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So many eyes are on me as I sit here in the hard wooden chair. There’s only one gaze that calls to me though. One that begs me to look back.

Allison.

She’s so close, but unreachable. And all I can hear as my lawyer and the district attorney go back and forth in front of the judge is my heart racing, begging me to turn to her and ease the worry and pain that I know she’s feeling.

She’s staring at me like I did that day in class when I first got the balls to talk to her. That day she gave into me. I can feel her staring into me, like I did her but I can’t resist her like she did me. I never could.

When I turn to look at her, I can’t stand the look in her eyes. Like she blames herself. I would give anything to go to her, but I have to rip my gaze away.

I don’t know where we stand. If she hates me. Blames me. Loves me.

My throat’s tight, as is the pain in my chest when my lawyer argues the case against me. It’s only an arraignment and my lawyer said the case they have is weak.

Temporary insanity is what he’s claiming and I don’t object to it.

Judge Hubert is an old man. The years are shown through the wrinkles around his pale blue eyes and the white beard around his scowl.

His gaze lingers on me while the prosecutor reads the statement from the psychologist who examined my initial confession.

It’s more evidence, but at least the shrink supports my case. Not that the prosecutor sees it that way. He’s doing his damnedest to make sure this goes to court. A plea of temporary insanity isn’t applicable, according to him. And every time his hard voice booms in the room, my hands clench into fists. If he were in my position, I can’t imagine he’d do any different.

I just want to get out of here. In my head I imagine them letting me walk out right now so I can go straight to Allie. So I can finally talk to her.

I know she’s alright. I know she refused medical help. I know he didn’t get a chance to … I have to clear the swell of a lump in my throat at the thought, a chill rolling down my spine and making me that much more tense. I overheard some cops talking about it. And the only part of it that made me feel like any of this was worth it.

Still, I need to hear her say she’s okay. I need to hear it from her.

I’m only able to take a quick glance, just one. And as soon as our eyes lock, hers well up with a sadness I hate. With a pain I wish I could take from her. And she apologizes. Again.

“Your honor, our case is strong. There was nothing my client could have done given his mental state when he arrived on the scene,” my lawyer, Nina Abbot, speaks clearly and confidently. As if there’s no greater truth than the words that she’s made echo in the courtroom.

I force my gaze to look at the wooden table in front of me. It’s smooth and smells like lemon, as if it was just polished before we came out here.

It’s difficult to breathe as she places her hand on my shoulder. “It’s obvious given my client’s testimony and the report just read from Dr. Agostino that given the situation, there was no other choice that Mr. Warren could have made.”

“That only holds true if in fact the testimony from both Mr. Warren and Allison Parker are reliable, and there are questions surrounding the validity of Miss Parker’s statement,” the prosecutor’s voice rings out and my fists turn white knuckled. I keep my gaze down, refusing to look at him and his clean-cut suit. The image of his face is clear in my mind as I keep my shoulders and neck stiff. His jaw is hard and cleanly shaven. His eyes cold and unforgiving. He’s a man who will fight to put me behind bars at all cost. And the very thought is terrifying as I sit here helpless. Because I did it. I murdered him. And I’d do it again.

“With all due respect, Miss Parker’s statement is irrelevant. Mr. Warren’s mental state was determined by his perception when he arrived on the property. The same perception that the third witness, Mrs. Clemons, the adjacent neighbor who witnessed the end of the act, gave. As far as my client and Mrs. Clemons could both tell, Miss Parker was in imminent danger.”

The sound of the courtroom doors opening beg me to look behind me, but I refuse. My body’s tight and my muscles coiled. I hardly trust myself to breathe. And I can still feel Allie looking at me. I refuse to move unless it’s to go to her.

It’s only when my lawyer turns away from me and the soft whispers of furious voices makes the rest of the room turn silent that I will myself to look in my periphery.

The sound of two people walking down the aisle draws my attention more. A small woman, skinny and young in black slacks and a loose, cream blouse is hidden by the silhouette of the man beside her, but as they walk, her face comes into view.

I think her name is Angie. The woman standing just past Mr. Beck, the prosecutor, and next to another man in a suit like Mr. Beck’s. I barely turn my head to make sure it’s her. Her blonde curls dangle in front of her face and I’m sure she’s doing it on purpose.

She’s ashamed. Even as she stands there, clasping her hands in front of her, she starts to cry. Silent tears that she quickly wipes away.

“Your honor, new evidence has just come to our attention and we’d like a recess,” Mr. Beck finally addresses the court, although his voice is laced with something that gives me hope.

Defeat.

“And what is this new evidence?” the judge asks, his pale blue eyes moving between Angie and the man who brought her in.

“The prosecution’s defense rests heavily on the questionability of Miss Parker’s statement that Mr. Henderson was forcing himself on her. A witness has come forward stating the action of Mr. Henderson is a repeated offense.”

“As in he’s attempted to rape her?” the judge clarifies and Angie lowers her head, tears falling freely and this time she doesn’t brush them away.

“Charges were pressed early August, but the case was never brought to court.” The quiet air of the room changes, turning to whispers and murmurs. Early August I wasn’t here yet. But Kevin was.

“Your honor,” Mr. Beck cuts through the tension in the room, “the case was never-”

“They settled out of court?” the judge asks, cutting off Mr. Beck and the district attorney shakes his head no.

“The witness refused to testify.”

The judge taps his pointer finger on the gavel in front of him, considering her and the new information.

“I’m sorry,” I hear Angie say in a tight voice. She’s trying to whisper, but it’s useless in a room where everyone’s watching her. Her shoulders are hunched and trembling as she tells Allie, “I should have told you sooner. I was so ashamed.”