Jail Time

The holding cell was a concrete box with a stainless steel toilet and a bench bolted to the wall. Sarah sat on the bench, her back rigid, staring at the graffiti scratched into the paint. *T-Bone was here.* *Justice is blind.*

It was quiet. Too quiet. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in her chest. She replayed the scene in the graveyard over and over. Julian's face. The gun. The way he had said, *I'm doing what I have to do.*

He had betrayed her. Again.

But this time, it felt different. There was no triumph in his eyes. Only resignation.

The heavy steel door buzzed and swung open.

Sarah stood up, expecting a lawyer. Or an interrogator. Or Elena, back from the dead to gloat.

It was none of them.

It was a guard. He didn't look at her. He just jerked his head toward the hallway.

"Movement," he grunted.

Sarah walked out. Her wrists were still cuffed, the metal biting into her skin. She was led down a long corridor, past the booking desk where a television was mounted on the wall.

The news was playing.

*...shocking developments in the Hawthorne Estate case. Sarah Jenkins, former attorney, arrested in connection with the death of philanthropist Elena Vance...*

The screen flashed a photo of Elena. Smiling. Benevolent. Then a photo of the clinic ruins. Then a photo of Sarah, looking disheveled and manic, being shoved into a police car.

*Anonymous sources claim Jenkins was suffering from acute paranoia and delusions regarding her late father's estate...*

"Turn it off," Sarah said.

The guard ignored her. He led her into an interview room. It was smaller than the last one. More claustrophobic.

Sitting at the table was a man in a cheap suit. He looked tired. He had a file open in front of him.

"I'm your court-appointed attorney," he said without looking up. "Name's Miller. Don't get comfortable. We're just going through the motions."

"I don't need a court-appointed attorney," Sarah said, sitting down. "I need my phone call."

"You used it," Miller said. "To call a dead number."

"I didn't..."

"The number you dialed," Miller said, sliding a call log across the table. "It's disconnected. Has been for years."

Sarah looked at the log. It wasn't the number for the bank. It was the number for Helen.

"They blocked it," she whispered.

"They didn't block anything," Miller said. "You're spiraling, Sarah. The DA is pushing for murder in the first degree. Plus arson. Plus kidnapping."

"Kidnapping?"

"Your daughter," Miller said. "Child Protective Services took her into custody an hour ago. She's being transferred to a secure facility upstate."

"No," Sarah said, rising to her feet. "She's not a criminal. She's a witness."

"She's a minor in the care of a woman who just blew up a medical center," Miller said, pushing her back down. "Sit. Down."

Sarah sat. Her hands were shaking.

"What do they want?" she asked.

"They want you to plead guilty," Miller said. "To everything. In exchange, they take the death penalty off the table. Life without parole."

"And Maya?"

"She goes into the system. Foster care. Closed adoption."

Sarah stared at him. "You're not my lawyer," she said. "You're one of them."

Miller smiled. It was a thin, joyless expression.

"I'm a realist, Sarah. You have no money. No allies. No evidence. The will you found? It's gone. 'Lost' in evidence processing. The tapes? Destroyed in the fire."

He leaned forward.

"You have nothing. You *are* nothing. Just a crazy woman who killed her stepmother over a trust fund."

The door opened again.

A woman walked in. She was wearing a beige cardigan and orthopedic shoes. She carried a tray with a styrofoam cup of water and a small paper cup containing two pills.

"Medication time," she said cheerfully.

Sarah looked at the pills. They were blue.

"I don't take medication," Sarah said.

"The court ordered it," Miller said. "Anti-psychotics. To stabilize you for trial."

"I'm not crazy," Sarah said, backing into the corner.

"Take them," Miller said. "Or we'll hold you down."

The woman advanced. Two guards stepped in behind her.

Sarah looked at the cup. At the pills.

She thought of the clinic. Of the sedated children. Of Martha Gable in the wheelchair, drooling on herself.

This was how they won. Not with a bullet. With a prescription.

"Okay," Sarah said. "Okay."

She reached for the cup.

But she didn't take it. She slapped it out of the woman's hand.

The water splashed across Miller's cheap suit. The pills scattered on the floor.

"I said I'm not crazy!" Sarah screamed.

The guards grabbed her. They slammed her into the table. The woman pulled a syringe from her pocket.

"Sedative," she said.

The needle pricked Sarah's arm. The world tilted. The edges of her vision went grey.

As she slumped forward, her cheek pressed against the cold metal table, she saw Miller pick up his file.

He wasn't looking at her legal defense. He was looking at a photo.

A photo of Maya.

"She's a pretty girl," Miller said to the guards. "The Senator will be pleased."

Sarah tried to scream, but her tongue was heavy, useless.

The darkness swallowed her.

When she woke up, she wasn't in the cell. She wasn't in the interview room.

She was in a bed. A nice bed. With high-thread-count sheets.

She sat up, groggy. The room was elegant. Tasteful.

She walked to the window. She pulled back the curtain.

She was looking out at the lawn of the Hawthorne Estate.

And standing by the fountain, talking to a gardener, was Elena.

Alive. Unharmed.

She looked up at the window. She saw Sarah.

She smiled and waved.

Sarah stumbled back.

The door opened.

Julian walked in. He was wearing a suit. He looked healthy. Whole.

"Good morning, Sarah," he said. "You've been asleep for a long time."

"Where am I?" Sarah rasped.

"You're home," Julian said. "We brought you home after the... incident."

"The incident?"

"Your breakdown," Julian said gently. "At the funeral."

Sarah frowned. "Whose funeral?"

Julian looked at her with pity.

"Yours, Sarah," he said. "You died three days ago."