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Every second that ticks on that fucking clock makes me want to break it.

I haven’t felt like this since the first time I was brought into jail. It wasn’t here; it was somewhere in Chicago. But this need to get the fuck out and handle all the hell I created is the exact same feeling I felt that first night.

Tick, the clock’s minute hand moves again and I look to my right, staring down the woman at the front desk who’s doing the paperwork for my release.

My neck cracks as I stretch out my shoulders. I haven’t slept and I’m exhausted, but only pure adrenaline is pumping through my veins.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I knew something was off from the very beginning. James tried to fuck me over. It had to be him.

The only reason I can think of would be because of Samantha though, and that shit doesn’t make sense. It’s been years since we had that affair. Years for her husband to get over it. Shit, all he’s been talking about for weeks is how he wants their divorce to be finalized.

I lean back on the metal bench and force myself not to look at the secretary and not to look at the clock either. My eyes focus on the corners of the cheap linoleum tiles and I drown out the sounds of the police station.

No noise, just the memory of that night coming back to me.

My shoulder flinches as I remember the feel of James’ hand on my shoulder, showing me where the rec room in the hotel is and asking me if I need anything else. My eyes close and I can see him handing me the key card and looking to his left and right before telling me to make sure I show Tony a good time.

My lungs still and my vision turns red as my teeth grind against one another and my fists clench.

I can’t fucking handle this. If that fucker set me up to die, he’s a dead man.

And if it wasn’t him, who was it?

“Mr. Thompson.” A small voice to my right says my name and breaks my concentration. It takes every effort to raise my head up and relax my body as if nothing’s wrong.

Each step smacks off the floor with the ticking of the clock. My heart beats in rhythm.

No one can know that I know. Not a soul.

“Your belongings,” she says flatly. A weak smile forms on her thin lips as she hands me a Ziploc bag and tells me what each item is, going down the list in her hands.

It’s all procedure, I tell myself.

I shove my hands into my pockets and rock on my heels as I wait. Each second makes me more and more anxious to get out of here.

“And your keys,” she says and then finally meets my eyes again.

“Thank you,” I tell her and grab my shit. As I slip my black leather wallet into my back pocket, I wonder what James will say. Better yet, I wonder how I can get him to confess.

“Make sure you sign here,” she says. I smile as I do what I’m supposed to.

Break his knuckles.

“And here,” she adds, pointing to a line on the release forms.

Bash his knees in with a tire iron.

“You’re all set, Mr. Thompson.”

Put a gun to his head.

I force the left corner of my lips up as if I’m happy to be getting out of here. But my muscles are wound tight and my stomach’s churning.

All because of one question: What if it wasn’t him?

No one can know about any of this shit. My heart skips a beat and I hesitate to walk out of the station. Kat.

I force myself to move forward. I can’t go to the cops, even to protect her. All they’ll do is go after me. I don’t have a shred of evidence. I have nothing but my word. And inside these four walls, my word doesn’t mean shit.

The sky’s gray as I glare through the glass doors, hating this place and what I’ve done. I have to tell her; I shake my head at the thought. I’ll have to tell her I’m coming home first and with that thought I take out my phone. Pressing the power button to turn it on, I lean against the door waiting to see what I’m up against.

I bet she’s heard I’m locked up, but maybe there’s a small chance that she hasn’t.

As the phone comes to life, a series of pings follows the messages popping up.

One from Pops, first asking where I am and if Kat forgave me. The next asking me to call him when I get out of jail. My heart sinks in my chest and the feeling of disappointment runs through me. He’s too old to be dealing with my shit.

My body sags against the door, the cold from the autumn night seeping through the hard glass.

I scroll through the messages from people I don’t give a shit about asking all sorts of questions. They don’t matter.

But the one person who does matter, the only one I want to hear from and the only person I want to run to … not a single text.

I check the missed calls to make sure, although hopelessness runs through my veins. I swallow thickly and push the glass door open with a hard slam of my fists.

I hate that she didn’t call me. That she didn’t care enough to let me know that she heard. If Pops has heard, she’s heard.

The bitter cold air whips by my face as I move toward the corner.

I check through my messages again, searching for her name like I could’ve missed it. One catches my eye. Samantha, James’ wife. I pause over her name and read her text. We need to talk.

My strides become quicker at the thought of meeting up with her. She might know something. She might be my way to get what I need from James.

I have to go to Kat first and knowing that, I text Sam back, asking when and where.

I glance up at the corner, seeing the don’t walk sign and take a look over my shoulder to hail a cab. I’m going home, whether Kat likes it or not.

I’ve kept so many secrets from her.

My head hangs low as I step out into the busy streets of New York City and a cab pulls up. The door slams shut with a loud click, dulling the city noises as I tell the driver our address. It’s only after a few minutes of quiet, the rumble of the car almost lulling me to sleep, that I rub my tired eyes and think about what Kat would say. What she’d do if she knew the shit I got myself into.

She’s already so close to hating me.

She’s close to being over me and what we had.

I can’t risk losing her, but right now either choice–to come clean, or to hide it from her–either choice feels like I’ve already lost her.