Triple M Murder

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT. That’s how many concrete blocks shape the ceiling of this cell. I have counted them five times over the past two days. My gaze lingers on a drop of water sweating from the wall. The air is stifling—muggy. Like a boa constrictor wrapping around me, it strangles my lungs, squeezing the life out of me.

On my back, with my arms folded behind my head, I start counting the concrete blocks again. One. Two. Three… Another bead of water drips down the wall and catches my gaze. My thoughts drift and I recount the events of the last two months. What did I miss? This question fuels and invigorates me. To solve this question means my freedom.

I replay the night I flew home from San Francisco. It started with a call. A call that changed everything.