Mark Wallace had been inside North Fraser Pretrial Centre for forty-two days.
He kept count. It was the only measure of time that still made sense.
No clock in his cell. Just the vague glow of hallway lights bleeding under the door at night, and the clatter of meal trays scraping across concrete floors in the morning.
He didn’t get visits. No phone calls. No letters.
Because there was no one left to contact.
His job at the mill had cut him loose on day three. His parents were dead. His brother hadn’t spoken to him in five years. Friends had disappeared one by one, long before the headlines ever screamed Local Man Charged with Fiancée’s Murder.
Now he had a roommate named Keener who talked in his sleep and pissed in the toilet without flushing, and a crowd of inmates who didn’t like w
