Page 26 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Yes, I’m one of Georgia’s most notorious criminals, or so they all think, but they don’t have the facts. Only I know what really happened in that lonely cabin twenty years ago.

I smell dirt and dust, and the air is filled with the despair of those whose fate is sealed. Mine is not. Soon, I’m certain, I’ll walk outside again, a free woman, soaking up the sun’s warm rays, hearing the soft sigh of the wind as it rustles the leaves of live oak and peach trees, smelling the sweet scents of magnolia and jasmine. I’ll drink mint juleps and laugh again . . . I’m sure I’ll laugh again. Won’t I?

No, no, I mustn’t even question. I won’t be here long. Because, of course, the truth will set me free—a quaint saying but one that’s oh so true.

For now, in this disgusting sty of a prison, with the smell of disinfectant unable to cover the odors of body fluids and filth, I hold my head high and ignore the guard whose job it is to make certain I don’t flee, or fly into a rage, or hurt myself or the others huddled in their little spaces and whispering on their phones.

As if!

Now, looking at Nikki Gillette, the reporter, watching her facial expressions, I can almost see the wheels turning in her overly imaginative mind. This—my story—would be the key to her fame and fortune.

All because she thinks she knows me.

Because she believes she has an insider’s view of what makes me tick.

What a joke!

I don’t so much as smile. I’m able to force myself not to respond, to play my part, as I have always done. It doesn’t matter how deeply she probes or how outrageous her questions, I can keep up the facade. Haven’t I held my secrets close and maintained this mask for twenty years? Why would I rip it off now and tell all that I know?

For her? For her story? Not a snowball’s chance in Satan’s hell.

She’s speaking into the phone now, trying to get to me as I inwardly recoil at the smudged glass, the tight quarters, the others who are locked inside this hellhole, all of whom stare at me with a jaundiced eye. Women who have no hope, common criminals who have no reason to live. I’m not one of them, and they know it, sense that I’m different. I do nothing to change their minds. Let them think what they want.

I know the truth.

&n

bsp; I know exactly what I did.

And what I didn’t do.

“Look,” Reporter Nikki is saying, trying not to sound annoyed or desperate or needy, “so you don’t like the questions I’ve asked of you. I get it. Really. You know I do. You know me, know that I’ll tell the truth, your side of the story.”

She’s almost pleading now, her eyes, through the thick pane, beseeching.

“You need to let the world know why you maintain that you’re innocent of such heinous crimes. You’ve let the horror of that night define who you are.”

I can’t argue that simple fact, so I don’t. Just retain my stoic manner, as I have since the tragedy. Conjuring up the sweet faces of my children twists my soul and darkens my heart, but I feign innocence, because that’s what one is to do. It was my duty to protect them and I failed.

I feel crestfallen and know that I’ve allowed a bit of emotion to show in my eyes, so I force my chin up as I hold onto the phone’s heavy receiver. I refuse to let this woman, and the world, see my pain, so I will not flinch, not even at her most probing and personal questions. Nor will I allow my eyebrows to knit in frustration or thought, and I will keep my mouth a beautiful half-smile that won’t betray the coldness I feel in my soul. With some effort, I force my gaze to remain steady, so that she won’t see as much as a shadow pass behind my eyes. She thinks of me as callous and doubts my motives. As they all do.

But I will not crack.

Never.

“So why won’t you talk to me?” Nikki asks again. “Is it to protect yourself? To maintain your innocence?”

I just stare back at her.

“Come on!” She’s frustrated now. “If you don’t explain what happened, the world will think that you’re a cold-blooded killer. Is that what you want? How you want to be remembered? You can talk to me! I was close to your daughter!”

She stares hard, and I fear my eyes might give me away, that a tiny dilation of my pupils will indicate that she’s getting to me, that she will know that I hear her and understand her pleas.

I concentrate on my breathing, taking in air slowly and letting it out evenly, keeping my heart from racing and my skin from flushing. It’s something I learned to do as a child. To escape the pain of the world, to keep him from gaining the satisfaction of the knowledge that he’d gotten to me, that he’d broken through the icy facade I’d developed.

My stepfather. The giant. A gentle soul, so many said, but they didn’t know his truth, didn’t have to smell the stink of him as he rutted. My jaw tightens as I think of the bastard. May his black soul rot in hell.

“Please,” Nikki is saying, frustration evident in her voice, “you have to let me help you.”

---