The trial was quick. One witness stood up, swore they saw you do it, and the jury believed every word. Thirty years to life, the judge said, and the cell door at Wattle Hill State Prison closed behind you before you’d stopped shaking.
Inside, routine is the only clock. Yard laps at dawn. Potato peeling and pot scrubbing in the kitchens. In the prison library you read every law book on the trolley and go through your own case file line by line, looking for the thread that will unravel it.
You lose count of the months. Then one afternoon, serving the Warden his lunch, you catch sight of a letter on his desk. Your name is in it. And the signature at the bottom belongs to the lead witness, the one whose testimony put you here.
Why would the star witness be writing to the man who holds your keys? Whatever the answer, the Warden is in on it, and that letter won’t sit on his desk forever.
So tonight, after lights-out, you go. Out of the cell, along the block, past the guard post and into the Warden’s office. You have one hour before the next round of torches comes sweeping down the corridor. Find the letter, and you might just win back your freedom. Get caught, and thirty years starts to sound generous.
Find the letter before the torches come down the corridor.