The gavel pounded, loud and jarring, but it barely registered. The room had gone silent. My hands, cold and clammy, rested on the table as I tried to focus on what was happening. All I could think about was the envelope. The one handed to the slimy lawyer. The one that had already begun to unravel whatever twisted story Henry had set in motion.

I glanced around, my eyes darting to the witness stand, but I couldn’t focus on anything. Henry’s words echoed in my mind. The way he’d looked at me. He knew something. He knew more than he was letting on, and now that damned envelope – it was the final blow, wasn’t it?

The slimy lawyer straightened in his seat, and I saw him slip the envelope into his coat pocket. That sickening smirk lingered on his face. The one that made me want to reach across the table and strangle him with my bare hands. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

My pulse raced as the reality of what was happening hit me. I was cornered. The walls were closing in. Everything was slipping through my fingers, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Mr. Carver,” the judge’s voice broke through my thoughts, sharp and demanding. “You are still with us?”

I nodded, trying to mask the panic clawing at my chest. Get it together, Vincent.

“Yes, Your Honour,” I managed, my voice sounding hollow, even to my own ears.

The slimy lawyer stood, smoothing his suit, and turned to face the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence is clear. The defendant, Mr. Carver, had the means, the motive, and, as you will soon see, the opportunity to commit this crime.” He paused for effect, his eyes gleaming with the same twisted satisfaction that had haunted me all day. “The evidence we’ve presented speaks for itself.”

He turned back to me, his gaze cold and calculating. And for the first time, I understood. This wasn’t just about the case. This was about destroying me.

The smirk returned, as though it were a weapon, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of it bearing down on me.

I could feel the sweat starting to bead on my forehead. What’s in that envelope? The thought consumed me, gnawing at my insides like a parasite. It had to be something damning. Something no one could ignore.

“Your Honour,” the slimy lawyer continued, drawing my attention back to him, “we have new evidence. Evidence that we believe confirms the defendant’s guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

I held my breath, dread sinking deeper into my gut. I didn’t need to see what was in the envelope. I knew. I could feel it. It was the thing that would undo me.

A piece of paper was produced – a photograph, the kind that always seemed to show up when you least expected them. But the image wasn’t just any photograph. It was a shot of me. Me, standing outside my house, looking down at my feet, a lit cigarette in one hand. But the date and time stamped on the back—that was what made it hit like a punch to the gut.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

This photo had been taken two days after my wife’s death.

It was a candid shot, one of those ones where you weren’t aware of the camera until it was too late, and the timestamp was unmistakable.

The day after the funeral.

The day after I had buried my wife, the day after my entire life had shattered, there I was. Alone.

But that wasn’t the worst part. No, it was the rest of the evidence. The slimy lawyer slid a second piece of paper across the table. A forensic report, detailing the ballistics matching my gun to the one that killed Amelia. The report showed that the bullet that ended her life had been fired from the very weapon I owned. There it was, in black and white, my gun tied to her death. Wren turned the photo to face the jury. “This is a picture of Mr. Carver, just days after his wife’s tragic death. A man clearly unburdened by grief, untroubled by the fact that his wife has just taken her own life.”

Wren turned the photo to face the jury, holding it up for them to see. “This is a picture of Mr. Carver, just days after his wife’s tragic death. A man clearly unburdened by grief, untroubled by the fact that his wife has just taken her own life.”

My stomach churned. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing in like a vice. I could hear the murmurs of the jury, their whispers cutting through the silence like a knife. They were already making their judgments. I could see it in their eyes. The doubt. The certainty.

Wren continued, his voice full of triumph. “And this,” he added, tapping the ballistics report with one finger, “confirms what we already know. The defendant had access to the weapon that killed his wife. His actions, or lack thereof, in the days following her death, demonstrate a man who had no remorse. No grief. Just an indifference to the destruction he caused.”

My heart hammered in my chest. It was all true. My gun. My photograph. My indifference. Everything pointed back to me.

Wren’s eyes flicked back to me, the smirk still curling at the corners of his lips. The words “indifference”, “guilt”, and “murderer” filled the room, suffocating me with their weight. There was no way out.

I could feel the heat rising in my face as the shame and guilt swirled inside me, a suffocating storm. I wanted to scream, to deny everything, but the truth was there in front of me. My own life, laid bare for the world to see, as fragile as glass.

“Your Honour,” Wren continued, turning back to the judge, “we believe this photograph and the ballistics report are conclusive evidence that the defendant’s actions were those of a man who had no qualms about his wife’s death. A man who took her life with a cold, calculated hand.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What could I say? How could I deny it when everything—the photo, the report—proved it?

The judge didn’t hesitate. He looked down at me, his face unreadable. “The evidence is clear. The court finds the defendant, Mr. Vincent Carver, guilty of the death of his wife, Amelia Carver.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My vision blurred, and I could barely hear the judge’s next words through the rush of blood in my ears.

“Sentencing will be held in two days. Mr. Carver, you may use this time to put your affairs in order.” The gavel fell again, sharp and final.

The room erupted into a low murmur. I barely registered it. I couldn’t.

I felt numb. The cold hands of inevitability gripped me, and all I could think about was the two days I had left. The two days before my life was over.