The worst thing in this cell was the lack of ventilation. Milan held his breath, face buried in the pillow, as Eli plodded out of the bathroom pod.

“Just took a huge dump.” Eli flashed a grin. “Wanna see?”

“No!” Milan said with a pinched expression.

“Kiddin’, kiddin’. I flushed already.”

Milan groaned. He’d met a lot of people, but Eli was the worst. And that was counting Damien and Travis. Something was off about Eli, but Milan couldn’t point out what. Was it her indifference to her situation? That was what real criminals were like. They felt no remorse for what they’d done.

“Hey, hey,” Eli said. “What’re you in for anyway?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Hey, wanna know what I’m in for?”

“No.”

“I started a street fight!” Eli’s eyes sparkled. “Isn’t that radical? There were like five, but I beat them up!” She let out a hearty guffaw, slapping her hand on her thigh.

Milan squinted his eyes. This small shrimp taking on five people at the same time and winning? She had to be lying. Her skin had a slick texture, with no sign of scratches, bruises, or anything indicating she’d been in a fight. She was in for something else. Who knew what?

Milan slumped on the stool by the desk. He wasn’t used to it. The study desk in his room was four times bigger than this. And it had shelves.

Well, he wasn’t used to anything in this dump. He’d only spent one and a half days here. The food tasted bland and had no variety. Rice with brown beans and hard, brittle toast. Sometimes undercooked chicken for dinner. What was worse was seeing people gobbling it all up. How could anyone eat that?

Milan’s pen hovered over the piece of paper on the desk, the one John gave him. He’d already noted down the schedule. Get up, breakfast, attend education, lunch, attend education. Afterward, they could spend an hour in the yard or do whatever they wanted. Then, they’d be confined in the cells for a few hours until ‘nighttime’.

Milan clasped the pen between his fingers. He hated this. Everything about it. Being in this ungovernable environment where he wasn’t in control of his own life. He wanted to make his own rules. But would it make a difference? Being here was a waste of time, whether he could make his own rules or not. There was nowhere he could go. He was trapped with crazy people all around him.

“Hey, hey.” Eli peered over Milan’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

“You’d know if you read it.”

Eli snatched the paper off the table. “Why’d you write this? Borin’.”

“To gain an overview of my wonderful prison days. That’s what normal people do. They have a schedule.”

Eli burst out laughing. “That’s what borin’ people do!”

The cell door swiped open, and John Hughes stepped in.

“Milan Whitfield. You have a visitor.”

Who could it be? Milan asked himself as the officer led him out. For a split second, he thought it could be his parents. Then, reality washed over him. What was he thinking? They were dead. Murdered. They’d never come back.

He bowed his head, eyes fixed on his feet, as they walked through the hallway. They didn’t cuff his arms up anymore. There was no need to. If Milan tried to run off or escape, he’d be in bigger trouble than he already was in. He needed to stay low for now.

They reached an opening in the hallway. Wooden tables were scattered around the area, surrounded by two chairs on each side. The sun cast a yellow hue on the pale walls through the window.

Scribbling against paper reached Milan’s ears. It was a man wearing a green turtleneck pullover with soft wrinkles forming on his forehead.

He lifted his head, his eyes stern and unmoving. “Milan Whitfield. I am an attorney at law and will be representing you in court. My name is Aaron Walters.” He gestured at the chair in front of him. “Please, take a seat.”

Finally, Milan thought, a lawyer.

Walters licked his parched lips. “First and foremost, I would like to inform you about my conclusion after analyzing the evidence. Truthfully, under these circumstances, there is zero percent chance that the case will result in your acquittal in court.”

Milan almost choked on his spit. “What?”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“I am sorry to inform you of this. But the evidence is decisive.”

“Like what?”

Aaron Walters scratched his head. “First and foremost, the murder weapon has been analyzed for fingerprints, and it has been found that these belong to you.”

“That doesn’t mean I committed the murders. I touched the knife. Big deal.”

“I was not done talking,” the attorney said. “In addition to that, an audio recording was discovered in your house. It was not only a detailed explanation of the crime but also a confession.”

Milan’s heart somersaulted. He placed a hand on his chest. Stay calm, he told himself.

Aaron licked his thump and searched through his notes. His eyes trailed down the paper. “Let me quote a small part: ‘I plunged that knife right inside their hearts. I wanted to make sure they were dead. It was annoying, though. They kept screaming with bloodshot eyes as if they hadn’t seen it coming. Mom was especially annoying. I killed Dad first in a surprise attack. I wouldn’t want him to overpower me. But then Mom kept screeching like an animal and called his name over and over again, so I killed her too. I mean, what if the neighbor heard? Of course, I had initially planned to kill them both.

“‘In any case, after they went silent, I thrust the knife all over their bodies, just to make extra sure they were dead. Then I hid them in the closet. I wiped the blood off the ground and burned my clothes in the backyard. Yes, that’s right. I, Milan Whitfield, am the one who killed my parents.’”

Milan’s blood ran cold, every hair on his body bristling. He stuttered, searching for the right words. “It… it’s a voice recording. Anyone could imitate my voice or edit it to make it sound like it was me.”

“I was not done talking,” Walters said. “The forensic team has thoroughly analyzed the recording to confirm the authenticity. A spectrogram has also been used to identify any form of editing. They have concluded that it is completely unedited, and the voice is a perfect match.”

Milan’s muscles tensed and a heaviness spread through his limps. His vision went hazy, and the lawyer’s features became a blend of colors.

“Mr. Whitfield, are you alright?” the lawyer asked. “You look pale.”

Milan shot up from the chair. This wasn’t right. He never recorded himself. Hell, he never killed them, to begin with. Why the hell were these things happening to him, one after another? It had to be someone. Someone was after him and set him up for this crime. But how? How did they mimic his voice? How could it be a perfect match? No editing? Nothing?!

“Mr. Whitfield-”

“Shut it! I’m thinking!” The words ripped his throat raw. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his flesh. His insides burned. What could he do now? What was the fastest way to pose a possibility of his innocence?

“Okay, so the recording-” The words spilled out of Milan’s mouth. “-can it even be used as evidence in court? I mean, even if it matches my voice, how can they prove I was the person speaking in the flesh?”

“Yes, that is perhaps the only advantage you may have in court,” Aaron said. “However, the forensic team is confident in their findings. It would be rather difficult to prove them wrong. Therefore, I have another strategy that can guarantee a partial win.” He gestured at Milan’s chair. “Please, take a seat.”

Milan slipped into the chair.

“You are going to plead insanity.” Aaron Walters said. “That way, even if you are declared guilty, your sentence may be shortened.”

“I’m not insane.”

“Well, I have spoken with my assistant, who is a psychiatrist. To sum up her conclusion, there could be many reasons you have forgotten that you committed the crime. It could either be that you were in a psychotic mental state at the time, like schizophrenia, or a dissociative identity disorder. When diagnosed, it could serve to be quite relevant as evidence to plead insanity.”

“I’m. Not. Insane.” Milan put pressure on every word.

Aaron scratched his neck with his long nails.

“But let’s assume I’ll plead insanity,” Milan said. “How would that influence my future?”

“Well, first and foremost, you would be committed to a psychiatric facility for an indeterminate period. What occurs after would be unclear. In best case scenario, the court may grant you conditional release after your treatment.”

Milan leaned back into the chair. Mental facility? Schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder? What the hell was this guy talking about? Milan would never agree to throw away his future for something he didn’t do. He wouldn’t be let off the hook if he pleaded insanity, whether he was found innocent or guilty. It didn’t matter if it was prison or a mental facility. They were all the same.

That was why he told the lawyer about the letter. If the letter was found, it could prove his alibi. Walters nodded, scribbling down Milan’s side of the story.

“And what time did you say you were home again?” He asked.

“Around 9:20.”

Walters let out a breath. “Well, the estimated time of death is between eight and eleven o’clock in the evening.”

Milan’s face froze. “That’s not what I’ve been told.”

“Apparently, that autopsy report was outdated. The bodies were found in a closet, if you remember, and had remained in there for hours. Taking the environmental aspects into consideration, like the temperature fluctuations and restricted airflow, have complicated the estimation of the time of death, is what I have been told. Therefore, the estimation is now more accurate.”

Shit. Could it get worse?

“What about the recording? Is there a timestamp that shows when it was recorded?”

“Unfortunately, not. The timestamp only reveals the length of the recording.”

Milan pinched his lips together. His chest tightened, and his breath came out heavy. He tried to speak, to come up with something that would prove his innocence, but he couldn’t. There was nothing. Nothing he could do. He was screwed.

Now, there were two options for him. Either he’d be found guilty and spend years in prison. Or plead insanity, with the slight chance of being declared innocent, and spend years in a mental facility. After he got out, he’d never be able to pursue his passion. Why? His chances at life would diminish for either committing murder and sitting behind bars or for being insane and declared ‘mentally unfit’ for any job that wasn’t janitor-related.

“Mr. Whitfield, I hope you have realized it,” the attorney said. “The best course of action, in this case, is to plead insanity.”