“Who was it in the other storage unit?” the Chaplain asks. “If someone else was there, maybe –”
“Maybe I didn’t do anything? Is that what you’re going to say? Maybe I didn’t kill –”
“No, that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that maybe someone saw something differently from how you remember. You know you blacked out that night, your memory isn’t perfect. You were stressed, concussed. You were –”
“I never said I didn’t do it,” the Prisoner says quietly. “I did it. They have proof. I confessed. I was convicted. I will be put to death soon. What don’t you get about that?”
The Chaplain leans back on his chair. He had been hunched forward, listening intently. Twice the Prisoner stood and paced the width of the room as he talked. Mostly he lay there on the cot staring at the
