The bruises had started to turn yellow.
That sick, ugly shade of healing that didn’t feel like healing at all.
Mark sat on the edge of the visitation room bench, hands clenched between his knees. The skin on his knuckles was cracked. One nail was still purple. No one had asked what happened. No one cared.
The camera above the two-way glass blinked red like a quiet accusation.
⸻
His lawyer entered late.
Pressed suit. Cheap cologne. No tie.
“Mark,” he said, nodding like he was greeting a co-worker, not a client being held without bail for murder.
Mark didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
He wasn’t sure he even had a voice anymore.
⸻
The lawyer dropped a thick manila folder on the table.
“Still no tox results. Autopsy’s delayed. But they’re stacking character witnesses. You’re not playin
