Jude's face twisted with a mixture of fury and grief. The words were like a match thrown on dry tinder, igniting the flames of his rage.
"NO!" he roared, his voice filled with anguish. "You're not helping me! You're trying to make me confess to something I didn't do!" With a surge of adrenaline, he lunged at Sam, shoving him hard against the table. "I DIDN'T KILL HER!" he screamed, his voice carrying across the room. "I loved her! I loved Abigail!"
The rest of the inmates froze, their spoons suspended in midair. Jude's outburst shattered the uneasy silence, and the commotion attracted the attention of the guards. The guards reacted swiftly, rushing towards the table where they were struggling. One guard grabbed Jude by the arms, yanking him backwards and away from his shocked fellow inmate.
"That's enough!" the guard barked, his grip like a vice on Jude's arms. "You're going back to your cell, Patterson. No more of this nonsense!"
Jude's heart thundered in his chest, his breathing heavy and ragged. "I didn't do it," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I loved her. I would never hurt her."
***
June sat at her desk in the classroom, her eyes fixated on the teacher's lesson, but her mind drifting far away. The words, the equations, all the classroom chatter were nothing but a blur in the background. The news of her father's arrest and incarceration had shattered her world, sending shockwaves through her young life. She longed for the simple times when they'd laugh and play together, when her father's embrace was a safe haven. But now, with each passing day, the pain intensified, the reality sinking deeper and deeper into her soul.
In the cruel, unforgiving world of the schoolyard, she felt isolated, a pariah among her classmates. Their whispers and sideways glances cut her deeper than a knife. Even her drama partner, once her confidant and companion, now distanced herself, saying, "I'm sorry, June, but my parents won't let me talk to you anymore."
Anger burned within her like a wildfire, fueled by the injustice of it all. It was her father who had taken her mother away, stolen the life they once knew.
Her temper, once a smoldering ember, erupted into a blazing inferno that scorched her insides. As she lay in her bed each night, her mind raced with the venomous words she wished she could say to her father.
"It's all your fault," she seethed inwardly, the tears streaming down her face. "I hate you. I hate you for what you've done to Mom. To me."
June, once a confident and carefree girl, retreated into herself like a wounded animal. The bully's taunts, "You're the daughter of a murderer," rang in her ears like a sickening mantra, a perpetual reminder of her shattered world. In an effort to avoid the torment, she began to hide in the school library or, on warm afternoons, the shade of a tree on the playground. "I won't leave this classroom," she resolved.
In the ornate, almost gothic expanse of the Hawthorne mansion, she found no solace, no relief from the loneliness that had become her constant companion. Her grandfather, Jonathan, was a stoic man, his kind, if distant presence a far cry from the warm embrace of her father. Her grandmother, Margaret, was a delicate woman with cold eyes and sharp words. Her aunt, Beatrice, and cousins were like shadows in the corners of the house, floating in and out of her view but never truly connecting with her.
As the days dragged on, she found herself slipping further and further into solitude, her only companions the whispers of the past that seemed to echo through the mansion's halls.
The same walls that once sang with the laughter of family gatherings now seemed to close in around her, a prison masquerading as a home. Even the once-treasured Christmas and birthday visits had become torture, a cruel reminder of what she had lost.
"I don't belong here," she whispered to herself, her tears mixing with the dust of the old, forgotten house. "This isn't my home."
—
Beatrice Hawthorne, ever the picture of perfection, stood in June's bedroom with her arms crossed and a stern look on her face.
"June, this room is a mess. Dirty clothes everywhere, your bed is unmade, and what's that smell?" She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You're turning into a little pig, just like your father."
June, tired of the constant comparisons to a man she barely understood, snapped back, "I'm nothing like him. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, don't I?" Beatrice retorted.
"Let me tell you something, June," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Your father was a selfish, evil man. He hurt people, he lied, he destroyed lives. And you... you're just like him. You think the world revolves around you, that you can do whatever you want without consequences. Well, let me tell you something, young lady, you are not special. You're just another Hawthorne, doomed to repeat the mistakes of your ancestors."
June's eyes blazed with defiance, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "I'm not like him!''
"You're right," she hissed, her voice cold and hard as granite. "You're not like him... yet. But if you don't shape up, you'll be just like him. Do you want to be remembered as the girl who ruined everything, the girl who destroyed her family? Because that's what you're doing, June. You're tearing us apart, just like your father did."
June recoiled at the words, feeling as though her heart was being torn to shreds. She opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but no words came.
She fled the suffocating confines of her bedroom, letting the heavy oak door slam shut behind her. Her feet pounded against the cold, stone floor as she ran down the hallway and burst through the glass doors into the courtyard. The warm spring air seemed to envelop her, but it was not a balm against the searing pain in her heart. She sank to the ground, her hands covering her face as hot, salty tears streamed down her cheeks. The weight of Beatrice's words crushed her spirit, fueling the doubts and fears that had been growing in her mind like a dark, twisted vine.