“Dinner time,” a guard says, unlocking the cell where I’m caged. Once the bolt is released, he walks past. 

I move hesitantly to the gate, but can’t see anything other than the gray brick wall in front of me. With the bars in hand, I pull; they slide back, opening. I step outside, into the stone and cement passage. 

A line of men in orange uniforms march toward me, heading from their cells down the hallway. 

“Hey!” one of them shouts. “White boy!” 

I freeze, not sure what to do. Act tough? Be friendly? The only thing I know about jail comes from television. 

The four men approach; I press against the wall so they can pass. Each are Hispanic, necks marked with tattoos. 

When the second man passes, he pivots suddenly, and pain wracks my skull; I’m blinded by flashing lights. He’s thrown a haymaker, punched me in the side of the head.

I slide down to the ground as the world recombobulates, pieces of sight returning at a time—first simple contrast, then shapes and colors. The men laugh as they continue past, shouting something at me in Spanish before disappearing down the hall.

Shit. My whole skull hurts; I climb to my feet, scared someone else will find me and attack. I pull my cell back open, walk inside, and close the door.

It’s becoming abundantly clear to me that a skinny eighteen year old foreigner will not be welcome in a South Texas jail. If I even make it to a court date, it’ll be luck getting me there.

Trap a rabbit in a cage, and he wants out. Put that cage in a lion’s den, and he wants to stay in. 

*

I do not sleep so much as keep watch. Sometime in the night—late enough that it may be morning—I hear footsteps. A man appears in front of my cell. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of a tan windbreaker, and he clutches this to his body like a bat wraps itself in its wings. His gut is outlined by the synthetic fabric, and shielded partly by a faded gold plate of a belt buckle.

“Are you Sean Reilly?” he asks in a whisper. 

Curled brown hair peels back from his scalp. Coffee eyes squint at me, wrinkles twisting in on themselves. 

“Yeah?” I ask. “That’s me.”

“My name is Sheriff Cole Durham. I’m from Sonoma County, California. We can’t talk long, so listen careful. I believe Jack Vickery is real.”

I study him. His forehead shines in the yellow light, the result of a reflective sheen of sweat that he rubs back from his eyes with the back of his hand. He smells stale, breath and body odor a foul alchemy. 

“Well, go talk to the detective! No one else believes me.”

“They don’t believe me either, not anymore. I’ve chased the son of a bitch for three years. He killed my wife, same way he killed Kayla. Convinced her to fake her death, then took her out. Listen, I’m going to give you a piece of paper with my number, put it in your sock. Call me when you get out.” 

 He glances down the hall, eyes sweeping the corridor. Cole sniffs, then scratches at his nose. “They’re about to send the consul in here to talk with you. Listen, this is real important: When you met Jack, was there a woman with him?”

Morgan?

I hesitate, words shaken by my tremoring jaw, still sore from getting punched. 

The sound of a door opening. Cole glances to his left, then faces me. “Take this, I have to go. Now, take it.”

I take the scrap of paper from his hand and slip it into my pocket. 

“Call me,” he says, then turns and steps out of view.

Moments later, a prison guard and a man in a suit appear in front of my cell. The man in the suit seems to be shrinking away from the walls, clutching a blazer to his shoulders.

“Sean Reilly?” he asks. His voice brings a wave of relief: an Irish accent.

“Yeah?” 

“I’m Patrick Dore; I’m from the Irish Consulate in Houston. How are you?” His voice dips when he asks that—he knows the answer pretty well. 

“Horrible,” I hiss. “Get me out of here.”

“Were you attacked?” he asks, pointing at the side of his face. 

“Someone punched me in the hall, for no reason. I can’t even go out there to eat. They’re going to kill me in here.” 

The consul stares at his shoes for a moment, salt and pepper stubble rising from his sunken jaw. “The judge posted bail,” he says. “If you can pay it, you can stay out of jail until the trial. But—the bail is set at five hundred thousand, and you’ll need to give up your passport and driver’s permit.”

Feels like a punch to my stomach. “Five hundred…?”

“You only need to pay fifty thousand of that to a bondsman, and they’ll let you out. As long as you show up for court, you’ll get the money back.” 

Like that’s much better. “Only fifty thousand?” I ask, dripping sarcasm.

“Would be twice as much if you weren’t so young,” he says. “Do you have any money?”

“My parents might,” I say, “Do they know what’s happened?”

“My people are trying to reach them now,” he assures me. 

I grab hold of one of the steel bars, feel its pitted surface as I drag my hand down. “Why am I in here?” I ask. “I’m innocent.”

“I heard the police’s story. They think you killed Kayla late that night—”

“—I was in bed!”

“I don’t believe them either, Sean, I’m only telling you what I know. Listen, they think you killed Kayla late that night, drove home, got the jet ski, and sank it to fake the whole scene.” 

“That’s ridiculous!” I’m almost shouting. 

Someone down the hall yells an obscenity, tells us to shut up. 

“Sean, you lied to the police three times. About the gasoline and the life jacket—which you admitted to—and about the drain plugs.” 

“Someone put those drain plugs in my closet. I’m being set up—find Jack Vickery, he knows everything.”

He glances down. “They looked into that, Sean. They can’t find any sign someone named Jack Vickery lived in Port Lavaca.”

Useless. It’s beginning to dawn on me that maybe Jack did more than teach Kayla how to fake her death—maybe he killed her, and framed me. Who else could it be?

“Where’s my lawyer?” I ask. “Don’t I get a lawyer? Someone to help me?”

He puts a hand to the crimson tie at his throat and adjusts it. “The public defender is reviewing your case now. I can connect you to a friendlier attorney, someone with ties to the consulate. You’ll need to pay for it, though.”

“More money—great. So, what can you actually do for me?”

The consul presents his hands, palms upward. “Do you want me to pray with you?”

I turn away, curse under my breath. “So, nothing. Just let my parents know what’s happened, okay? Make sure they know.” 

He nods, puts his hands in his pockets. “Keep your faith, Sean. Things will work out.”

Things won’t work out. I’ll get the death penalty. They’ll strap me to a table, inject me with poison, and I’ll die alone in the world except for my executioner and his empty syringe. 

I sit back down on my bunk and stare at the wall.

*

I sit on the cot and stare at the hallway for hours, until I hear the movement of guards and smell disinfectant as cleaning begins. 

It’s not long before the consul returns. He’s smiling, blue eyes beaming. 

“Your bail was paid,” he says. Still happy to hear an Irish accent, even if he’s proved himself useless. 

I stand. “What? How?” Maybe my parents came through—sold their house, or something. 

The consul flips through the papers in his hand, searching for a name. “Sarah Fiesel?” he asks.

“I don’t know who that is,” I say. “And I don’t care. So, I can get out of here?” 

“You can,” he says. “At least, until the trial.” 

“How long is that?” I ask as the jail door slides open. 

“A few months,” he says. “The McPhersons refused to take you; I’m trying to work out a place you can stay.”

A pang of guilt strikes just below my Adam’s apple. Of course—Kayla’s parents think I’m guilty. And they were so nice. 

“Mrs. Fiesel offered to rent an extended-stay motel room for you. Is that okay? Is she a relative?” 

“It’s fine,” I say. “She’s probably a friend of my parents.” 

I’m lead through the jail, given my wallet and cell phone back, and shoved out the back door. Rabbit, run. 

My phone says I have ninety-nine new text messages, but I think the counter just doesn’t go any higher. A dozen missed calls, a handful of voice messages. 

Does everyone know I’m the suspect? I don’t even look through the texts, just put my phone in my pocket. 

The consul leads me to the front of the building. One of Port Lavaca’s few taxis is waiting.

He stops at the jailhouse steps. “This taxi will take you to your motel. Whatever you do, do not go near Kayla’s home—that’s a condition of your bail. Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t make anything worse on yourself. American police take themselves very seriously,” he says. “I’ll be in touch. Slán and God bless.”