hand for the second time.

He lowers his head feeling defeated all over again. Did he really think I’d spring in here with new evidence and he’d magically get released at the eleventh hour? That kind of thing only happens in the movies. It doesn’t happen in real life. After a few awkward moments of him staring at the table, he lifts his head back up and looks at me. I squeeze his hand for the third time. He squeezes back. I wish he’d stop that.

“What about that third set of DNA?” There’s a small air of excitement in his voice.

“What about it?”

“Do you know who it belonged to?”

“Adam, we went over it. There wasn’t enough evidence to bring it into court.” I sigh.

His face scrunches up, anger setting into his eyes—the wild beast is returning. He takes a deep breath, smoothing out his face again. He’s finally coming to terms with it all. I squeeze his hand a fourth time. This time he doesn’t squeeze back. Instead, he gives me an odd look.

“Listen, I didn’t come here to rehash the case. I came here to say goodbye and to tell you that I love you.” I loved him at one point, so it’s not hard for me to mimic saying those words to him, even if they’re not true anymore.

He drops his head and whispers under his breath, “I love you too, Sarah.” Silent tears begin to stream down his face.

I squeeze his hand a fifth time.

63. Adam Morgan

63

Adam Morgan