Blake Brayton

The floor in the visiting room smelled like sorrow & bleach. Blake sat behind the scratched plexiglas, his knuckles gray & raw from scrubbing. Five years of Marla had hollowed him out. The boyish posture was gone, replaced by a permanent slouch that made him look fifty."My mom said you still had the ring," Blake said. His voice was a flat rasp through the cheap intercom.I rested my hand on the metal counter. The gold band stayed hidden under my palm. "She worries." "They found Nick in the ravine behind her new place," he muttered, staring at his own fingers. "Three blunt force strikes. They think I used the tire iron from my trunk." "Did you?" Blake looked up then. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that never sleeps off. "She took everything. My savings. The house. Then she laughed when she packed her bags. Just like she laughed that night by the rose garden." "I remember," I said. A guard shifted his weight near the door, keys jingling against his belt. The sound was too loud in the cramped space. "She told the detectives I threatened him," Blake whispered, leaning closer to the glass. "She wants me gone. If I go down for this, she gets the remaining life insurance policy from the joint account. Help me." I looked at the grease smudges on his orange jumpsuit. There was no pity left in me, only a cold, heavy boredom. I remembered kneeling on Marla’s porch, begging for a man who wasn't worth the breath. I remembered her pink dress & the smell of vanilla that made me sick for a year. "The police searched your trunk, Blake," I said softly. "They found the tire iron. But they didn't find the blood on it." Blake blinked, confused. "What?" "Because it’s in my garage," I said, rising from the plastic chair. "And Marla’s vanilla perfume is still on the handle." I left him pressing his face against the glass, his mouth moving against a dead intercom.