Into the Nothing (Broken Outlaw Series Book 1) (29 page)

The sheriff stated they are looking into possible connections between the three murders. All victims were stabbed and their bodies mutilated.

The last line makes my stomach turn in tight circles. I’ve been following these latest murders, and each one reminds of what my mother must have gone through that night. The possibility of a connection between these murders and hers sends a chill down my spine. Then the tears start again. Crying is all I seem to do these days. Then, once again, Xander’s words replay in my head….
I was set up, plain and simple
.

I toss the paper aside and head back to my desk, disregarding the computer this time and pulling out a pad of paper and pen instead.

“W
ait a second. You’re telling me the dude drained from his asshole… continuously?”

Twitch looks up from his steaming bowl of ramen and shakes his head.

“Not all the time. But on foot patrol, in one hundred and twenty-degree heat, yeah, he did it continuously.”

For two weeks now, Twitch has been my cellmate, and I’m still surprised by the shit that comes out of his mouth. Most of it is both disgusting and surreal. He served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’s seen best friends take their last breaths beside him.

“So what the fuck did he do? Just let it run in his pants?”

“No, man…” He laughs. “Who the fuck is just gonna let shit drain in their pants on a combat patrol?”

“Well, fuck if I know! I’ve never heard of rectal discharge before. So what the fuck did he do?”

“He stuffed paper towels in his ass crack. Kept a roll in his pack, and every half mile or so, he’d have to pull the shitty paper towels from his ass, throw them to the ground, and stuff more in. All while he’s still walking.”

My uncontrollable laughter, the kind that knots the stomach and makes it hard to breathe, is broken up only by CO Hansen arriving at our door. He holds up a letter and immediately my mind is taken away from Twitch’s story and to the possibility of the letter being from Paige. The only other person who has ever written me is Irish, and I take so long to respond and I’m so short with him, I think he’s finally given up. I haven’t heard from him in quite some time.

It has to be Paige.

“Xander, ya got mail.” He tosses it to me and I catch it mid-air.

“Thanks.”

I flip it around, read her name, and my heart lodges in my throat.

“Something good?” Twitch asks, still chewing the last of his Ramen.

“Something great,” I say, tearing the envelope open and unfolding the letter.

Xander,

I’ve thought a lot about this. I’ve written and rewritten this letter many times. I still don’t fully understand why you would just confess. I would never confess to a murder I didn’t commit. But then again, I think of the alternative—the possibility of getting the death penalty—and it confuses me all over again. I get why you would confess, but then I don’t. It’s hard for me to fathom.

I balled your letter up and threw it away when I first read it. I want to hate you. It feels good to hate you. It keeps me focused. I’ve thought of you dying many times. And I’ve thought about doing it myself. But this morning I put two and two together.

There have been two more murders here. All three deaths are very similar. And while I want to continue hating you, and I don’t understand clearly why you confessed… I think there’s reasonable doubt. And as much as I want to feed this hate, the possibility that it could be someone else who killed her completely overwhelms me. I couldn’t live without knowing. I
need to
know.

What if I were to meet with you? I want to talk to you about all of this and see your face when you tell me. I want to read your body language. That’s where I’ll start. Just let me know.

Paige

For the first time in three years, I feel some semblance of hope. Three miserable years here, and for the first time I’m feeling something other than pain. If I could talk to Paige, she’d hear the honesty in my words. She’d understand.

“Twitch, throw me that pad and pencil, will ya?”

He tosses them and I write just about as fast as I ever have.

P
ulling into the prison parking lot, my heart pounds in my chest. I’ve never been so nervous in my life. I downed two shots before I got here, and I throw back one more for good measure before exiting the vehicle.

The process of getting inside is unlike anything I ever expected. I’ve seen it on TV shows, but they never show all the necessary procedures. It really is a pain in the ass.

I take a seat in the little nook, one of two dozen on either end of the room. The thick plastic barriers separating old-style telephones is dirty and opaque. I tap my fingers feverishly against the weathered metal booth. My mouth is dry, my tongue is numb, and there’s a lump in my throat that feels almost suffocating. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to get a word out.

When Xander rounds the corner, I gasp softly at the sight of him. Not because of how he looks—he still looks damn good… and he’s bigger—but because it feels familiar yet incredibly foreign to lay eyes on him again after so long.

The moment the officer ushers him to a seat and heads back toward the door, a few tears roll down his cheeks. He looks quickly at the metal dividers to his left and right as he wipes the tears away. Then he lifts the phone and pulls it to his ear. I do the same. Neither of us says a word. Another single tear rolls down his cheek and he leaves this one be.

“Hi,” he says weakly.

“Hi.”

“Did you have a hard time getting in?”

“It was okay,” I lie.

“Thanks for coming to see me.”

“It was hard.” My eyes have yet to meet his directly.

“I can only imagine.”

“I want to know what happened that night,” I blurt out.

His mouth gapes for a moment before he collects himself. He clears his throat.

“I heard her scream.” He pauses and waits for my eyes to meet his.

I nod and avert my eyes.

“A loud crash and a scream. I went in the back door, and I… I saw her.” He stops again and puts his head in his hands.

I fight back the tears. “I read all the police reports. Read the whole damn thing. I already know the details. I already lived that nightmare. I still do. I want to hear it from you.”

He lifts his head and looks at me again. His face is etched with terrible sorrow. “She was on the floor. She wasn’t moving.”

“What did she look like?” I can barely breathe. My throat constricts and tears well in my eyes. And through the tears, I see he has a few more of his own. He puts his head back in his hands and wipes his eyes. He’s leaned in against the metal counter as far as he can go.

“She looked really fucking bad. I checked her pulse and… and it was really slow. I moved the knife. I don’t know why I did. It didn’t even feel like I was there. It felt like a dream… or a nightmare. Like an out-of-body experience. I threw it in the sink, grabbed the phone and dialed the cops. Then I searched the house. There was nothing. Shit was fucked up in the house. Drawers everywhere. Clothes everywhere. But nobody was there.”

All my tears have dried. I’m here for a reason. I compose myself the best I can.

“How did my parents’ shit get in the guesthouse, Xander?”

“Paige, I don’t know! I hadn’t touched my luggage since I moved in.” He shakes his head. “I have no clue.”

“And why would you confess?”

“I told you, they wanted to throw me to the fucking wolves. They promised me—my own fucking attorney promised me—the death penalty would be a guarantee. The evidence was stacked against me. I was high that night when it happened. Really fucking high. I… I don’t know. They had the case locked down, and I had a shit lawyer. They all had it out for me.”