Page 16 of These Tears

Officially, I’m allowed to photograph for the programme. The red indicator of the surveillance camera overhead flashes as a reminder of that. Unofficially, I’m creative enough to dance around what qualifies as programme-related.

A frown settles across his face like a storm cloud that’s forgotten its place. His eyes narrow at the camera as if he might bite into it just to stop it from doing that again.

‘Thank you for letting me do this.’ I lift the offending item slightly, my voice low and thin. I know he can just as easily make them take it away.

‘What do you do with the photos?’ he asks warily.

I let the camera drop against my sternum where it hangs from its strap as I lift my hands to the table in silent reassurance that I won’t be taking more pictures.

For now.

‘Depends. Some I sell as stock. Some go to a gallery. Some get bought off my online shop. I shoot mostly digitally, but I print the ones I care about. Some of those prints… are just for me. Like these, once I get clearance.’

His gaze climbs to mine again, but not before grazing my cheek like a breath held too long, lingering briefly where a strand of hair has slipped forward.

Something rakes up my spine. I don’t know if it’s from the heat of his gaze or the chill of its colour.

And I’m not exactly comfortable being studied like that by a man accused of murder.

But then again… it’s been a while for me. Long enough that I’d forgotten what it feels like to have a man’s attention settle somewhere. Long enough that, apparently, one cold blue stare is enough to make something under my ribs twitch back to life.

I glance down, trying to shake it off.

‘Lucky fellow,’ he mutters then, his voice sinking – turning husky and feral.

My eyes snap up to his just as his flick down—

—to my engagement ring.

I’ve been absent-mindedly rotating it. I didn’t even realise.

I do that often. Anna and Marina have already pointed it out.

It still circles my finger thirteen months after I called off the engagement.

I don’t have a good enough explanation to offer them, either.

‘Oh…’ is all I manage to say, and even that snags on the jagged wound that suddenly reopens in my chest.

I don’t owe him answers, I rationalise to myself.

I don’t have… answers, the truth bellows right after.

‘How much longer do you have left here?’ I ask, desperate to breathe past the weight in my lungs.

‘If I’m convicted? Life. If not… who knows? When’s the wedding date?’ he fires back, just as fast.

‘Winter,’ I reply automatically – too fast. Too trained.

It was supposed to mean next month. It had meant that, once.

I make a mental note to revise that if Crane and I are still here by then.

‘He’s letting you do this shit?’

The edge in his tone startles me, but I coach myself not to flinch where he could see.

‘He doesn’t have a say in it.’