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My wounds—a concussion and a fractured skull that required seven stitches—are never questioned. Instead, they’re used as evidence against me—proof that Belle fought for her life before I overpowered her.
I plead my innocence, but I can’t give them an accurate account of what happened because I can’t remember. One moment, we were walking in the rain together, laughing as the rain began to fall harder and then… nothing.
“And do you deny that the semen found in the victim the night of her murder was yours? That you attacked her so violently during the rape that you made her bleed.”
“No, no, we were together. Yes, but it was our first time—”
“And for your first time you lost control and tore her apart? I beg you, please, Mr. Salvatore. You heard the forensic evidence. The rape kit showed bruising and vaginal bleeding not consistent with a first time, but with a violent and—”
“Stop!” I cry because I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of Belle and the pain they say she went through. With a rush, I stand, and a couple of ladies in the jury look physically afraid. But I can’t help it. The pain is too much, and I need it to end.
The prosecutor looks pleased with himself. “That’s all, Mr. Salvatore, you are excused.”
It takes the jury less than an hour to decide.
My lawyer tells me it can be a good sign that this case may get thrown out.
But even he doesn’t believe his lie.
We are all told to rise, and I shoot a frightened look across to Uncle Frankie. My father declined to attend any of the trial, but Frankie has been with me every step of the way. He tries to hide his concern but fails, his furrowed brow a dead giveaway.
I’m scared.
The judge clears his throat and doesn’t waste time handing down the jury’s verdict.
“Ares Salvatore, the jury of your peers finds you guilty of the charge of murder in the first degree.”
His words tear through me like a bullet, but I don’t react. I’m a quick learner. There are so many cameras on me, any wrong facial expression, and they’ll use it against me. But the horror taking place inside me is violent and terrifying. I don’t have a chance to catch a breath before the judge looks over the piece of paper at me. “And for this, I sentence you to death.”
ARES
Five Years Ago—Somewhere near Jacksonville, Florida
There are three names on the list.
Two are already crossed off, and I’m about to cross off the third. Metaphorically, of course. Because there is no actual list, just three names tucked away in my brain since I learned them. Three names seared into my memory and tormenting me with every second I draw in a breath.
Two of them are buried in shallow graves, but the third is still breathing. Still going about his day as normal, still staining this earth with his presence, not knowing he is about to die.
I find him in the bar he frequents most weekends. It’s a dive bar off one of the backroads near the county line, dimly lit and smoky with a tired country song playing on the jukebox. He sits at the bar, nursing one of many beers, a cigarette burning between his yellowing fingers. The years haven’t been kind to him. In fact, it looks like they’ve run him down and backed over his unshaven face repeatedly.
I slide onto a stool next to him. Not too close but close enough to strike up a conversation when the time is right.
He glances my way, then takes an appreciative look, his eyes lingering over my long hair and muscles. He likes what he sees because he doesn’t take his eyes off me as he lifts his cigarette to his mouth and takes a deep drag.
“Ain’t seen you ‘round here before,” he says, that familiar voice striking a match to my hatred and igniting a fresh wave of fury inside me. Not that he would notice—hiding my emotions is my fucking superpower.
“Just passing through,” I say.
Behind the bar, a blonde in denim shorts and a tight shirt with the name Cheri embroidered above her ample left breast takes my drinks order. She doesn’t like the man sitting next to me. In fact, she despises him. Her body language and looks of disdain are dead giveaways. She can’t hide her disgust, and it makes me wonder what he’s done to her. Reading people’s silent cues is another superpower and probably one of the reasons I survived prison for nine years.
“You in town on business…” His eyes slide down my body. “Or pleasure?”
It’s time to bite back the revulsion and play the role.
“I’m here on business, but I’m open to some pleasure. You got something in mind?”
My boldness surprises him, and he chuckles. “Well, that all depends on what takes your fancy? If you like a little blow or little special K…”
