Memories From a Dead Girl

The next morning, Austin was sitting in his cell when someone appeared at the bars. The man looked at him with narrowed eyes. He clutched a beer bottle. Something that, if I remembered correctly, he was never without.

"The devil is busy making space for you," my father said quietly, his voice a tangled mess of anguish and rage.

Austin glanced at him, but just barely. "I don't believe in hell," he answered.

"After what you did?"

Austin stood, then, and walked over to the bars, placing his palms against them. His voice was chipped. "Mr. Farris, I did not kill your daughter. But once I'm out of here, I will find out who did this. I know that I've been set up, that much is clear. What I don't know is why."

"I don't believe this," my father snapped. "How can they let a coldblooded killer out on the streets? You'll only take someone else's life if they let you go!"

The bottle in his hand trembled.

I slipped my hand around the bottle, touching my father's fingers, hoping he would feel something. But when he didn't let up, I dropped my hand at my side, defeated.

"He took a Polygraph," a voice said. "He passed."

I turned.

Chloe was here.

I wanted to cry.

To hug her.

But I couldn't.

When my father left, a guard appeared and opened the cell door. I waited, with Chloe at my side, as Austin stepped out.

"You're free to go. You can pick up your belongings in the front."

As Austin and Chloe headed down the hall, I walked beside them as they talked. Mostly, they talked about what Austin would do when he got back home. But then Chloe asked about me. I stopped moving, my heartbeat skipped.

A heartbeat I didn't have anymore.