Chapter 4

I underestimated her. I thought forcing her to choose would break her, that she would finally confess. I was wrong. She chose Daniel.

The next morning, I was woken not by the sun, but by a loud, insistent pounding on the front door. I looked out the window and saw a police car parked at the curb. Two officers stood on our porch.

My father, his face grim, opened the door. They spoke in low tones. Then my father looked up the stairs, his eyes finding mine. The expression on his face was one of ultimate betrayal.

"Ethan Miller?" one of the officers called out. "You need to come with us."

They said Emily Peterson had filed a formal complaint. She claimed I had forced myself on her. In the eyes of the law in our town, with her being pregnant, her word was enough to issue a warrant. It was a he-said, she-said situation, and she had the ultimate "proof" growing inside her. The charge was serious, a morals offense that carried a heavy prison sentence.

I was arrested in my own home, in front of my horrified parents. As they led me out in handcuffs, I saw Emily standing on her porch across the street, watching. Her parents were flanking her, looking righteous and protective. There was no remorse on Emily's face, only a cold, hard resolve.

At the station, I told them the truth. I told them about Daniel Sterling, about the affair, about the setup. They asked for proof.

"The cufflink," I said. "The 'DS' cufflink. It's in the guest room at my house, on the dresser."

An officer was dispatched. He came back an hour later and shook his head. "There's no cufflink. The girl says she has no idea what you're talking about."

Of course. She had made her choice and covered her tracks. My only piece of physical evidence was gone.

They threw me in a holding cell. It was cold, damp, and smelled of stale sweat and despair. The days blurred into one another. My parents hired a lawyer, a man with tired eyes who told me my case was weak. It was my word against a pregnant girl's. In this town, that was an open-and-shut case.

A week later, I had a visitor. It was Emily. She looked pale and thin, but her eyes were steady.

"They said you're not eating," she said, standing on the other side of the bars.

"Why are you here, Emily?" I asked, my voice a dead rasp.

"I can fix this," she said, her voice low. "I can tell them it was all a misunderstanding. I can drop the charges."

A sliver of hope, ugly and unwanted, rose in my chest. I crushed it. "Then do it."

"First," she said, moving closer. "You have to tell me where you put it."

"Put what?"

"The other proof," she said impatiently. "Daniel said you might have something else. A letter, a photo... whatever it is, I need it. He needs it."

I stared at her in disbelief. She wasn't here to save me. She was here to finish the job, to tie up the last loose end for her precious Daniel.

I started to laugh, a harsh, broken sound that echoed in the small room. "There's nothing else, Emily. The cufflink was it. You took care of that. You won."

Her face fell. She didn't believe me. "You're lying. Give it to me, Ethan, and I promise I'll get you out of here. We can... we can even leave town. Start over."

"Get out," I snarled. "Get out of my sight."

The betrayal was so absolute, so complete, it felt like it was physically corroding me from the inside. I stopped eating. I felt my body growing weaker, my mind foggier. But one thing remained crystal clear: my refusal to yield. I would not give her the satisfaction.

She came back one more time, a few days before the trial. My health had deteriorated. I was running a fever, and a hacking cough rattled my chest.

"You look terrible," she said, a flicker of something-pity, perhaps-in her eyes. "Just give me what Daniel wants. Please, Ethan. Don't throw your life away over this."

"My life was thrown away the moment you decided to protect him," I whispered, my throat raw.

She saw the resolve in my eyes and knew she wouldn't get what she came for. Her expression hardened. "Fine," she said, her voice cold as ice. "Then you can rot in here."

She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving me alone in the darkness.

The trial was a formality. I was found guilty. The sentence was ten years in a state prison. For a young man in fragile health, it was a death sentence.

On the day they transferred me, they paraded me through the center of town in the back of a police car. It was a small-town version of a perp walk, a public shaming. People I'd known my whole life stared at me, some with pity, others with contempt. I saw my mother collapse into my father's arms, her body shaking with sobs. The sight of their pain was the worst punishment of all.

As the car turned the corner to leave town, I saw one last figure standing on the sidewalk. It was Emily. She was watching the car, her hand resting on her swollen belly. For a moment, just a moment, I saw a look of profound regret on her face. A tear rolled down her cheek.

But it was too late. The car picked up speed, and she disappeared from view.

Prison was worse than I could have imagined. My health failed quickly. The cough became pneumonia. The prison infirmary was understaffed and undersupplied. I knew I wasn't going to make it.

I died on a cot that smelled of bleach and urine, my last thought a bitter curse on the names Emily Peterson and Daniel Sterling. My life, my second chance at life, was over. It had ended in failure and injustice.