After his arraignment had failed to help him, Calvin Durant sat in his cell with his knees to his chest and his hands covering his eyes. He was being treated like a killer. Hell, it may even be that he was a killer, but that was no easier for him to digest.
No matter how many times he pictured his wife and daughter, there was always a dark stain of blood oozing from their skulls. It was a horrific sight to behold, but it could have been that this was his punishment. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, nobody would come to visit him, either. Everyone who had ever trusted him was either dead or disgusted with him. The only certain thing was that he was utterly alone.
It was enough to make even Calvin start to wonder if he had done it. Anything could have happened during his blackout, and all the clues pointed at his guilt: the hammer, the blood, the fact that nobody else was in the house. The only thing missing, in fact, was a motive.
Interrupting those dark thoughts, the door clunked open. Detective Little—who was anything but—entered and looked at Calvin like he was something he’d stepped in. It was the same man who had arrested and escorted him to the jail. And being that he was a six-foot-something black homicide detective with a threatening snarl, Calvin hadn’t dreamed of resisting.
“What are you doing here?” Calvin asked.
“I pulled some strings. Come with me, Mr. Durant,” Little said, reaching forward and taking him by the elbow.
“Where are we going?”
“You don’t get to ask the questions.”
“But I’ve made my case. You have no right to—”
“Shut up.”
Calvin recoiled. Neither of them said a word as they walked through the narrow white corridors. Calvin was eventually shown into a gray visitation room, and it was exactly how they always looked in the movies—dark, dull, and with hooks in the floor for shackles. It was the room where most people would break down.
“Take a seat. I’ve got some more questions for you. Your story isn’t adding up, dirtbag.” Detective Little closed the door and sat on the far side of the table. He seemed adamant to give not so much as a glance to Calvin Durant. Instead, he just looked down at the files in his hands and flicked through them, preparing himself for the interrogation. It was as though he could happily lock a man away and then carry on with his life while some guy, innocent or not, was stuck behind bars until he died.
It doesn’t look like he wants to hear a damn thing I have to say. Calvin sat tense in his chair, wondering what was happening and thinking desperately about how he was supposed to convince someone that he wasn’t a murderer. Especially when he couldn’t even convince himself.