Page 65 of Falling for a Killer

I shake my head. “Not at all. What is it?”

“Pen pal dating app for prisoners. I’ve known a few guys who found their soulmate on that app, and they’re usually more open to talk about it than the ones that find love behind bars.”

It makes me wonder why he cares at all, but maybe it’s just to pass the time. “And what about you?”

Taylor huffs, rubbing a hand over his buzzed hair. “I don’t understand it to be honest. People link themselves to another person regardless of all the negative side effects that come with it. I used to believe I was ace, but now I know I’m aromantic. Have you heard of it?”

“Yeah. You don’t feel romantic feelings toward others, right?”

He stands up to pop his back and moves to lean against the doorway of our cell. “Pretty much.”

“I thought I was the same, honestly. Not in the sense that I put a label on it or tried to define it, but I didn’t think I loved the same as others until I met Joey.”

“Are you about to tell me that I just haven’t found the one?”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Not at all, Tay. I think you know yourself well enough to know what’s going on inside your mind and heart. I was just sharing my experience with similarfeelings, but even then I knew I was looking for something. I just didn’t know if I’d find it.”

His pale green eyes drop to the letter in my hands. “That from her?”

“Yeah,” I say with a soft smile. “And no, you can’t read it. You got enough material for your book.”

“Always open to more,” he replies, but I can tell he won’t push. “You said you guys only had a few months together? Were you still in that honeymoon stage?”

I nod, my gaze dropping to the letter before I tuck it under my mattress and follow him out of our cell to avoid getting emotional.

It’s rec time, which means it’s loud as fuck as we pass cards and dice games, making our way to where we can buy snacks and shit with our commissary. Joey makes sure I stay fed, but when I ask how much is on my books, my jaw drops at the number. It feels fucking unnecessary. “Are you sure?” I whisper sharply, glancing at Taylor in confusion and his face matches mine.

“I didn’t even know you could have over a thousand,” he admits.

“Is it all from my girlfriend?”

It takes her a moment to look into it further, giving me a long enough time to zone out on all the fingerprints staining the plexiglass. “It’s from varying sources,” she responds. “Josephine Moran put a thousand, but the rest are from your peers. It seems someone released your information.”

Holy shit.

Taylor repeats my thoughts aloud. “Holy shit. You can buy your own paper now.”

“I can probably buy all the paper,” I mutter, then wave a hand. “Pick whatever you want, Tay. My treat.”

He only hesitates a second before picking out multiple snacks and a new pack of pencils, then opens up a cinnamon roll a littletoo excitedly as I pay for all our shit. I get extra of everything sweet and set it out in the rec room, then take a seat to watch the tv.

Whoever was sitting here before me was watching the news, and as I expected they’re going over my case and the mountain of evidence the prosecution is claiming to have. They’re on the right track, yet none of their proof carries any weight. Yeah, that’s my handwriting, but I’m not the only person that curls their K’s in that fashion. Yeah, that coke bottle was mine, but I purposely put his fingerprints on it and they’ll never find mine. I wanted them to come to the conclusion that the bastard brought it upon himself, but unfortunately they’re too stupid to see it. They’re looking at my case through a foggy magnifying glass, and they aren’t even thinking about taking a step back. Everyone can clearly see I did it — and why I did, but with how they’re going about it they’ll never prove it.

I zone out slightly as they drone on about the way I cut everyone off months before the murder, painting me out as a textbook weirdo that lost his shit, but I don’t care. If anyone out there is watching this and believing their every word, I don’t care how they view me. I only care howsheviews me.

“Oh shit, Killer. Look.”

My gaze snaps up to the tv in time to see her face, my eyes widening as I stand up like I might be able to actually climb through the screen and kiss her. She looks so beautiful I feel my feet moving closer of their own accord, the anger on her face only drawing me in more. I’d give anything to hold her again.

It takes me a moment to realize she isn’t alone. Her parents are talking about how happy I’ve made their daughter and telling stories about me like it might help people see me as a human instead of a murderer. She must have shared these with them, because even though they’re speaking about me like I’m theirson-in-law, I’ve never actually spoken to them. I’ve never met them at all, and yet a stranger would never guess it.

She looks like her mother.

Aside from my mom, no one has ever had my back like this, and the emotions coursing through my body are almost too much to contain. One day I’ll thank them. They’ve already done so fucking much for me I don’t know how, but I make a promise to myself that I will.

When the interviewer brings up what people of my past have been saying about me, my girl snaps, letting everyone watching know that those people never truly knew me at all because they were always too wrapped up in themselves to get to know me. She’s not wrong, and by the end she’s practically screaming into the camera at every single person that spoke against me. “You’re all fucking stupid and never deserved to know him!”

The camera pans away before she can cuss on live television again, and the smile on my face only fades when I turn around and find everyone in the room watching me. The card games are paused, inmates whose noses were buried in a book are staring, the guy that was coloring some abstract positive word of the day is frozen with a crayon in his hand. All of them look just as shocked as I feel.

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