The fallen gravel has already sealed my fate.
The courtroom is empty around me, like someone has pulled the plug. Jurors avoided my eyes. The media buzzes outside like flies on a carcass. All I can hear is my pulse.
Jack stands beside me, smoothing his wrinkled suit and rubbing the back of his neck. "You hold up better than most," he mutters.
I give him a hollow laugh. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
Jack sighs. "No. Just honest."
I look at the gallery rows of empty benches now. All except for one person, who is still sitting in the back. Dylan.
He is the only one who keeps showing up at trial. Day after day, front row to my unraveling. But never a word. Not a single damn word. Coward. Just tight-lipped silence and this haunted look in his eyes, like he knows the truth and hates himself for it.
Jack follows my gaze. "You want a minute?"
I shake my head. "If he wanted to talk, he would have."
As the bailiff cuffs my wrists and leads me toward the waiting hallway, I lock my eyes with Dylan for a heartbeat; it feels like he may stand up. Say something, but he didn't.
He keeps sitting there, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, regret written all over his face like a bruise he can't hide. I look away.
The bailiff leads me down the hallway and out to the loading dock, where the prison van is waiting for me like a hungry beast.
I climb in without protest, ducking my head as the van smells like sweat and rust.
It seems like the van hasn't been clean since the Bush administration. I sit stiff, cuffed, and shackled, across from two other women who stare at nothing in particular.
The city blurs past through the barred window. My city. My life.
Gone.
I lean my head back, eyes drifting to the cracked ceiling of the van. It is like being stuffed in a coffin on wheels.
Dylan's face keeps flashing in my mind. That sad, pathetic expression, like he wants to help but doesn't know how. Or maybe don't have the spine. The bastard could have said something. I thought bitterly. One word. One damn word.
He hasn't, and now I am here.
My thoughts are spiraling now. My company has gone. My name. My home. My so-called best friend. My own stepbrother. Cole, wherever the fuck he is now.
I breathe in slowly. I don't know what I am gonna do in life, but one thing is sure, I won't allow myself to die here.
The chains clink again as the van takes a hard turn. My wrists ache from the cuffs, and my ankles are sore from the shackles being too tight. But I am not gonna flinch. I don't allow myself to wince.
"I don't break," I whisper under my breath. "They broke the system to break me."
"Eyes front," the guard snaps, slapping the bars with his baton. "No sightseeing."
I don't blink. Don't react.
I just keep breathing.
That is step one.
Survive the ride.
Step two?
Make it out alive.
The van jerks to a stop, slamming me forward in my seat as the brakes squeal. Chains clink all around me like wind chimes in hell. The back doors open with a loud metallic groan, and a scent of industrial bleach and old asphalt hits my nostrils.
"Let's go, ladies," a guard barks, banging on the side of the van with his baton. "Move it."
My ankles are chained just wide enough to avoid tripping if I am careful. The prison looks exactly like the kind of place where people disappear in plain sight.
Inside, it is even worse.
Processing takes four long, soul-draining hours. First comes the fingerprinting, digital scanners, ink pads, and the staff who barely look at you. Then comes the strip search, as clinical as it is humiliating.
"You got a piercing?" A female officer asks, snapping on gloves.
"None that matters," I mutter and raise my arm, and the cold air hits my skin.
Then the property inventory. They log the few things I have: my watch, a ring, and a pendant I haven't taken off since my parents gave it to me. All were placed in a Ziploc and sealed away in a numbered bin.
Next, they give me the uniform. Orange jumpsuit, two sizes too big. Used sneakers with someone's name faded on the inside. No bra, no dignity. No say in the matter.
I am herded down a series of corridors under flickering yellow lights that buzz so loudly they drown out my thoughts.
The place smells like mold, sweat, and industrial soap that never quite does the job. Every face I pass looks either checked out or pissed off. Or both.
Finally, a guard stops at a barred cell and taps it with his key. "Brooks. This is you."
The door creaks open. I step inside.
Cold concrete. Steel bars. A toilet in plain view. One stained mattress was shoved against the wall. And a woman sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk, flipping through a paperback.
The woman looks up, eyebrow raised.
"You new?" she asks; her voice is raspy but clear.
"Yeah," I say, setting my blanket down on the edge of the bed.
The woman shuts her book with a soft thwap and stands. Average height. Built like someone who'd thrown a punch or two in her life.
"Then a word of advice,' she says, pointing a finger. "Keep your head down. Don't trust the guards. And don't owe anybody anything. Not even gum."
I nod. "Got it."
The woman smirks. "Name is Imani...Imani Voss."
"Anaya Brooks."
"Well, Anaya," Imani says, flopping back onto the mattress. "Welcome to hell on discount."
The door slams behind me with a metallic thud, and it rings in my bones.
Imani has turned back to her book. "You'll learn fast, or you won't last."
And I start learning.
Lines for food, lines for meds, lights on, lights off. But I watch. I listen. I figure out the rhythm of this place between breakfast trays and headcounts. Imani and I have been paired up to scrub toilets, and Imani tries everything to make me talk, including bad jokes, and after a few days, I start talking back.
Now, three months in, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on a cracked chessboard balanced across two milk crates in the prison yard.
"Stop hovering," I say without looking up.
"I am not hovering," Imani replies, arms crossed, one foot tapping in the dirt. "I am spectating."
"You're breathing loudly."
"That's how I breathe, bitch."
Pieces seem mismatched, but I move my rook and lean back, cool as hell.
"Check."
The crowd murmurs.
Imani raises my hand and takes the blame for my victory. "I discovered this gem. Three-month streak. We won."
I laugh and shake my head. The day I told Imani about my twelve-year winning streak, she started betting on me and never missed a chance to take the praise for my win.
Imani Voss is the reason I am alive after my downfall. She is thirty-two and is sentenced to life, as she killed her husband, who actually sold her to a sex club, and then she killed her parents, who forced her to marry that bastard.