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Coward.
The man who takes the seat across from me barely resembles the photos from over a decade ago. From before he went from a life of minor crimes to murdering my parents and destroying my life.
He’s older, obviously. But harder. His pale skin seems to stretch over sharp angles and lines. What’s left of his light brown hair has been buzzed down to his scalp.
The guard leads him to the table, presses a hand on his shoulder, and pushes him into the chair across from me. He attaches Zach’s handcuffs to a bolt on the table, restricting his movements. It seems excessive and doesn’t make me feel any safer. The guard backs away.
“I’ll be right outside the door, Miss,” he says.
I nod once, trying to project calm, even though inside I’m anything but.
My first meeting with my parents’ killer.
A snake tattoo wraps around his thick, muscled neck. More black ink covers his arms and the backs of his hands. Some crudely drawn images that were probably poked into his skin by another inmate. Ugly symbols that probably announce his allegiance to some prison gang. A puckered scar peeks out from the collar of his prison shirt. Like someone might have stabbed him at one point.
Dex’s words about surviving in prison return to me.
When I think of Zach—which isn’t often—I like to think he’s miserable, suffering, bored, missing out on the simple joys in life. Eating bland food. Hardly ever feeling the sun on his skin. Deprived of friends and family. I want him to stay behind bars for the rest of his days.
But I don’t want to think of him being abused or violated. Not even this monster deserves that kind of treatment. Guilt pecks at my conscience. Even the most mundane crime has a story behind it. Reasons that led to bad decisions. But I can’t dwell on the backstory of the man who murdered my parents. I just can’t.
“Emmm-ill-eee.” His raspy voice lingers on each syllable of my name as if it’s a foreign word he’s trying to pronounce correctly. “Thank you for coming.” He drops his gaze. “I never expected you to respond to my letter.”
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m here.”
His flat gaze roams over me, leaving an icky sensation crawling over my skin. “You’ve grown up a lot.”
I bristle at his observation. If I remember right, we’re roughly the same age. Although he seems to have aged twenty years in the last ten. “Raising a teenager on your own will do that to a person.”
He shifts his gaze to the side and nods.
“Can we cut the crap? I’m not interested in catching up,” I snap. “You said there was some ‘truth’ I needed to hear. So let’s get to it. I have things to do today.”
Resentment pounds through my blood. He dragged me here for his own entertainment, not to tell me anything important. I’m so stupid for falling for that damn letter. He’s probably bored and wants to bring a story back for his cellmates.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about that night,” he finally says.
“So what? Why do you think it matters now? My parents are gone—” My voice breaks and I shake my head. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.
He slides his hands across the table as if he’s aiming to comfort me, but his hands jerk to a stop, held back by his restraints. Even so, I recoil at the thought of our skin in close contact.
“Sorry,” he mutters, drawing away.
We sit there in silence for way too long. I came here for answers, not a meditation session with a murderer.
“Why my parents?” I swallow hard, ashamed to ask my next question. Suck it up. I came here for a reason. I’m finally ready to hear the truth.
“Was my dad…somehow working with you?” I ask in a small, shaky voice. “Was he paid off by your…gang?”
“What?” He frowns. “No. Why…who told you that?”
I stare at him for a few beats. A sick feeling twists through my stomach. “His partner.” My voice ends on a high note, like I’m asking a question.
“Marty Lewis. That piece of shit,” he mutters. “Is that what he told you?”
I nod, scared my voice will crack if I try to speak.
“Marty worked for us. Not your father.”
“How? Doing what?”
He shrugs. “Marty would look the other way if he saw something. Other times he’d give us information about what the cops were up to. If they had a bust scheduled, he’d warn us so we could clear out in time. We’d kick back a percentage of earnings to him.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe out.
He glances over his shoulder, but the guard doesn’t seem to be paying attention to our conversation. Even if he was, what does it matter now. Zach’s already in prison. He’s not going anywhere.
