A banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen: EXECUTION OF RENEE CALLOWAY HALTED — NEW EVIDENCE SURFACES IN FIVE-YEAR-OLD MURDER CASE.
The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered against the hardwood floor.
He was on his feet before the sound had even finished echoing through the room, moving toward the closet where a duffel bag sat packed with cash and an old passport he’d kept for exactly this kind of emergency, though he’d never truly believed he would need it.
How, he thought, his mind scrambling for any explanation that made sense. I burned the office files. I got rid of the clothes years ago. I made sure there was nothing left.
And then, all at once, he remembered.
The small silver box he’d taken off Reyes’s desk that night, five years earlier. The one he’d hidden inside a hollow, moth-eaten teddy bear tucked away in his attic — and then, without thinking twice, without checking the seams, had handed straight to his own niece three weeks ago while they packed boxes for the move.
He never made it to the back door.
For one brief second, standing frozen in the middle of his own living room with the duffel bag half-zipped in his hands, Victor thought about Lily. About the last five years of bedtime stories and school pickups and birthday parties he had thrown for her with genuine, aching affection, even as he let her mother rot on death row for something he alone had done. He would spend the rest of his life unable to explain that contradiction to anyone, including himself.
The front windows shattered inward, and the room filled with shouting voices and the sharp white flash of tactical lights.
“STATE POLICE! GET ON THE GROUND! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM — NOW!”
Victor dropped to his knees before he’d even consciously decided to obey, the duffel bag falling forgotten beside him. Officers moved in fast, and within seconds he was face-down on the wet floorboards, cuffed, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
Three days later, seated across a metal table from two investigators in a windowless room not unlike the one Renee had spent five years walking past, Victor would finally stop denying it. After nine hours of silence, he would say, quietly, almost like a confession made more to himself than to anyone listening, that he had never meant for it to go this far. That the money had simply been there, and Renee had simply been convenient, and somewhere in the last five years he had almost managed to convince himself it hadn’t really happened the way he remembered it.
