Just before five on Friday afternoon, the phone rang. It was the prison visitation department. I had been given clearance to visit Dylan. They warned me that I was not to discuss details of the pending case and that our conversation would be recorded.
The moment I stepped through the jail's entrance, a shiver ran down my spine. Anticipation and anxiety swirled within me, making it difficult to breathe. I was here to see Dylan, and as much as I desired him, I couldn't shake off the unease that clung to me like a second skin.
The cold, sterile atmosphere of the jail was suffocating. The sharp smell of disinfectant stung my nostrils, while the echoes of footsteps on hard linoleum floors reverberated throughout the building. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting stark shadows
