He followed the sound, his heart racing, as if his body already knew what he was about to find. And there, in the garden, the sight that greeted him was a nightmare come to life. Abigail's body lay sprawled on the ground, her white night dress stained a deep crimson. It was a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
—
The words spilled from Jude's mouth, a torrent of desperation and disbelief. He could barely recognize his own voice, cracked and hoarse from emotion.
"I didn't kill her, officer," he pleaded, his gaze fixed on the interrogator with a mixture of defiance and grief. "I loved her. I would never hurt her. Someone else did this, someone who wanted to tear us apart. You have to believe me."
The interrogator stared at him for a long moment, his expression impassive. "We have our reasons for holding you, Mr. Patterson.''
"You see, Mr. Patterson," the interrogator continued, a hint of condescension in his voice, "when the police arrived at your house, they found no signs of a forced entry. No one had broken in. That leaves us with the impression that either you were involved in this incident, or someone close to you was."
Jude felt his stomach twist into knots. He knew the implication of what the officer was saying, but he refused to believe that someone he knew could have done such a thing.
"There was no one in the house," he repeated, his voice determined and desperate. "It was just me and Abigail. We were planning to have the weekend all to ourselves. We had even sent our daughter, June, away to spend time with her aunt. There was no one in the house. I couldn't have killed my wife. I couldn't have killed the woman I loved so dearly."
The interrogator leaned forward, his gaze scrutinizing Jude like a microscope. "But Mr. Patterson, you must understand how this looks. You were the only other person in the house.The police found no signs of a break-in, and no one else had access to your home. The body was discovered by you. How can you expect us to believe that you're not responsible for your wife's death?"
He shook his head, frustration and fear contorting his face into a mask of desperation. "I don't know what you want me to say. I loved her. Why would I hurt her? It doesn't make any sense."
"And yet here we are, Mr. Patterson," the interrogator countered, his tone now laced with a chilling edge.
—
Jude awoke in the barren cell, the gray walls and iron bars surrounding him like the jaws of a steel trap. He blinked against the harsh fluorescent light, his vision adjusting to the harsh reality of his situation.
He sat up on the thin mattress, his mind a fog of confusion and uncertainty. Who was he? What had happened? It was as if his entire life had been swallowed by a void, leaving only fragments of memory to float in his consciousness. He struggled to remember his name, his identity, but it was like trying to catch smoke with his hands.
The hours of the day had begun to lose their meaning for him, the monotony of his existence numbing his mind. When he was finally ushered from his cell, he followed the guard with a sense of resignation, like a lamb to the slaughter. The interrogation room was a familiar sight, but this time, a woman in her 50s sat across from him, her expression stern and unyielding.
"I am your state-appointed attorney, Mr. Sawyer," she said, her voice devoid of warmth.
"Mary..." he mumbled, struggling to place the name. "Mary Lamb? Or... Mary Jackson? No, that doesn't sound right..."
The attorney gave him an impatient look, a slight frown marring her otherwise expressionless face. "My name is Mary Davis, Mr. Patterson. I will be representing you in this case."
He nodded, feeling a wave of disorientation wash over him. He couldn't trust his own memory anymore.
She steepled her fingers, leaning forward across the table as she regarded him with a gaze that could cut steel. "Mr. Patterson, I understand your situation is difficult, but we need to establish some clarity, some consistency in your story. You claim to be innocent, yet you cannot remember key details of the night in question. You claim that no one else was in the house, and yet the police found no evidence to support that. We need something, some evidence or some shred of recollection that will support your claim."
He blinked, struggling to follow her words. "I...
"...I don't know what to say," he finished, his voice hollow. "I loved Abigail. I swear I never wanted to hurt her. But I can't remember anything else. It's like my mind has gone blank."
Mary leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. "I can appreciate your predicament, Mr. Patterson, but the prosecution has a very compelling case against you. Without any evidence to support your claims, it's going to be a challenge to prove your innocence. Do you have any alibi? Any witnesses that can verify your story?"
He shook his head, his heart sinking further into the pit of despair. "I... I was with Abigail, but... I don't know if anyone else saw us together. We didn't have plans to see anyone else that night."
She sighed, frustration creeping into her voice. "That's not going to help our case, Mr. Patterson. Without any witnesses or corroborating evidence, it's going to be difficult to convince the jury that you didn't commit this crime. Do you remember anything else? Anything at all that might help us build a defense?"
His mind felt like a maze of broken pathways, each leading to another dead end. He desperately tried to retrace his steps, but it was like trying to run through quicksand.
"I... I can't remember anything else," he said, his voice breaking. "It's all just a blur."