Chapter 10 - Faith
FAITH
Oh God.
“You look like you have terrible news.” I could see it written across his face the moment he entered this tiny, sterile room. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under his eyes, making him look older than I’d ever seen him.
Up until this moment, I had finally started to feel a little relieved. Okay, maybe not relieved, but okay-ish. As okay as someone can feel, having been arrested for murder.
I credited Ryker for my feeling of okay-ish.
He’d walked me through every step so it didn’t feel as terrifying when they locked cold metal cuffs around my wrists.
It felt less scary when they processed me with mug shots and fingerprints.
Less shocking when my paper scrubs were traded for an orange jail uniform and jail shoes.
Less ominous when that jail cell clanged shut behind me.
Did I still have a bit of a panic attack? Of course. I was only human.
The cell was six by eight feet. I’d measured it with my eyes the second that door locked—same way I used to measure the basement on Elm Street, where the Johnsons kept me when I “misbehaved.” That basement had cracks in the concrete walls like spiderwebs, and this cell had similar fissures in the drywall.
Different prisons, same suffocating feeling of walls closing in.
I’d gone three days without food in that basement.
Scared and alone in the dark, counting the hours by the sliver of light that crept under the door.
So, yeah, I could handle this. At least here, they fed you.
At least here, the lights stayed on. At least here, nobody was coming down those stairs to remind me why I deserved to be locked away.
But, God, the smallness of it. The way the air felt thick and used.
My lungs had started working overtime the moment that jail cell door shut.
I’d pressed my back against the wall, sliding down until I sat on the floor.
Knees to chest. Head down. Breathing through my mouth because my nose wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
I’d counted the tiles then too. Three across. Four down. All while trying to remember what happened in those woods. The memories slipped away like water through my fingers every time I got close, like my brain decided to play hide-and-seek at the worst possible time.
Then I spent time feeling heartbroken that somewhere out there, a guy was dead. He probably had family. People who would be notified that their loved one would never walk the earth again.
All because of me.
The thought opened up something raw and hollow in my chest. I kept pressing my hand there, surprised my heart was still beating when it felt like it had completely stopped.
I mentally replayed my life. How it started with such hope and unraveled to this.
I knew that no matter what they found, whether this was self-defense or not, I would never erase the fact that I had taken another person’s life.
That the biggest impact I’d made on this world was ending someone else’s.
After I cried until there were no tears left, I lay motionless on that rock-bottom cot, surrendering to the pain. Maybe I deserved it. So, I stayed there, welcoming it, feeling it burn through every cell in my body.
After exhaustion set in, I got up and started pacing. Questions flooded my mind.
What the hell happened?
Look, I wasn’t exactly a Disney princess. I was rough around the edges, had a sharp tongue, and I didn’t back down from a fight. But murder? Taking someone’s life? I would never do that. Ever.
Would I?
Maybe I was being attacked. Maybe I fought back. Hell, maybe the guy was some serial killer, and had I not stopped him, he’d have ended the lives of many other women. The possibility felt fragile, but I clung to it anyway.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time moved differently when you were caged.
Then I heard it. Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy boots on linoleum.
My heart kicked up again, but this time with something other than fear. Hope maybe. Or desperation for any human contact that wasn’t shouted through bars.
The boots stopped outside my cell. Keys jangled.
“Lawyer’s here,” the guard said, his voice flat and bored, like he’d said those same two words a thousand times before.
Relief flooded through me so fast, I felt dizzy. Ryker. He’d come.
The guard unlocked the door, and I stood, smoothing down my wrinkled jail-appointed clothes even though it was pointless. He led me down a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, my shoes squeaking against the floor with each step. Another small room waited at the end.
But this room had a metal table. Two metal chairs. Dingy white walls with the same spiderweb cracks as my cell. I heard him before I saw him. That confident stride, the kind that said he owned whatever space he walked into. The door swung open, and there he was.
Ryker.
Still in those same dark jeans and black T-shirt from earlier, but now he also wore a leather jacket.
Hours had passed since my arrest, but clearly, he’d been working through the night.
For me. His shirt was wrinkled, and his hair fell messily across his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it over and over.
The jacket he’d thrown on did nothing to hide the tension coiled in his shoulders, and I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on his forearm when he moved.
He looked like strength wrapped in tenderness, a combination that made my heartbeat accelerate for entirely different reasons than fear.
But it was his eyes that got me. The way they locked on to mine the second he entered, like he needed to see with his own eyes that I was still whole, still breathing, still here.
He moved into the room with that confident stride, making sure the door shut behind us.
Never taking his eyes off me, he crossed the room.
His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones, as if checking I was real, unbroken.
The touch was so gentle, it made my throat close up.
“Small room.” His eyes flicked to the corners, taking in the dimensions, the lack of windows, the single door. Then back to my face, searching. “You okay?”
Of course he’d remember what I’d told him in Axel’s stuck elevator about the police station, about Blake, about how small spaces made my skin crawl. The fact that he’d thought about it, that he’d walked in here and his first concern was my claustrophobia—not the murder charge—made my eyes burn.
“You okay?” he whispered again, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheek.
I forced my spine straight, lifted my chin.
“I’m fine. Truly, it’s not that bad.” The lie tasted bitter, but I couldn’t fall apart.
Not now. Not when he was looking at me like I might shatter.
And I didn’t feel like I had a right to either.
If I ended the life of another person, I deserved to be stuck in a claustrophobic-inducing cell for the rest of my life.
“The cell is actually bigger than I expected. And the orange jumpsuit is warmer than it looks.” Heavier, too, despite the cheap poly-cotton blend being thin enough to see my arm hairs through.
It held the smell of industrial soap and women’s fears.
At least paper scrubs had been neutral. Anonymous. Orange announced what you were before you opened your mouth.
His lips thinned.
And in that instant, with the lie dissipating into the air like smoke in the wind, my body continued betraying my truth. My fingers trembled, the cuffs rattling softly. The walls felt like they were expanding and contracting, and I knew if I looked at them too long, I’d start counting cracks again.
Ryker’s gaze dropped. To my hands. Back to my face.
He knew.
“Breathe with me.” He placed his hand over mine, his palm warm and solid against my trembling fingers. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”
I did as he asked, my heartbeat slowing to match the rhythm of his breathing, and slowly, the walls stopped moving. The air felt thinner, easier to pull into my lungs.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
His hand stayed on mine, steady and sure, even as his other hand lifted to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Faith. Not ever.”
I leaned into his touch, feeling weak for how badly I needed it. Grateful that he was here now, that in this storm, he’d be with me every step of the way.
For a moment, we stayed frozen like that. His hand cupping my cheek, my face tilted up toward his, the space between us charged with something that had nothing to do with my arrest or this tiny room. His eyes dropped to my lips, and I saw the exact moment his resolve cracked.
He leaned down, slow enough that I could have pulled away if I wanted to.
But I didn’t want to. Not when his breath ghosted across my lips.
Not when every cell in my body screamed for this connection, this proof that I wasn’t alone, that someone saw me as more than the accused murderer in handcuffs.
His lips brushed mine. Barely a whisper of contact, but enough to send electricity racing through my veins. For one perfect heartbeat, nothing else existed. Not the murder charge, not the walls closing in. Just Ryker and me and this impossible, beautiful mistake.
Then he jerked back like I’d burned him.
“Christ.” He dropped his hands, taking a full step away from me.
He raked a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” He cut himself off.
“We need to pull back on … this.” His words came out clipped, professional.
“It’s a conflict of interest, Faith. The ADA, Wolfe, is already gunning for you.
If he gets even a hint that there’s something between us, he’ll use it.
Say I’m not representing your best interests, that I’m emotionally compromised.
He’ll use it to his advantage in court.”
I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself.