The cell was small, with a concrete bench and a steel toilet.

The walls were painted a dull green that had faded to gray.

A single fluorescent tube hummed in the ceiling.

I sat on the bench and pulled my coat tight around myself.

The warmth of the building was dry, making my throat feel parched.

I lay down on the bench and closed my eyes.

I did not sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the sound of the crowbar hitting the stove.

The next morning, my attorney arrived.

His name was Marcus, and he was a man I had paid a lot of money over the years.

He looked tired, his tie slightly crooked.

He sat across from me in the small interrogation room.

“Leo is going to talk,” Marcus said.

“He is already trying to pin the warehouse murders on you.”

“I have the ledgers, Marcus,” I said.

“I have the offshore account numbers.”

“Leo cannot pin anything on me if I give them the whole book.”

Marcus sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“The government wants a full plea,” he said.